Chapter Five
The judgment was swift.
The chains he had forged in secret—heavy with malice and intent—were turned upon their maker. They rose as if awakened by divine will and coiled around Th’ Eamon, binding him fast. The would-be usurper was cast down, ensnared by the very instruments of his betrayal.
Then Terfelial, in her sovereign authority, spoke.
She called upon Valron and Azlendore, commanding them to take hold of their fallen brother and escort him to his palace, that judgment might be carried out where his corruption had first taken root.
To the remaining Gods, she gave another decree: that the Hyrelim and the D’ Eamons be gathered and brought before the Gateway that opened into the new world, there to await her coming.
And so it was done.
Bound in chains that burned with the weight of his own ambition, Th’ Eamon was brought before the depths of his domain. There, beneath the palace he had once ruled, he was compelled to reveal the hidden path—the way to the prison he had prepared for another.
But it would not hold its intended prisoner.
Within that dark and hollow chamber, Th’ Eamon was cast against its walls, and the chains tightened around him without mercy. Then Azlendore, master of the unseen forces, raised his hand and spoke words of ancient power. A seal was laid upon the bindings—unbreakable, eternal—such that no force, not even his own, could shatter them unless it be by the united will of the Gods themselves.
Thus was the traitor bound.
And when it was finished, the Gods turned from him and departed, leaving the fallen one to his fate.
But as they crossed beyond the threshold of the palace, a roar rose from its depths—vast, furious, and filled with the ruin of pride undone. The sound shook the very foundations of Araboth, and the palace itself trembled beneath it. Stone cracked. Pillars split. The walls, once symbols of his dominion, began to crumble and fall.
A fitting end to the throne of one who sought to rise above all.
And at the threshold of the void—where the Gateway opened and the new world lay cradled beyond—the Gods assembled.
There stood the Hyrelim, once radiant and unbroken, now divided in spirit. Beside them lingered the D’ Eamons, their forms twisted and profane, exuding a chaos that seemed to warp the very air around them. The boundary between creation and corruption had never been so thin.
Then Terfelial arrived, flanked by her brothers, Valron and Azlendore. And as she stepped forth, all fell into a heavy,waiting silence.
Her gaze found Lahmzu.
“First-Born,” she spoke, her voice steady, though burdened with sorrow. “What has brought you to this path? What shadow has turned you against me?”
And Lahmzu answered, no longer with reverence, but with conviction sharpened by doubt.
“It was you,” he said. “You who betrayed us first. When you created the new beings of the world… you abandoned the Hyrelim.”
A murmur passed through the gathered host.
But Terfelial did not answer in anger.
“I did not replace you,” she said, her voice carrying across the void like a quiet truth. “I gave the universe more life. You were my first… but not my last. Creation was never meant to end with you.”
Then her gaze shifted—falling upon the monstrous forms that stood among them.
“What are these?” she asked.
And Lahmzu, though defiant, did not hide it.
“They are wrought of dark magiks,” he said. “Forged by Th’ Eamon and those who would follow him. He called them D’ Eamons… after himself.”
At the naming, a tremor of unease passed even among the Gods.
For the corruption that radiated from the D’ Eamons was undeniable. It was not merely darkness—it was a distortion of the natural order, a force that sought not to exist in harmony, but to consume and unravel.
Then the Gods spoke as one.
“These things do not belong in Araboth,” they declared. “Nor may they walk within the new world. And to bind them beside Th’ Eamon would risk the unmaking of his prison.”
Thus was judgment rendered.
A new place would be required—not of creation, but of containment. A realm apart from both heaven and world. A depth unseen. A silence unbroken.
And so the Gods turned their will once more to the void.
Beneath the very foundations of the new world, they began to shape a realm of shadow and separation—a place where the D’ Eamons would be cast, far from the light of creation.
And in that act, the void was changed forever.
And what the Gods wrought within the abyss was not a mere prison, but a reflection—dark and distorted—of Araboth itself. A hollow echo of the divine realm, twisted in form and purpose, fashioned as a fitting dominion for the monstrous fiends who would soon be cast into its depths.
To ensure its confinement, the Gods raised colossal pillars at its boundaries—vast, unyielding, and eternal. Upon them, Azlendore inscribed seals of immeasurable power, weaving his magiks into their very essence, that the abyss might never rise nor break its bonds.
Thus was the prison secured.
Then came the judgment.
The D’ Eamons, writhing with chaos, were driven forward. And with them, the Hyrelim—once radiant, now fallen—were brought to the edge of the abyss. There, at the mouth of that endless dark, they beheld the fate prepared for them.
And without further decree, they were cast down.
Into shadow.
Into silence.
Into the depths where even light dared not follow.
And the void closed over them.