Shastakan's idea was simple, at least on paper, simple:
if the royal family was going to bear eternity, someone had to hold the edges of the world together.
That was how the Seven Pillars were born.
To each of them he gave a gift, a function, and a territory:
• Gabriel, the guide of beginnings: adviser to kings, counselor in moments of decision.
• Michael, the fire of judgment: judge and executioner; no one wanted to see him enter a room.
• Jackson, the calm of water: control of ports, maritime trade, and water routes.
• Azrael, the veil between life and death: overseer of deaths and rites of passage.
• Haskell, the giver of life: responsible for Agrobia, the fields, and the fertility of the land.
• Marcus, the builder of knowledge: the mind behind Cintekis, in charge of technology.
• Julius, the pillar of vital force: borders, army, and military order.
For centuries, the system worked.
Kings and queens of Shastakan's blood sat upon the Throne of Vidrium. They ruled. They decided. They signed decrees. They smiled at ceremonies.
The Pillars, meanwhile, kept the country running.
But eternity, even when well organized, wears people down.
Immortality was a gift at first. It gave them time—to learn, to watch cities grow, to fix old mistakes. But as the centuries passed, things began to repeat themselves.
The same wars.
The same speeches.
The same kinds of betrayal.
The same farewells.
There were days when everything felt like a play they had already seen too many times.
And it was in that feeling that something else began to slip in.
It didn't happen all at once. There was no single day when they "turned evil." It started with a question no one had dared to ask out loud.
One night, in the Echo Chamber beneath the Palace of Suns, Marcus was the one who finally voiced it.
—What if we could be more than guardians? —he whispered, leaning against a glass table.
Azrael looked at him as if the idea were old.
—More? —he repeated—. We're already more than human.
Michael, resting against a burning arch, let out a short laugh.
—He's not talking about raw power —he said—. He's talking about real power. Decision. Stopping obedience and starting command.
Jackson said nothing. He stood with his arms crossed, listening.
Gabriel stared upward, as if something on the ceiling were more interesting than the conversation.
Haskell pressed a hand to her chest, uneasy.
—We weren't made for that —she whispered—. You all know it.
Julius slammed his fist into the floor. The stone cracked.
—And who's stopping us? —he asked—. A corpse sleeping under the palace? That bastard's been asleep for a century. And if he's already dead, he can't even complain.
No one contradicted him.
That moment wasn't a coup.
There were no proclamations, no oaths, no new flags.
It was something worse.
It was doubt.
After that came the small steps.
They stopped following the king's orders to the letter. They began to "interpret" them. They made decisions on their own "to save time." They created internal structures within the states that answered only to them. They planted trusted figures inside the Congress of the 120 Seats. They altered "technical" laws without consulting the throne.
At first, no one noticed.
Then people began to talk.
In the streets of Gray City, in the markets of Agrobia, in the ports, the same phrase spread in whispers:
—The crown no longer rules. They do.
—They're like gods… but without a soul.
—They don't age. They don't leave. They answer to no one.
The royal family tried to intervene. They called meetings. Demanded explanations. Tried to reclaim control.
It was too late.
For the people, there was no longer a difference.
Crown and Pillars were the same thing: a single, immortal block of power, indifferent to everything that wasn't itself.
What happened next—the day the Seven Pillars entered the palace and slaughtered the royal family—belongs to another page.
And to another name.
The name of the child who escaped that night through blood and ruins.
Pablo