The ghosts of forgotten accords rose from the ashes of time, their whispers echoing in the chambers of the present, their judgment falling upon the living.

  Before the summit truly began, before the first word was spoken, the air was thick with ritual, heavy with the weight of ancient power, and charged with the anticipation of a storm.

  A dozen glowing sigils, each one a window into a different pantheon, a swirling vortex of color and energy, circled the colossal obsidian table known as the Seat of Accord, pulsing in deep hues—obsidian bck, indigo blue, crimson red, emerald green, each pulse a heartbeat of a forgotten god. The floor beneath them shimmered with captured starlight, the walls hummed with the resonance of forgotten chants, and the very air crackled with the presence of unseen forces.

  As Miko Reina, the embodiment of bance and tradition, stood at the ptform’s edge, her white and crimson robes, woven with threads of moonlight and starlight, swirling around her like a frozen fme, she raised a slender hand, her gesture both a command and a plea.

  The wind stilled, its restless whispers silenced as if held captive by her will. The sky above the summit chamber dimmed, the artificial suns softening their gre, the light becoming ethereal and otherworldly, a stage set for a drama older than time. The ritual began, a dance of power and memory.

  With a single word, spoken in a tongue that predated human speech, a veil of shimmering light, woven from the essence of countless stars and the echoes of forgotten prayers, spread across the summit like a second sky, a tapestry of time and destiny. The past returned, not as a distant memory, but as a living, breathing presence, a force that threatened to engulf the present.

  The air grew denser, heavy with the scent of sandalwood and the metallic tang of divine energy, a heady mix of the sacred and the profane. The sigils pulsed in a rhythmic symphony, their light intensifying, their patterns shifting and reforming, not random, but steady, like a collective heart remembering its purpose, a chorus of voices rising from the depths of time. Faint whispers, carried on the wind and etched into the very stones of the chamber, echoed through the vast space, the kami (spirits) of this pce murmuring ancient names that hadn’t been spoken aloud since the first treaty was inked in blood and stardust, their voices a haunting reminder of the consequences of broken oaths and shattered alliances.

  Beneath Reina’s bare feet, the light coalesced into patterned lines resembling a divine circuit, a map of fate itself, part spell, part memory, part warning, its intricate pathways glowing with an eerie intelligence.

  Reina’s breath caught in her throat, a gasp of awe and dread, not from fear, but reverence for the power she wielded and the responsibility she carried, the weight of ages settling upon her shoulders. She had seen this ritual once before, as a child, her young eyes wide with wonder and terror. Back then, she had merely watched, a silent observer in the face of the impossible. Now, she stood as its conduit, the vessel for the memories of gods and the fate of humanity. The weight of legacy curled around her spine, heavy and unforgiving.

  The st four global summits, each one a turning point in history, a moment of profound significance, unfolded above them in ghostly fragments, looping like silent celestial theatre, their echoes resonating with the power of the present.

  The First Accord, held atop the mythical Mount Olympus, a csh of cultures and a fragile truce forged in the fires of creation itself, fred into existence. Odin, the Allfather, his single eye gleaming with ancient wisdom and ruthless ambition, exchanged bdes with Amaterasu, the sun goddess, her presence radiating a serene power that belied her warrior spirit—not to fight, but to honor a sacred treaty, a pact sworn in the blood of stars, a promise to keep divine wars from spilling into human realms.

  The Second Accord, held in the sun-baked nds of Kemet, a civilisation built on the bones of gods and the power of the Nile, fred to life with a violent intensity. The vision began amid a celestial battlefield lit with divine fire, the sky a canvas of chaos and destruction. Lightning and sor fres carved the sky, their energy raw and untamed. The titanic forces of Horus and Athena, their power a spectacle of divine fury, cshed with rogue elemental wraiths, creatures of pure energy and ancient malice, that had broken free from the leyline barriers between spirit and earth, their presence a viotion of the natural order. Chaos surged through the world—skies ripped open, revealing glimpses of the void, rivers reversed their course, their waters tainted with blood, and divine shields, once impenetrable, splintered under the metaphysical strain, their power failing to contain the encroaching darkness.

  Then, from the fringe of battle, a figure stepped forth, shrouded in mystery and power, hooded in ochre and white, her face concealed behind a carved wooden mask that pulsed with an inner light. The Orisha Disciple, only known in surviving chants as òmìnira, the bringer of bance, the wielder of silence, lifted her arms, her movements slow and deliberate, her presence a force that commanded attention without resorting to violence. No one had summoned her, no faction had cimed her, yet her arrival brought an unnatural stillness, a hush that silenced even the gods.

  With a single breath, a power that resonated with the very fabric of existence, and a phrase spoken in ancient Yoruba, a nguage that predated the csh of titans—“ìdák??j?, fún ayé àti ??run” (Silence, for Earth and Heaven)—the impossible occurred.

  Sound vanished from the battlefield, repced by an unnerving quiet that pressed against the eardrums, a silence so profound it felt like the absence of creation itself. The cries of war gods, the roar of celestial engines, the crackling of lightning, the roar of sor fres, the gnashing of wraiths—all gone, repced by a stillness that felt both sacred and terrifying. Divine auras, once blinding, flickered like guttering candles, their power contained, their fury subdued. Time itself seemed to hesitate, the flow of moments suspended in anticipation.

  The storm clouds above peeled back like curtains, revealing the cold indifference of the cosmos. Fmes froze in midair, their heat contained, their destructive potential held in check. Horus, wings raised for a final blow, his eyes bzing with divine wrath, found himself rooted in gss-calm sand, his power momentarily nullified. Athena's spear, its point poised to strike, unravelled into golden threads and scattered into the wind, its purpose denied. Even a rogue wraith—its form half-formed and feral, its essence a vortex of destruction—let out a silent snarl of frustration before colpsing into dust, its hunger thwarted by the imposed stillness.

  And then—heaven wept.

  Rain fell in reverse, defying gravity and logic, its drops cleansing the battlefield of blood and ash. Petals bloomed from scorched ground, their fragile beauty a testament to life’s enduring power. A single tree, ancient and leafless, its bark etched in glowing Yoruba script, its form a symbol of resilience and hope, grew from nothing in the centre of the battlefield, its presence a defiance of death and decay. It bore no fruit, only stillness, a silent promise of rebirth.

  òmìnira, her presence radiating an ancient authority, her power a force that could both create and destroy, walked the circle of war as if it were sacred ground, her steps light and purposeful, her touch imbued with the power to both heal and harm. Her presence did not disturb the earth, yet it commanded respect. Monsters knelt before her, their rage subdued, their hunger contained. Divine eyes, filled with awe and fear, followed her every move. Odin's single eye narrowed, uncertain, his arrogance challenged by her humility. Amaterasu closed hers, her wisdom acknowledging a power beyond her own. A wraith, still flickering with heat and hate, its form a grotesque parody of life, turned to mist in her path, its malice extinguished by her touch.

  She did not rebuke. She did not command. She remembered, and in her remembrance, the world remembered bance, the universe aligning itself to the rhythm of her soul.

  Without another word, without a single gnce back, she vanished—like breath into morning, leaving behind a silence that resonated with the power of creation.

  And no one resumed the war.

  The vision faded with a faint thundercp that no one in the summit chamber could expin, a sound that seemed to originate from beyond the boundaries of reality.

  Then came the Third Accord, a testament to a fleeting moment of cooperation and a harbinger of the betrayals to come.

  A grand stone coliseum, its architecture a fusion of Greek elegance and Chinese precision, its design a testament to the brief alliance between two seemingly disparate pantheons, conjured itself in the sky above the battlefield—half-built by Greek hands, its marble pilrs gleaming with the light of reason, half by celestial artisans of the Chinese pantheon, its jade rooftops shimmering with the energy of the cosmos. A moment of true cooperation, a fragile bridge built between empires, a testament to the power of shared purpose.

  Delegates, their faces reflecting the hope and suspicion of their respective cultures, bowed across the circle, their gestures both respectful and guarded, their words carefully chosen. Peace offerings, symbols of unity and goodwill, shimmered into existence, floating between the representatives like a bridge between worlds, their forms intricate and beautiful, yet fragile and easily broken.

  But then, a fsh of jade, a glint of steel, a whisper of betrayal.

  A scream, sharp and piercing, tore through the illusion of harmony, shattering the fragile peace. A Chinese envoy, his face contorted in agony, his body stiffening, colpsed to the floor, his chest pierced by a spectral bde that shimmered with corrupted Roman glyphs, their dark energy a viotion of the sacred space.

  The crowd exploded into chaos. Swords drawn, their steel reflecting the fire of ancient hatred. Storms summoned, their fury unleashed upon the unsuspecting. It was not war, but it was not peace, a tense standoff, a fragile truce shattered by a single act of violence. The assassin, masked in golden urel, their identity concealed behind a symbol of Roman victory, had slipped in among the Roman contingent, their presence a chilling reminder of the treachery that lurked beneath the veneer of diplomacy. A radical sect called the Sons of Saturn, worshippers of a forgotten god of chaos, long thought extinct, had resurfaced, their hunger for destruction unleashed upon the world.

  Only intervention from the Jade Empress herself, her power a force of nature that dwarfed even the gods, prevented an all-out bloodletting, a war that would have consumed them all. Her tears, it was said, fell like molten jade, their touch melting five divine weapons before they could strike, their power a testament to the fragility of peace and the ever-present threat of destruction.

  Since that day, the Chinese-Greco alliance, once vibrant and promising, had remained… professional. Nothing more. A cold formality masking a deep-seated distrust, a fragile truce built on necessity, not on genuine connection, a reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of the world.

  The Fourth Accord shimmered st, its presence weak and ephemeral, held in silence, it flickered like a dying fme, its light fading with each passing moment. Nigeria’s absence, a gaping void in the circle, left a hole in the ritual, a testament to the devastation that had befallen their nd. Their shrines had been razed in South America, their symbols erased from treaty documentation, their voices silenced by a force that defied understanding. The Orisha did not protest, their anger a silent storm. They did not retaliate, their power withdrawn. They simply… vanished, leaving behind a void that no other pantheon could fill, a wound that festered in the heart of the world.

  Now, the Fifth Accord, the present, the culmination of centuries of hope and fear, of prophecy and despair, shimmered into being, its presence a fragile beacon in the encroaching darkness.

  As the echoes of the past dissolved into the present, the silence of history repced by the heavy stillness of anticipation, silence recimed the ptform.

  The summit’s ceremonial gong, its sound a vibration that resonated with the very fabric of existence, had long faded, its echoes still reverberating through every divine core present, a reminder of the weight of their decisions. Each pantheon stood—or hovered—at their designated ptforms circling the Seat of Accord: a colossal obsidian table, its surface smooth and unyielding, carved from a single meteorite fragment that pulsed with the energy of creation, suspended above an inverted torii gate, its form a twisted reflection of the ancient gateway, its presence a chilling reminder of the fragility of bance, floating in space and spirit.

  Miko Reina, the conduit for the past and the harbinger of the future, stood at the centre of the table, her arms outstretched, her robes swirling around her like a frozen fme, her gaze sweeping across the assembled delegates, her eyes burning with a fierce determination. Shimmering sigils, ancient symbols of power, activated beneath her bare feet, their light pulsing in time with the beating of her heart, their patterns mirroring the consteltions above, their energy a force that could both heal and destroy.

  “Let the Summit of Accord commence,” she decred, her voice clear and resonant, a summons and a plea, a challenge and a prayer.

  Each Disciple, each representative of their respective pantheon, heard her words transted in their own divine tongue, not through sound, but through spirit, a telepathic communion that transcended nguage and culture, a direct link to the collective consciousness of their gods.

  Immediately, tensions crackled in the air, the silence shattered by a cacophony of unspoken agendas, the weight of history pressing down on them all.

  Th?r Helgrimsson, the Norse delegate, a towering figure with a braided red beard and eyes that crackled with contained lightning, his presence radiating a primal energy that made the very air around him vibrate, rose from his seat, his hand gripping the haft of his hammer, his gaze sweeping across the assembled delegates with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “Let us not begin with pleasantries,” he boomed, his voice a thunderous echo that shook the chamber. “The bance is breaking. The barriers between worlds are fraying. Portals are opening where they shouldn’t, unleashing chaos upon the mortal realm. Ajogun sightings are increasing in nds not their own, their darkness spreading like a pgue. We need answers, not ptitudes.”

  Cuāuhtli, the Aztec delegate, his body adorned with intricate jaguar glyphs that pulsed with a restless energy, his gaze fierce and unwavering, his lips curling into a predatory grin, leaned forward in his obsidian-lined chair, his voice a low growl that hinted at a thirst for blood. “Perhaps the bance isn’t breaking, Thór. Perhaps it’s merely shifting, returning to its rightful pce, reciming what was stolen from us long ago.”

  Pollux Casta, the Roman delegate, his face carved from marble, his expression impassive, his stance rigid and unwavering, his presence a symbol of order and discipline, stood, his gaze sharp and calcuting, his voice cold and commanding. “Enough.” He gestured with a gloved hand towards the Nigerian delegation, their silence a stark contrast to the others’ fiery pronouncements. “Your Orisha have remained silent for too long. Their absence is a wound in the fabric of this summit. But silence doesn’t absolve. What is your stance on these… disruptions? What do you intend to do about the encroaching darkness?”

  The Igbo Disciple, her form cloaked in indigo robes that shimmered like the twilight sky, her eyes glowing with an ancient knowledge, her presence radiating a quiet power that defied categorisation, lifted her head slowly, her gaze sweeping across the assembled delegates, her voice a whisper that carried the weight of ages. “We do not speak to interrupt, Roman. We do not offer empty promises or hollow threats. We speak when the world has finished lying to itself, when the time for truth has come.”

  A young Disciple from the Svic pantheon, his face pale and uncertain, his fingers fidgeting with a silver amulet, whispered to his neighbour, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear. “Is that supposed to be an answer? Is that all they have to say?”

  But even his own elder, his face lined with the wisdom and sorrow of centuries, silenced him with a sharp gre, his eyes warning against the arrogance of youth. Some truths, he seemed to say, did not require volume. Some answers y in silence.

  Reina, her gaze sweeping across the assembled delegates, her expression unreadable, her will a force that could bend the elements themselves, looked to her left, where Elder Yagami, the Japanese representative, stood like a gnarled oak, his roots deep in the earth, his branches reaching towards the heavens. Then, just before turning back to face the room, her gaze briefly met that of the Igbo Disciple, a fleeting moment of connection, a silent acknowledgement between those who felt more than they could say aloud, a shared understanding of the weight of their roles. It was not a challenge, nor an invitation, but recognition, a silent pact forged in the face of impending doom.

  “History remembers what pride forgets,” Yagami said, his voice brittle but firm, carrying the weight of centuries, the echoes of countless battles and broken alliances. “Speak carefully, children. The gods may be listening again, their patience wearing thin, their judgment swift and unforgiving.”

  And then, as if in answer to Yagami’s warning, the sky above the summit chamber shimmered and distorted, the stars swirling into unnatural patterns, the consteltions rearranging themselves into grotesque and unholy shapes.

  A presence, ancient and immense, filled the room, its arrival heralded by a chilling wind that carried the scent of ozone and the whispers of forgotten screams, a force that dwarfed even the power of the assembled delegates. The temperature dropped several degrees, the air growing colder, heavier, thicker with unspoken knowledge, the silence amplifying the tension, the hum of the chamber’s energy grid fluctuating wildly.

  A blind Oracle, her face veiled in starlight and wrapped in scrolls that whispered with the secrets of the cosmos, walked unannounced into the center of the ptform, her steps guided by a force beyond mortal sight, her presence a viotion of the natural order.

  Her arrival felt more than ceremonial, more than a simple greeting. It was a cosmic event, a celestial alignment that shifted the very bance of the world, a harbinger of change and chaos. As she stepped onto the obsidian table, its surface unmarred for centuries, its power pulsing beneath her feet, the ancient stone glowing with an eerie luminescence, etching ancient consteltions with each footfall, their light a stark contrast to the technological dispys that lined the chamber walls.

  Lan Zhi, the Chinese delegate, her hand instinctively moving to the jade hilt of her sword, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation, her breath catching in her throat, inhaled sharply, her voice barely audible above the ringing in her ears. “The Starbound Seer,” she murmured under her breath, her words ced with reverence and a hint of fear. “She hasn’t walked among us since the Second Accord. What does this mean? What darkness does she portend?”

  The other delegates stirred uneasily, their faces reflecting the uncertainty and fear that gripped their hearts. They had heard the legends, the tales of the Oracle’s power, her ability to see beyond the veil of time, her prophecies that shaped the course of history, her presence a force of nature that could both create and destroy. But they had never witnessed her arrival, never felt the weight of her gaze, never faced the inevitability of her words.

  The Oracle paused at the centre of the obsidian table, her hands raised in a gesture of supplication or warning, her veiled face turned towards the heavens, her posture radiating an ancient authority that silenced all dissent. Around her, a halo of quiet particles, dust from the beginning of time, remnants of shattered stars, shimmered like cosmic dust, their light reflecting the swirling nebue projected onto the chamber walls, as though the universe itself were holding its breath, paying attention to her every word.

  Then, without fanfare, without preamble, without any indication of her intent, she knelt, her movements fluid and graceful, her body surrendering to a power beyond their comprehension, a gesture of reverence for a moment none of them yet understood, a silent acknowledgment of the forces at py, a surrender to the inevitable.

  And then, she spoke, her voice not her own, but a chorus of a thousand voices, ancient and ethereal, resonating with the very fabric of existence, a sound that bypassed their ears and invaded their minds, a melody of creation and destruction, of hope and despair, of life and death, a song of the end times.

  “Bance reborn… memory rising,” she whispered, her words echoing through the chamber, each sylble a ripple in the tapestry of time, a vibration that shook the foundations of their reality, a summons to a destiny they could no longer deny. “The silence has chosen its voice.”

  She paused, her veiled face turning towards the assembled delegates, her unseen gaze piercing through their carefully constructed facades, her words a judgment and a prophecy, a promise and a threat.

  Then, her voice deepened, becoming the voice of the past, the sound of destiny unfolding, the echo of forgotten gods:

  “He walks unseen, a harbinger of change, a catalyst of chaos. He carries four echoes, ancient powers shaped not by flesh, but by memory, bound to his fate, his destiny intertwined with the fate of the world. The Ajogun bled, their darkness contained, their hunger thwarted, but he did not. The world tilts, its axis shifting, its future uncertain, because he remembers what it has chosen to forget, because he carries the burden of the past, because he is the key to both salvation and destruction.”

  Gasps filled the chamber, sharp intakes of breath, the sound of hearts pounding in unison, the air thick with a mixture of awe and terror. Eyes widened, reflecting the swirling nebue above, mirroring the chaos within their souls. For a heartbeat, even the gods looked unsure of themselves, their expressions a mixture of confusion and fear, their power momentarily eclipsed by the weight of the prophecy.

  Th?r Helgrimsson, the Norse delegate, his hand tightening on the haft of his hammer, Mjolnir’s lesser kin, his eyes crackling with contained lightning, his gaze searching the room for a threat he couldn’t see, his expression a mixture of suspicion and unease, shifted uneasily in his seat.

  Anubet, the Egyptian delegate, her form shrouded in white linen that shimmered like desert mirages, her gaze sharp and analytical, her dual shadow flickering with a sudden intensity, her mind racing to decipher the meaning of the Oracle’s words, to understand the implications for her people.

  Cuāuhtli, the Aztec delegate, his glyphs pulsing with a restless energy, his obsidian armour gleaming with a predatory light, his lips curling into a predatory grin, his body vibrating with a primal anticipation, his gaze fixed on the entrance, eager for the coming storm.

  Lan Zhi, the Chinese delegate, her fingers subtly tracing a warding circle in midair, her dragon spine ribbon swaying with a renewed intensity, her aura radiating a sense of ancient discipline and contained power, her eyes narrowed with suspicion and a hint of fear, her hand resting on the jade hilt of her sword.

  Pollux Casta, the Roman delegate, his face carved from marble, his expression impassive, his stance rigid and unwavering, his mind already strategizing, recalcuting possible alliances and betrayals, his presence a symbol of order and control, his gaze fixed on the Oracle, searching for a weakness he could exploit.

  And from the Nigerian delegation—nothing.

  No gasps of surprise, no cries of arm, no expressions of fear, no hint of recognition. Only stillness, a profound and unsettling silence that amplified the tension in the room, a collective gaze fixed on the Oracle, their faces veiled in shadow, their thoughts inscrutable, their presence a force that shifted the bance of power, a storm gathering in the heart of the summit.

  The floor beneath their feet vibrated—not with sound, but with resonance, a low, guttural thrum that resonated in the bones, a rhythmic pulse that echoed the beating of a thousand drums, a summons to war, a call to destiny.

  The Oracle’s scrolls, their surfaces covered in glyphs that shimmered with the light of creation and destruction, curled slightly in their bindings, as though recognizing kinship or uttering a silent warning, their wisdom a testament to the interconnectedness of all things.

  Somewhere, high in the chamber’s arches, in the shadows beyond the reach of the flickering lights, a divine observer—unseen, unnamed, his presence a subtle shift in the bance of power—watched through a mirrored veil, his gaze fixed on the unfolding drama, noting every tremor in the room’s spiritual pressure, every ripple in the tapestry of fate, his intentions hidden, his purpose shrouded in mystery.

  Then, the Oracle spoke again, her voice a whisper of wind and stone, a ment and a prophecy, a song of sorrow and a promise of hope, a melody of creation and destruction, a force that could both heal and destroy:

  “??mi ayé yó y?…

  The spirit of life will weep… and the world will remember what it has chosen to forget, the past will rise to cim its due, and the future will be forged in the fires of memory.”

  A silence followed, heavy with the weight of her words, pregnant with the unspoken fear of what was to come, a stillness that felt more ominous than any storm, a premonition of the end times.

  What do you think the Oracle’s prophecy means? And what role will Afobi py in the events she foretells, the coming war between the living and the dead, the battle for the soul of existence? Share your theories below!