The Guardian gods
Chapter 548

Chapter 548: 548

Vellok said nothing.

Behind him, a portal shimmered into existence, its swirling energy whispering of far-off places and sealed intentions. He stepped toward it with a calm that bordered on eerie.

"I understand your worries. But this is no time for hesitation." He vanished into the portal as it closed with a hollow pulse of magic.

The Emperor was left alone in the vast chamber, the flickering torches casting long shadows against the walls. Silence returned.

Then, from under his hood, a faint blue light blinked in his eye—a magical interface only he could see. In quiet pulsing digits, it read:

[Stability: 87%]

And even as he watched, the number flickered, dipped for the briefest moment—a sign of decline.

The Emperor’s hands, hidden beneath the robe, slowly clenched.

87% was still high... but the trajectory was clear. Things were unraveling. The people were no longer unified. Doubts were spreading. Loyalties were shifting.

Just like that, the final fragment of doubt in the Emperor’s heart vanished. Something had to be done now.

Rattan had grown used to the stillness of his room.

Since his last encounter with Vellok, the world outside had become a blur—distant, muffled, almost unreal. The stone walls of his chamber, once a symbol of status and comfort, now felt more like the quiet bindings of a gilded cage. He rarely left, only emerging when Kaelen summoned him—never too soon, never too late.

He was careful. Always careful.

Even when Vellok’s trusted eyes and ears were absent, Rattan never gave anything away. No words, no gestures, no stray glances that could be turned against him. He maintained his role flawlessly: the loyal subordinate, the quiet observer, the ghost hidden in plain sight.

But today was different.

The moment he received word of the new information spreading across the Empire, something in him shifted.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the parchment still open in his hand, eyes scanning every word. He didn’t need to read it twice.

He knew this was fabricated. A masterful lie, crafted with enough truth to root it, but twisted by the Empire’s agenda. He could already hear the whispers in noble courts, the fearful mutterings of soldiers and merchants alike. The image of Gurnak’s downfall, the "corrupted Ratfolk," and the Ogre hybrids—all part of a carefully orchestrated illusion.

Rattan almost laughed, a bitter chuckle rising in his throat—but he stopped himself. He stared at the parchment again, and the smile faded before it ever reached his lips.

The people... they would believe it. Of course they would. The Empire had trained them well—fed them obedience, conditioned them to accept only what the Empire allowed. Curiosity was dangerous. Independent thought, treasonous. Truth, a weapon only wielded by those in power.

So no—Rattan did not laugh.

He simply sighed and leaned back against the cold wall. His mind drifted, unbidden, into a past he rarely visited.

A memory surfaced.

It was a time long before this—when he wasn’t buried in plots and politics, when he still had someone he trusted. Someone who believed in something beyond survival.

"Hope Chief..." the name passed through his mind like a whisper.

Rattan stared at the ceiling, vision unfocused. How long had it been since he thought of him? Since he left that old camp and disappeared into the Empire’s machinery? The years had swallowed so much—names, faces, warmth.

"I hope he’s still alive," Rattan murmured under his breath. "Still... himself."

A flicker of guilt passed through him, barely acknowledged. He stood, walked over to the stand, and retrieved his robe. The deep crimson fabric flowed over his arms, settling over his frame like a second skin.

It was time to leave the room.

The world outside was already shifting again. The Empire had made its move.

It was the signal Rattan had been waiting for—confirmation that the game was entering its final phase. The lies had spread, the illusions had taken hold, and the people, once docile, were beginning to murmur. It was the perfect storm.

And in the eye of it stood Kaelen.

Rattan had made his choice long ago. He had sold Kaelen out—subtly, carefully, without remorse. It was a necessary betrayal, one that bought him leverage and security. Still, he knew full well: if Kaelen ever uncovered the full extent of his treachery, he would not survive the encounter.

But Kaelen was cornered now.

The Empire’s latest campaign of propaganda had pushed even him to the brink. His usual composure was likely cracking, and cracks were where Rattan thrived. What better time to strike than now? Not with a dagger or spell, but with information, with positioning, with manipulation.

Rattan adjusted the folds of his robe as he approached the grand halls of Kaelen’s palace. Kaelen’s presence loomed large here, as always.

Rattan moved with precision, his steps deliberate but not hurried. He knew the guards. Knew which halls were watched and which weren’t. He walked under painted glass that bled twilight onto the polished stone, until finally, he reached the heavy, rune-bound door of the Ogre King’s chamber.

He stopped before it, letting his fingers hover just a moment over the carved surface.

This was it.

The moment he had to become someone else.

He inhaled slowly. And then, like donning a mask, he slipped into the role. He could feel it settle over him like armor—not steel, but emotion. Fear. Shame. A hint of desperation. The perfect cocktail for a man who had just betrayed his leader but was too afraid to run.

This—this—was Rattan’s truest talent. Not stealth. Not espionage. But the art of becoming whoever he needed to be.

He was now the trembling, loyal subordinate who had broken ranks not out of malice but necessity. The one who had nowhere else to go, who still clung to Kaelen for purpose, for protection.

His hand tightened into a fist, and he knocked—three sharp raps that echoed down the marble corridor.

The door creaked open without a sound.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a few floating embers that hovered like watchful eyes. The scent of scorched incense clung to the air—charred herbs, iron, and something older. Rattan stepped in slowly, his shoulders hunched just enough to sell the role of a worn, guilty man.

At the far end of the room, Kaelen stood with his back turned, staring at a wall-length map pulsing faintly with magical threads. Territories flickered with sigils—factions, troop movements, controlled rumors. It was a war not just of blades but of perception.

Kaelen didn’t look up. He spoke as if Rattan’s presence had been expected.

"The Empire moved faster than I anticipated."

His voice was steady. Deceptively calm. But Rattan could hear the underlying crackle—tension coiled like a whip.

"Yes, my lord," Rattan said softly. He dropped to one knee. "They’ve released images of the corrupted Ratfolk and Ogres. The people are beginning to turn."

Kaelen finally turned, his eyes dimmed, but focused sharply on Rattan. He studied him—no anger yet.

"And where were you when the story broke?"

"Buried," Rattan replied, head still bowed. "Under the weight of my own failure."

Kaelen walked toward him, each step echoing with quiet menace. His boots ground softly against the stone floor, the sound a slow, ominous rhythm. The torchlight flickered against his frame, casting long shadows behind him. There was no haste in his movement—only the steady, deliberate weight of someone who had no need to rush, because power was always on his side.

His voice, when he spoke, was low and cold.

"What is this failure that you speak of?"

Rattan stood still, the tension in his shoulders barely hidden under his trembling cloak. He took a shallow breath, as if bracing for what was to come.

"Master Vellok paid me a visit."

There was a blur—a sudden flash of movement.

Before Rattan could even blink, he was airborne, his back crashing against the stone wall with a brutal thud. Dust rained from the ceiling with the force. Kaelen’s massive hand closed around his throat like an iron vice, lifting him off the ground. The pressure increased slowly, deliberately. Kaelen didn’t scream or rage—he didn’t have to. His fury was silent and far more dangerous for it.

Rattan gasped, fingers clawing at Kaelen’s arm. Tears welled at the corners of his reddening eyes as he choked out,

"He told me... of our people’s real history..."

The words froze Kaelen in place. The grip held for a second longer before his fingers twitched, loosened, and then finally released. Rattan crumpled to the floor, coughing violently, one hand gripping his throat, the other catching his weight.

Kaelen took a single step back, eyes narrowing as he regarded the crumpled figure. He wasn’t just seeing Rattan now—he was evaluating him. Recalculating. Something had changed.

"I need a word to prove it," Kaelen demanded, voice quieter now but laced with suspicion.

Rattan coughed hard, his voice barely a whisper through the pain.

"Mother."

The word hung in the air like a curse.

Kaelen’s breath caught.

A long, still silence followed.