The heat of Forgemire was a different kind of comfort. Back within the obsidian walls of the Seventh Nation's citadel, the sterile cold of the Motherland's cells felt like a bad dream. Kael stood by the expansive floor-to-ceiling window of his private quarters, watching the orange glow of the Great Crucible pulse in the twilight.
Mikaela was there, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his waist. For a moment, they weren't the "Twin Saviors" or Elemental-class weapons; they were just two people breathing in the scent of soot and ozone. The silence was rare, broken only by the incessant pinging of the communication terminal on Kael's desk.
Messages were pouring in—a digital flood of loyalty. Commanders from the Nine, and even a few from the hesitant remaining nations, were bypassing the A.N.T. central hub to pledge their direct support to Kael.
"They aren't messaging Harold," Mikaela whispered, her voice vibrating against his chest. "They're messaging the man who actually bled for them. You've created a military alliance within the Alliance, Kael. A shadow command."
Mikaela pulled back slightly, her deep blue eyes reflecting the flickering fires of the city below. The numbness of her Elemental State had faded, replaced by a sharp, calculating ambition.
"Think about it," she said, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "If we actually liberate the remaining five rogue nations, we won't just be heroes. We will finally be a continent of sixteen. All fifteen nations of Tellus—not just the survivors—actually allied under a single banner. The word 'A.N.Ts' will finally have an actual meaning, instead of being a label for Harold's stagnant peace."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous rasp. "And on top of that... once the borders are secure and the people see who truly freed them, we can snatch the throne. Harold's rule is a relic. It belongs to us."
Kael looked out at his kingdom, his hand finding hers. He felt the weight of the iron ring on his finger, and for a moment, the golden light of Harold's God State flashed in his memory—that absolute, terrifying authority that had made his fire feel like a candle in a hurricane.
Kael let out a soft, dark chuckle. "Snatch the throne?"
He turned to face her, his golden-brown eyes dancing with a hunger that wasn't for a crown, but for the power that sat upon it.
"I don't want to snatch it, Mikaela. Taking a chair is easy. I want to reach that level of his power." He squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking her palm. "Being a God... it sounds fun. Just saying."
Mikaela's breath hitched. She saw it then—the same 'bliss of craziness' that had taken him during the fight with Harold. He wasn't looking for a political victory; he was looking for the God State. He wanted to be the sky, not just the mountain.
"If you go for the God State, Kael," she warned, "you might lose the part of you that's standing here with me. Neith said it was a curse."
"Then we'll be cursed together," Kael replied, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss that tasted of embers and ice.
The terminal chimed again, a high-priority alert flashing red. The first reports were coming in from the Border provinces. The Pestis-Mana had been sighted—not as a cloud, but as a weeping, green rot on the leaves of the boundary forests.
The clock was ticking. The "Syndicate of Ash" had begun their countdown, and the "Hero of Osoroshi" had just decided he wasn't going to stop until he was the only God left standing.