The Guardian gods-Chapter 489

He gestured to the image of the towering snake coiled around a mountain, its gaze directed downward with an unnerving serenity. The image pulsed faintly, emphasizing her importance.

"Their appearances aren’t random," Kael said firmly, now turning his eyes toward the rest of the kings and queens. "A pattern is forming. A collection. Beast Kings and ancient creatures—once isolated and disinterested in world affairs—are aligning. And all signs point to Krogan as the one binding them together."

Silence fell over the gathering, the weight of Kael’s words settling into the chamber like fog.

"They’re gathering rulers," Wulv said at last. "Monsters. Powers we thought would never be an issue."

"And soon," Zephyr added quietly, "they may not just be ruling the Cursed Land. They may be coming for the rest of us."

Drowz and Raina, who had remained noticeably quiet since the druid’s revelation, finally stirred.

Drowz was the first to break the silence, his voice low and thoughtful as he turned to Kael.

"How big is the Cursed Land?" he asked, his brows furrowed. "And is there a large body of water there? Something vast enough that the sea beasts wouldn’t feel... cramped?"

Before Kael could even draw breath to answer, Wulv interjected with a calm voice and an apologizing gaze directed at Kael.

"Ah—right. That might’ve slipped my mind earlier, but... they have a way to shrink the massive forms of the Beast Kings. Temporarily, I think. Just enough to move them safely without drawing attention or causing them pain."

A murmur rippled through the group, but it quickly died down as Raina finally spoke up, her tone edged with unease.

"The sister-druids among my people... they’ve just updated me. Said some of the Beast Kings have gone missing on their side too."

That earned everyone’s attention.

A heavy silence fell over the group, thicker than before. It was Drowz who cut through it once more, his tone calm, but layered with a quiet insistence.

"Maybe... maybe we’re looking at this all wrong. From what we’ve seen, from the actions we’ve gathered—this Krogan, he doesn’t strike me as someone eager for war."

He looked around, letting his words settle in the air "He avoids conflict when he can. Moves quietly. Doesn’t take by force unless he has no other choice."

Raina nodded in agreement, her gaze distant but firm "I couldn’t agree more. He managed to enter our lands, took what he needed, and left without causing a single incident. Even after we rejected him—he didn’t lash out. No threats. No ultimatums."

She paused, then added with emphasis, "And the Beast Kings who chose to follow him? They weren’t coerced. They went willingly. That alone should be enough to shift our perspective."

Drowz leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled in thought "Instead of bracing for an invasion... maybe we should be asking: what did he offer them? What vision, what promise, could make them leave everything they knew behind to follow him into a cursed land?"

Kael raised his hand, steady and deliberate, commanding attention without force.

"I am in agreement that we approach this differently."

Wulv and Zephyr exchanged a glance—brief, but weighted. Their silence spoke volumes: uncertainty, perhaps pride, but ultimately, reason prevailed. It was three voices now aligned in purpose—Kael, Drowz, Raina. The tide was shifting.

With a reluctant sigh, Wulv rubbed his temples and muttered, "So how do we go about this? We have no other information on the workings of the Cursed Lands. That means no frame of reference. No base for insight."

Kael nodded solemnly "You’re right. That lack of knowledge is our greatest weakness—and I have an idea to make that no longer an issue. But it will require cooperation from all of us."

Zephyr raised a brow, intrigued. "And what exactly are you proposing?"

Kael looked around the circle, meeting each pair of eyes with quiet intensity. "A joint expedition. A team, carefully selected and sponsored by each of us—leaders, scholars, and voices from every walk of our society. Researchers, diplomats, healers, warriors... and if possible, druids."

He paused, letting the idea settle in before continuing. "They will venture into the Cursed Lands—not as invaders, not as spies, but as seekers. Their mission will be to observe, learn, and if fate allows, establish peaceful contact."

Drowz leaned forward, hands folded, his tone cautious but not dismissive. "You want a council-backed delegation. One that carries the weight of our nations, but not our weapons."

Kael nodded. "Exactly. If Krogan is as we now suspect—a leader, not a tyrant—then communication may be possible. And if so, then perhaps we don’t stand at the brink of war, but at the edge of diplomacy."

Zephyr frowned, still thoughtful, but the fire in his voice had cooled.

"It’s a gamble. We don’t know how far gone the Cursed Lands are. Or what kind of order, if any, Krogan has managed to form."

"And that," Raina said gently, "is why we must find out. Speculation leads to fear. Fear leads to conflict. If we can replace that with understanding, we might avoid something worse."

Wulv exhaled deeply, then finally gave a nod. "Alright. I’ll lend some of my best for this team. But I want regular reports. If things start looking dangerous, we pull them out. Agreed?"

Kael offered a hand in solidarity. "Agreed. This isn’t a leap of blind trust. It’s a step forward—with our eyes open."

As hands were raised and met with silent affirmations around the room, there was a quiet sense that something rare was happening.

That was the end of the meeting, each went on their day with soemthing new. Zephyr meanwhile remembered he had something he wanted to bring up.

He soon shook his head, his issue was more about the future and Krogan issue was something ongoing, it won’t be too late to hold a call for him to bring up the issue.

On the southern continent, far beyond the reach and watchful eye of the Empire, a new civilization had begun to blossom—one that thrived in seclusion, rooted in philosophies and traditions wholly alien to the imperium’s rigid doctrines. It was a land unclaimed by imperial banners, untouched by their laws, and, for now, unconcerned with the Empire’s. The people here prayed to the old gods unlike the empire, nor did they speak the tongue of the south. They now also have a whispered songs in a language still shaping itself in the mouths of poets.

At the heart of one such land, deep within an ancient, mist-laden forest where the sunlight filtered in silver strands through a ceiling of gnarled branches, stood an old castle that gave the opposite feeling like it was new, exuding an eerie majesty, its stones pulsed with magic. Few dared approach it. The forest guarded it jealously—twisting the paths, silencing birdsong, and letting no beast if there was any, stray too close.

Within the highest tower of this forgotten stronghold, nestled between shelves filled with tomes bound in skin and inked in languages long dead, a tall figure sat alone in a vast circular library. He could easily be mistaken for a giant at first glance—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence unnatural and too still, like a statue left behind by some long-departed god. A dark robe cloaked his frame, woven with runes that shimmered faintly in the low candlelight.

Beside him sat a delicate white table, its surface perfectly clean and unmarked despite the dust that lay thick upon everything else in the room. Atop it rested a pristine porcelain tea set, almost dainty in contrast to the figure’s grave stillness. In the cup was a drink so dark and rich a red it could be mistaken for fresh blood—thick and slow, it clung to the rim like it resisted being parted.

The figure, engrossed in a tome with no title, slowly reached out with long, pale fingers and lifted the cup to lips that bore the faint glint of fangs—elegant, bestial. As he drank, his eyes shimmered—two glowing rubies in the gloom—before dimming once more as the cup returned to its saucer with a soft chime.

This was Roth. Once hailed among the pantheon of mortal-born demigods, now the last of his kind to remain tethered to the world below. His people now called him many things: the Blood God, the Ancestor, the Progenitor. But to his children—those he birthed not from womb or forge, but from magic, curse, and will—he was simply Father.

Two decades had passed since the last demigods had ascended, shedding their mortal shells to claim the stars. Roth alone had resisted the pull. He had turned away from the gates of divinity, sealing his fate on the mortal plane for the sake of his creation—a new race unlike any the world had known. The Vampires.

They were still young, by his reckoning. Fragile in some ways, yet brilliant. In them, he saw something with the potential to grow. Not just power, but will. Purpose. The hunger that drove them was not just for blood, but for place, for meaning, for a home. In them, he poured not only his strength, but his hopes, his frustrations, his loneliness.

He sipped again, tasting not just blood but memory—remnants of lives long extinguished, mingling with the quiet warmth of his solitude.