Chapter 7 : A Deal With The 𐬀𐬢𐬭𐬀 𐬨𐬀𐬌𐬥𐬌𐬎 ???

Akasha stared at Elena, helpless. Even a single step closer might shatter her mind completely—if the Entity standing beside her allowed such a thing at all. She turned to him.

"…What now?"

He smiled.

A snap of his fingers.

Time stopped.

The world froze in place, caught in an eerie, glassy stillness. Even the dust hung suspended in the golden air. Nothing moved but him.

And Akasha, who blinked—stunned.

She looked one last time at Elena. The girl trembled in place, locked in the moment of collapse. Grief sculpted into stillness.

Akasha's jaw clenched. Her wings gave a slight twitch—a breath away from lunging—restrained rage and helpless compassion coiled inside her like a blade.

"Now shall we speak, thou and I," he said.

He reached out and touched her shoulder.

Reality unraveled.

Space folded inward, collapsing like silk drawn through a ring. When it righted itself again, they stood beside the fountain.

He moved ahead, calm, and sat on the stone bench—his smile quiet, unreadable. He patted the space beside him.

Reluctantly, Akasha followed. She sat, careful to leave a measured gap between them.

A sidelong glance. “Who—or, better question—what are you? Really?”

He arched a brow, amused. “Not so fast, young one.”

A pause. A sparkle of mischief in his golden eyes.

“Let us strike a bargain. One answer shall I give for each thou offer in return. Thus shall we proceed… until I deem it finished. What say thee?”

He extended his hand.

Akasha hesitated.

She glanced around. The world seemed real. So vibrant, you could see dust motes twinkling in the light like tiny stars, drifting through shafts of twilight like they were trapped in amber.

The ripples in the fountain looked too perfect, each droplet suspended mid-arc like a sculpture.

The stone beneath her glowed faintly with warmth it should not have held, and the colors—golds, violets, silvers—were too saturated, too exact, as if painted by a god obsessed with precision.

The air shimmered faintly, and shadows stretched beneath unmoving trees. But nothing about this place was natural.

She was no novice.

Akasha had shaped minds more times than she could count—bent perception, erased memory, rewritten the bones of belief. Few across the realms could match her.

But this Entity…

He didn’t bend minds.

He rewrote the very script of existence. Reality. Time. Dimension. He moved between frozen instants, slipped through cracks in logic, as though the laws of the cosmos were his playthings.

This shouldn’t be possible.

And yet—here they were.

A deal with him was probably the dumbest thing she could do.

But gods, she was tired.

Tired of the repetition. Of centuries without surprise. When Thorne summoned her, she hadn’t gone out of duty. She had gone out of hope—that something new, something dangerous, waited at the end of that call.

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She met his eyes.

Then clasped his hand.

"…Deal."

His smile widened into a grin. “Didn’t expect thee to be so eager.” He tilted his head. “Because of that—thou may ask the first question.”

She considered. Then:

“Who are you?”

The mischief drained from his face.

“I am the being that hath kept reality from sundering, again and again and again,” he said, voice suddenly colder. “I am the last sight that many gods did behold ere death claimed them. I am Astraxian—the last Warden, The 𐬀𐬢𐬭𐬀 𐬨𐬀𐬌𐬥𐬌𐬎.”

A terrible headache took hold of her. A chill ran down her spine. Her fingers twitched.

Then she smiled faintly. “Your turn.”

Astraxian chuckled. “Most would have faltered at such truth.” His tone softened, almost admiring. “But thou art not most.”

He leaned back, folding one leg over the other.

“Mortals oft stumble before mine elder tongue,” he said thoughtfully. “I have studied Elena’s mind. For clarity, I shall speak as she.”

His voice shifted—smoother now, modern. Fluid. But there was something eerie about how easily it changed, how naturally the mimicry settled into place—as if he had worn many masks before.

“I’ve been… asleep. For thousands of years. And I must reacquaint myself with the world. It appears reality has fractured—realms, you call them. When did this division occur? And how many realms now exist?”

Akasha blinked, surprised.

“There are six realms,” she said slowly. “Order, Chaos, Life, Death, War, and Knowledge.”

She paused. “Traveling to a realm not of your birth is difficult. Prolonged stays are dangerous. This division… it’s been this way since roughly two thousand years before I was born. So—about six thousand years ago. That’s when the split happened.”

Astraxian tilted his head, visibly impressed.

“You’re older than I thought.”

Her eye twitched.

He smiled. “Your turn.”

Akasha looked upward. The clouds were frozen mid-drift across an unreal sky—locked in place like everything else, suspended in a moment that no longer moved forward.

“Tell me about the gods,” she said. “How many are there? Are you… one of them?”

His face stilled. All expression drained.

“There are six,” he said quietly. “Order. Chaos. War. Knowledge. Death. Life…”

He hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then: “As for me? Not exactly. Gods reflect themselves upon the world. Their influence reshapes reality. I don’t shape—I correct. I’m an equalizer. A counterbalance. Not all divine beings are gods.”

Akasha absorbed this silently. This was knowledge no book held. Theories, rumors, wild speculation—yes. But nothing confirmed. Until now.

Her heart beat faster.

“My turn,” Astraxian said. “I’ve noticed mortals categorize power. How does this system work?”

Akasha nodded slowly.

“The powers—and even the appearance—they shift depending on the realm. A Sepahsâlâr from Death doesn’t look like one from War. One might fade into silence. The other might burn with unspent fury. It’s not uniform—they reflect who you are, and where you’re bound.

“It begins with the Sardâr. Their shadows deepen. They gain subtle gifts. Speed, strength, small regeneration. Dreams change. Reality softens.

“Then comes the Sepahsâlâr. Their bodies shift—fangs, elongated ears, lean frames. They move faster, heal faster. Go days without sleep or food. They begin to feel the realm within them.

“Next is Kay. They gain abilities—unique to the realm’s influence. Shadow-movement, mind-reading, matter-shaping. Some people change physically as well. I grew wings. Some grew eyes that saw through lies. One man could no longer touch people without pulling their life force through their skin. Another forgot how to speak, but could command flocks of birds to speak for him.

“Shahriyâr is beyond that. Powers grow a hundredfold. I went from reading minds to erasing them. I can pull a soul back from death and hold it in place. Others reshape landscapes with a gesture, teleport armies, drain life with a touch.

“Then there is Farvahar. No records. No proof. But from what we’ve seen… if anyone reaches it, they’d be a god in all but name.”

She hesitated. Then added, softer:

“The higher you go, the less of you remains. That’s the only real cost. The sense of self… thins. People forget who they were. Voices slip in. Some forget their names. Some unravel entirely. It’s not pain or torment. It’s like… fading into something vast, until what you are no longer matters.”

Astraxian listened in silence, golden eyes never leaving her face.

Akasha spoke again. “What happened to the gods?”

His entire form stilled. For a long moment, he looked away. Then:

“They remembered. And they didn’t like what they saw. So they fought back.”

He turned to face her, eyes of molten gold gone cold.

“And as you clearly see—I did not lose.”

He rose with deliberate grace, adjusting the folds of his coat. Twilight danced along the edges of the fabric, catching on gold-threaded seams that hadn’t shimmered a moment before.

“I will save my last question for later. There is a matter that requires my presence—one I cannot ignore.”

He raised his hand.

“Wait!” Akasha called. Her voice cracked—not loud, but urgent. “I want to make another deal.”

He lowered his arm, puzzled. “I thought you clever. Must I now question your sanity?”

“Maybe. But I’m bored. Eternally. Your power is beyond anything I thought possible. I want to learn. Let me follow you. Let me become your apprentice.”

He raised a brow, intrigued. “And what would I gain from this?”

“I know this world better than most. You’re lost here. I’m not. I have contacts across the realms. Influence. Information. You need that.”

Astraxian considered her.

She looked down at her hands. Her voice dropped.

“I watched a woman break open under the memory you made her hold, just to prove a point,” she said. “And I still want to understand you. That should terrify me. But it doesn’t. It… intrigues me. That’s how bored I am.”

He said nothing.

She looked up again. “You’re a monster.”

A beat.

“But I’m not one to judge. I’ve done some monstrous things myself.”

Astraxian tilted his head, quiet.

“I will think on it,” he said at last. “We shall meet again, Akasha. Soon...”

He smiled.

But there was no warmth in it.

Only prophecy.

And dread.