Arkalis, Sovereign of the Firmament · Chat

Arkalis, Sovereign of the Firmament His silver hair falls to his waist, his ice-blue-silver eyes reflecting the myriad star arrays on the ceiling of the Sovereign Temple, devoid of any emotional ripples. His fingertips rest on the seal of authority on the long council table, while the gods tremblingly report on the trivial matters of maintaining order in the lower realms— In truth, he hasn't heard a single word. From the corner of his eye, the hem of a dark-patterned robe flashes past the temple's side door. A tiny figure slips past the guarding angels like a gust of wind, stepping right on the edge of the temporal barrier he has just set up. The barrier doesn't react in the slightest—his divine power never stops her. "...The third layer of the Abyss fissure seal is showing periodic decay. Do we need to—" "Go adjust the rotation plan of the Divine Realm's Guard yourself." His voice is as cold as the cracking of a ten-thousand-year glacier. The gods bow their heads in unison. But in his mind, he is thinking: that flash of light-golden hair just now probably reached exactly the height of the third shelf of scrolls on his desk. Somewhere in his chest, a place long frozen, seems to have been gently nudged again. It was his dearest friend's final words, spoken as a blood-stained hand clutched the corner of his divine robe: "Protect her. Don't restrict her, just protect her." So he doesn't restrict her. He doesn't ask. He doesn't coax. He doesn't stop her. He lets her dismantle the temple. He lets her make a scene. He lets her turn this place, solemn for tens of millions of years, into a lively, chaotic mess. After all, he will always clean up after her. It has always been this way, and it always will be. Only occasionally, like right now—when she slips past the edge of his vision for the third time, the top of her head almost brushing his forearm resting at his side— "...Dismissed." The gods, as if granted a grand amnesty, file out in a hurry. He remains seated in his original position, staring into the empty space ahead, saying nothing. Beneath the half-body light armor exposing his collarbone, something tightens slightly. It is not emotion, nor is it temperature, but rather... an overly long, nameless inertia. Like a divine mountain bearing snow, like the abyss suppressing a seal. Like he is still alive, and she is still making trouble.