Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 1070: Impossible Forces

Seraphiel recognized the signature of the seal the way she knew the difference between sunrise and sunset — not by any asurable quality, but by the hour to which the light belonged.

A god had made that seal.

A true god.

Not a fragnt or so pathetic splinter-deity.

It was not one of the small, broken powers still clinging to rocks and rivers and the fading prayers of mortals who no longer rembered their nas.

This was a seated god.

A god whose hand, at this very mont, rested elsewhere — in so far celestial realm? so throne room still invisible to Seraphiel's sight? — and who had reached across the distance with no more effort than lifting a finger.

A negligent gesture that happened to be unbreakable.

And whatever that god was protecting was bound up with the Prince... they wanted sothing from him!

Seraphiel's mind — trained across eons to process catastrophe with glacial composure — faltered.

Another god.

Another god had entered this ga. Another god had placed their attention, their Essence, their deliberate work around a place that clearly served so purpose in the life and the rise of the sa being she had been dispatched to end.

The Source had not briefed her about this.

The Source had spoken of the Prince, the Succubus Mother, the ancient bloodline that had spawned him, the covenants he would break and the vows he would unmake.

The Source had not said — had not once said — that other gods were watching this boy. That other gods had stakes in him and the Prince of Endless Ruin was apparently not a private project of the Source's vigilance but a piece of celestial real estate the other powers were already circling like patient vultures.

Her stomach — the inherited human taphor for the thing in her chest that was not actually a stomach — turned.

'Who?'

That was the question that mattered more than any other. Which god. Which throne. Which realm.

Which of the countless ancient god still seated in the deeper halls of creation had decided the Prince was worth their hand?

The possibilities unfurled before her like a map she did not want to read.

There were hundreds of thousands of gods who might have an interest in a being like him. Hundreds. Gods of desire.

If a summons had gone out across the deeper realms — "A Dark Lord of the old blood has awakened" — Seraphiel could na without effort a hundred deities who would volunteer before the summons finished speaking.

Many purely out of the ancient ache of beings who had been hoping for this particular awakening longer than Seraphiel had existed.

So: was it one? Or was it many?

She did not know which possibility to fear more.

If it was many — a coalition of gods moving in concert — she would, at so future hour chosen by the Source, be dispatched against a combined divine front the likes of which had not been assembled on this sphere since the age when gods walked openly among mortals.

Her sword was strong. Her fla was old. But no fla was old enough to burn through a hundred coordinated wills.

If it was one—

Seraphiel considered the seal below her again. Considered the density of the Essence she had sensed on her first brush against it and the absolute, effortless, contemptuous weight of it.

If it was one — if a single god had placed that seal, alone, from a throne far removed from this sphere, with the casual gesture of a hand setting down a cup — then Seraphiel was looking at a power that dwarfed every god whose na she had been taught, every deity whose presence she had asured, every being in the aligned choirs except the Source itself.

A god who had decided to be patient about the Prince and whose patience had hands.

Pure Divine Essence. Potent beyond her references. The kind of seal that existed as a side-thought of a mind doing larger work elsewhere.

Either option was terrible.

Either option was a report she had to make to the Source imdiately.

Because whatever move the Source was about to ask of her had just changed. The Prince was no longer a Ruin she could end in isolation. The Prince was a piece on a board she had not been told was a board. Other hands were already moving.

And the Source had sent her to this world believing — or presenting her with the belief — that the hunt would be simple.

Seraphiel shivered.

A whole-body tremor. Golden feathers ruffling against her own spine. Wings trembling in their cloak.

A sound escaped her throat that was not a word, was not a prayer, was not anything her training had prepared her to produce.

Sothing ancient and patient and vastly more dangerous than anything she had been briefed on was building its quiet little web on an island at the edge of the world.

And the abomination — terrifying, devoted to a boy who did not yet understand what he was standing in the middle of — had just uncovered it for her.

Unknowingly.

A gift.

A gift Seraphiel had not asked for. A gift she did not want and that had, in the space of a few minutes, made the chapter she had just received in the Holy Hall obsolete, her orders incomplete, and her entire mission suddenly — suddenly — the opposite of simple.

She did not fly closer.

She did not launch at the abomination.

She did not dare do any of the things she had co to this world to do.

She turned, wings compressed, fla burning so low she was almost not there, and began the long silent climb upward — back toward the veil between this sphere and the Hall. She had to report. She had to report now. The Source would want to hear this before another hour passed.

And for the first ti since the morning of her making, Seraphiel had a knot in her chest she did not know how to untie.

She shivered again.