The Guardian gods-Chapter 496

Nwadiebube didn’t blink.

"Then I’ll face them as I did before. Knowing I did not act for pride alone... but for the fire of something greater than fear."

He turned back to the window, his reflection barely visible in the glass—just a silhouette framed by starlight and the long shadow of consequences.

"Either way," she said at last, "the throne seems to suit you better when you wear it with silence."

Then she stepped away, her robe whispering behind her as she moved toward the door. But before she exited, she paused one last time.

"I’ll keep watching them, and I’ll find ways to keep the envoys entertained. But promise me one thing."

Nwadiebube tilted his head.

"Don’t play this game so well you forget who you are."

And with that, she disappeared into the hall, leaving Nwadiebube once more in the quiet company of the stars and his own thoughts.

As for the envoy and his entourage, as soon as the maids had bowed and departed, leaving the entourage to settle into their rooms, it didn’t take long for subtle glances and quiet signals to pass among the group. Within minutes, they reconvened in the chamber assigned to the envoy—twelve figures in total, shadows sliding across the polished floor like whispers in motion.

The room fell into a tense silence as the door clicked shut behind them.

Among them stood a woman cloaked in flowing silks, her expression serene, almost reverent. She raised her hand, and a soft glow began to radiate from her palm. A complex magic circle unfurled midair—an intricate weave of symbols and foreign sigils that shimmered with violet light. As her chanting began, low and rhythmic, the air in the room thickened. The circle expanded slowly, rippling out to the very edges of the chamber until it gently sank beneath the floorboards and vanished from sight.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then came a tearing sound—wet and unnatural.

The man with the scar on one side of his eyes, the same one the princess had marked as strange, moved without hesitation. His hands reached to his throat and gripped the edge of his jaw—not to speak, but to peel. The flesh of his face came away like parchment soaked in oil, revealing beneath it the hulking, snarling form of a beast.

Thick horns curved out from his head, and his skin was the mottled gray of ancient stone, veined with molten red. A snort of steam hissed from his nostrils. His voice rumbled like thunder in a deep cavern.

"It’s suffocating being in this human skin," he grunted, cracking his thick neck as his transformation completed.

He was not alone.

Four others followed suit—ripping free of the fragile illusions that masked them, tearing through glamours of flesh as easily as one might discard clothing. Their forms varied—some serpentine, others skeletal, one with wings folded unnaturally close to her body, feathers blackened and slick. Their eyes glowed with predatory hunger and patience, as though they had waited too long to finally breathe as themselves.

Among them, the spellcaster—now fully transformed—let her human guise melt away to reveal an elegant but chilling form. Her skin shimmered like moonlight on poisoned water, her eyes burning with violet flame. Horns curled back from her temples, delicate but deadly, and her smile was lined with fangs far too sharp for anything natural.

The envoy and the remaining members of the entourage who retained their human forms stood tense, their discomfort palpable. Though they had known of their fellow travelers’... nature, the full reality of it was still difficult to accept. Their expressions strained under the weight of forced calm.

They didn’t know where the Emperor had found these creatures—these monsters—nor why he had chosen to send them on a diplomatic mission of all things. The idea itself was almost blasphemous, yet here they were, walking as wolves among unsuspecting sheep.

The demonic woman—now fully in her element—stepped forward, her heels clicking softly on the stone floor as she glided past the envoy. Her voice was honeyed venom, seductive and ancient.

"You’ve done well," she purred to the envoy, trailing a clawed hand along his shoulder. "But you look... tired."

A sweet mist curled from her lips as she exhaled—a silver fog that spread rapidly, lacing through the air with an almost invisible grace. The envoy’s eyes fluttered as the mist reached him. Beside him, the others staggered slightly, then slumped—silent and heavy—into dreamless sleep.

She turned back to her kin, her expression shifting from sultry to serious in an instant.

They’re in place," she said coldly, her voice cutting through the lingering silver mist. "Now let’s see what kind of game this king likes to play."

The room was quiet for a beat, heavy with layered intent.

Then the minotaur-like figure shifted his bulk, the wood beneath his hooves groaning under the weight. His horns gleamed faintly in the low light, and his eyes glowed with a dull, simmering red. He folded his thick arms, voice gruff and grounded.

"What are we to do about the apelings?" he asked, the word laced with disdain. "Do you think they’ll hinder us? They’re already sniffing around, and they tend to bite when they sense weakness."

A flicker of a forked tongue tasted the air as the serpentine one leaned against the far wall, his scales glistening like oil under candlelight. His voice was smooth and composed, the kind that spoke in coils and veiled intentions.

"We have nothing to worry about from the apelings," he said with a hissing calm. "As long as we give them no reason to act, they will remain in their little cage of observation. Their kind lives for secrets and shadows, yes—but suspicion is not the same as proof."

He let his eyes wander lazily toward the now-sleeping envoy, a sly grin curving across his lipless mouth.

"As far as the world sees it, we are delegates, arrived under the seal of royal purpose. As long as that illusion holds, they can only whisper and watch."

A low creaking sound filled the room as another figure turned toward them—one far more still than the others. The skeletal being stood like a forgotten statue, cloaked in tattered robes of gray and black. His voice, when it came, was a hollow rasp—like wind through tombstones.

"The master’s mission," the skeletal one intoned, "can be accomplished without ever crossing paths with the apelings."

He stepped forward slightly, his joints crackling as if every movement disturbed centuries of stillness.

"Our focus must remain on the king," he continued, his voice deathly calm. "He must dance—gracefully or not—to the master’s tune. Every decision he makes from this moment must be a step toward unraveling the veil around this realm. The rest is... noise."

Silence followed his words.

The room seemed to grow colder.

The demonic woman nodded slowly, her expression unreadable as she gazed at each of them in turn. "Then it’s settled. The apelings are not our concern—unless they make themselves so. We maintain the façade, push the king gently where he needs to go, and wait for the master’s signal."

She glanced toward the sleeping envoy, then added, almost idly, "Let him dream of diplomacy. We have real work to do."

The minotaur chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. "Then let’s hope this king is the kind who likes to dance."

And so, with the glamour of diplomacy still holding strong, the true purpose of the monsters in fine silks began to unfold—hidden beneath smiles, behind courtesies, cloaked in elegance.

Far above the mortal world, the Origin Gods—ever-watchful, ever-distant—had, since the ascension of their children, behaved exactly as Björn had predicted. Their gazes had shifted from the chaotic, vibrant lands of men and beasts to matters far more immediate, far more personal. The realm of mortals, once so full of intrigue and passion, had become a fading echo to them. What mattered now was within reach—tangible, intimate, and infinitely more precious.

Crepuscular found himself strangely captivated. He spent more and more of his time lingering within the ever-shifting boundaries of Xerosis’ realm, quietly observing her. He watched as she tirelessly labored to shape reality in accordance with her doctrine, aligning ley lines, redirecting streams of thought, and whispering to the minds of mortals who dared to listen. It was unlike anything he had known.

The idea that a god would work—would toil with such purpose and fervor—struck Crepuscular as almost absurd. He himself had never lifted a finger unless it was to tip the balance between dusk and dawn, and even that, he now realized, required no true effort on his part. Yet here was Xerosis, radiant in her devotion, alight with joy at every milestone reached. Each time her teachings took root in the mind of a mortal, she would quite literally glow, laughing with the kind of unburdened delight that left Crepuscular stunned. And, though he would never admit it aloud, a subtle envy coiled within him.