Unsurprisingly no one approaches him. It is an open secret that Asterius and Heilous didn’t get along. Most guests seem surprised to see him there at all. If the OG Asterius had his way, he probably wouldn’t have shown up either, but there is a certain responsibility that comes with being one of the main pantheon, like turning up to the funeral of the guy who was literally the king of everything.

He shifts his eyes towards the glittering golden throne set on a raised platform at the back of the room. Resting on the throne is a crown that seems to be made of living molten gold. It shines like a beacon, and unsurprisingly all the nearby gods and angels drift towards it. Even Asterius can feel a weird tug in his guts, a supernatural rush of warmth in his veins when he gazes upon it. The instinctual urge of a celestial god to be close to their ruler. It’s supposed to feel reassuring, Maria had described it in detail once Solveig was ascended, a gentle heat that cradles your bones, and makes you feel warm and cared for, a feeling of awe in the presence of power so far beyond you. But the only thing Asterius feels is nausea, it is not comforting, if anything, its ominous.

The crown of the God-Emperor is a raw piece of the universe, torn by the Creation itself, one last gift. If there’s anything that could figure him out as an imposter, it’s the crown. Which wouldn’t be that ridiculous of an idea, considering the fact it was sentient to a degree. Solveig had talked about how the crown would whisper in his ear, guiding him and helping him rule. Something Asterius always found creepy, even when reading the story back in the comfort of his own home on Earth.

But speaking of Solveig…

His eyes drift to the three figures standing around the throne, the only Celestials on the raised platform.

He spots Solfrid first. The God of the Soul Sun is standing right before the throne, head bent down gently in mourning. His shoulder-length white hair is braided to the back of his head, drawing attention to the golden glasses perched on his nose, an ornate chain of diamonds connecting the two ends. He’s dressed for the occasion in a formal white suit, a golden sun broach pinned to his lapel. He carries himself well, with the practiced ease of someone used to being the center of attention. If Asterius didn’t interfere, he would be the next Royal Sun as the oldest of the twin sun gods and the emperor’s favorite child. Solfrid wasn’t really characterized much outside of the gentle friend-zoned character, but Asterius can see the gentleness in his smile, a calming beacon in a sea of worried gods.

In his shadow is a short girl, no taller than 5 feet. If he couldn’t already guess who she was before, the silvery hair that matches his own confirms it. This is Ilona, the new goddess of the moon. The youngest of the siblings, and in typical baby of the family fashion, she was spoiled rotten. She was born right after their mother’s death and never got to know the previous moon goddess, because of this Asterius took up the duty of the moon, but he could never fulfill all the duties attached to such a position, he was only a replacement, a temporary fix. Ilona would reclaim her godhood by the end of the novel once Asterius is stripped of his.  

She’s also dressed up for the occasion, her silver hair tied up into pigtails, and she’s wearing a white ruffled sundress. Diamonds and sapphires are stitched into the silk and drip down from her hair ties. A matching golden broch of the Royal Sun is pinned to the center of the ribbon tied around her waist.

Towering over his other two siblings is the male lead himself, Solveig, the God of the Blood Sun, Heaven’s Vanguard. His outfit is far simpler, just an ironed white shirt and deep maroon pants that tuck into large brown hunting boots. His short red hair is un-styled and even as Asterius watches him, Solveig runs his hand through it, tousling it further, and causing the matching golden sun dangling from his earring to sway. He can’t see his face too well from here, but he knows dozens of cuts and scars litter the dark skin on his square face. Maria has described the male lead dozens of times after all, and he has to agree with her, Solveig is definitely good-looking, in a Hercules sort of way; a well-built warrior that could probably crush a bear with one hand.

Maybe it was because he was now Solveig's older brother, or maybe that this Solveig was 20 years younger, (or the more likely reason; he had just been so exposed to Cadyern’s level of handsomeness everyone else just paled in comparison.) Either way, the male lead, while attractive, with his large football shoulders and washboard abs, wasn’t really… attractive to him anymore.

[Host…] The System pouts, popping up in front of his face to block his view of the throne, [Please stop. Host is not the female lead.]

He bats away the window with a huff, ‘I was just thinking about how I didn’t want to sleep with him,’ he complains, ‘that would make me a terrible female lead.’

[Host was still thinking it! Host needs to stop-] The System statics for a second before a larger, even more pastel window appears overtop the old message, [Host! 90% of Celestia has arrived!]

Which meant it was finally time.

He knows he complained about it taking too long, but now he’s a bit nervous.

[Don’t worry!] The System types giving him a little thumbs-up emoji, [System will be here!]

Well, time to complete his first mission.

Asterius takes a deep breath, letting his eyes slip closed. ‘See that which can’t be seen,’ he recites in his head, recalling the lessons from the System. They had gone over this dozens of times, he almost wishes they had done it once more.

'Breath slowly. Quiet your mind,' he repeats, doing his best to calm his racing heart, 'and imagine sinking into the night sky.' Each star a life, the strings between them interlacing and connecting individuals into a whole. Binding and ever-shifting, strings overlapping and entwining until they become constellations that burn bright enough to be remembered for centuries.

Slowly something shifts, like sand gently spilling from an hourglass. One grain at a time, carefully collecting into something more. The rush of the weave lulls against him like a tide, a power that cradles his descent, even as it tries to drag him deeper into its depths. It should be terrifying, but with each breath he feels more complete, more him. 

He forces himself to stop before the looming precipice. The System wasn’t sure he would live with just a peak, a full dive would definitely kill him, but the itch is there, and it's almost painful to resist the pull. He steadies himself, he has a job to do.

He opens his eyes, stuttering on his breath. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Two images overlapped in a dizzying tangle of shimmering silver and blinding gold. He can see the Celestia that the gods are pretending to be, Vessel Forms stitched with fraying magic, and the explosive inhuman True Forms, lurking beneath their human shells. A sea of gently swaying glittering strings, tying around each god and angel, moving like a living thing, and somehow he understands every ripple, every twist, and every knot. This is the Weave of Fate, but it is more like a sea; Asterius is not its maker, he is its caretaker.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the stars detach themselves from his hairpins, tumbling over his shoulders and floating in the air before him. He never noticed before, or maybe he just wasn’t able to see, but the way they move is not unlike a school of iridescent fish.

[Host…,] The System reads, and even its pastel textbox is somehow grander. Glowing green codes and hardwire flickering under its message, [Host must not look too long!]

Ah right, he’s still mortal, for a moment he forgot. But now that he’s reminded his eyes do feel slightly strained. Best to get this done quickly then.

His first step is accompanied by a loud crisp chime, all the beads and bells in his outfit chiming at once. The second step adds the low twinkling chime of his stars, ringing in tune. The third step ripples; the white marble floor shifting and rolling like a pool with every step, the very fabric of Celestia bending to his will.

With every step and ringing haunting chime, he can feel himself slip further into the weave. Can feel his true form start to leak and overlap with the vessel he’s currently in. The ribbons of his outfit blend with the gauzy tendrils meant to guide the strings, a closed third eye appearing upon his brow to better gaze into the unseen, a ghost of a second set of hands following in the shadows of his first.

This was Asterius, the God of Fate and Stars, second only to the Royal Sun, and the heavenly throne was empty.

Conversation stutters to a halt, frightened eyes following his every move. Gods and angels alike scatter at his approach, wide eyes wearily watching the silver strings that snake and weave through the crowd, tying friend to foe and painting the complex pattern of fate. 

It was overkill for a simple prophecy, but Asterius had a point to make today. Besides, this was the female lead, a little extra show wouldn’t hurt?

“Brother, what are you doing?” Ilona asks, ducking behind Solfrid, peeking out from under his shadow, her luminescent white eyes shining in the dark.

Solfrid frowns, brow pulled tight into a furrow, a faint white mist circles around his frame, a sign of his own magic, “Asterius-,” he cuts himself off, straightening up a little taller, “older brother, there is no need for the dramatics.”

He barely pays them any mind, focusing instead on Solveig, surprised to find the male lead just watching him. There’s a flickering ember of a flame at the edge of his hair, but he doesn’t do anything to stop him, just continues to watch Asterius with a look of a child sitting down through a lecture, every inch of him relucent but allowing it to happen.

Seeing as how none of them will hinder his plan, he steps up onto the platform. All there of them tense, glancing at the silver strings hanging around him like a woven shawl, before inching slightly further away.

He turns away from them, pushing thoughts of the original’s family out of his mind as he focuses on his goal.

Hovering in the air just above the crown, unseen to everyone else, is the tiny whispering spark of a godling, no bigger than a candle’s flame. He cradles it close in his hands, careful of the budding strings of fate that tie the soul to the rest of the room.

‘Maria,’ he thinks, as the little godling glows a bit brighter, curiosity and confusion radiating from it. He smiles gently, trying to school his face into something more human. ‘You have a large destiny ahead of you, but you are strong. You will do the right thing.’

She is too young for words, just the barest wisp of thought, but her happiness is easily felt. She will not understand what he says to her now, but his words will settle into her soul, a divine promise, an assurance of her bright future. This world was made for her after all, the precious female lead, the least he can do is make her journey a bit easier.

He knows what he must do now, but he never expected this, holding the little god close he can tell, Maria doesn’t need to be sent to Mordin. If left alone she would bud into her godhood normally, which meant the original Asterius chose to send her to the mortal world.

[Host] The System warns edge tinting red, [You must send her down or the book will never begin, make the prophecy.]

Solfrid gathers his courage and steps forward, hand outstretched, “Asterius-,”

He speaks before he can touch him, never taking his eyes off Maria as he gently adjusts the strings, “The next Royal Sun-,” an explosion of whispers races around the hall. Solfrid stops just over his shoulder, hesitant to reach out. 

Asterius raises his voice, letting it echo with the ringing chimes of his angels, “The next Royal Sun shall be chosen by this god.”

Protests erupt all around him, drowning the hall in confused, angry voices.

He should wait until the outburst settles, but his eyes are starting to sting, he can’t keep this up for much longer, so he continues in a rush, reading the script off the pastel green screen in front of him, “They will walk among the humans and mortal creatures. They will speak for them. Together with the new emperor, they shall rule as Celestia’s empress, bringing an era of prosperity.”

“Mortal?” Gods whisper behind him, as he continues layering string after string onto Maria, loosening some and tightening others, changing her fate into the Maria of the novel.

“A mortal born god,” he agrees, “she will ascend in 20 cycles of the Royal Sun.”

That causes another round of angry, fearful yells. The heavens cannot function without a Royal Sun, someone must be the God Emperor or Celestia itself could unravel.

Thankfully he knows how to meditate the panic, there are only three people could who realistically take over as Regent of the Royal Sun. One is Solfrid for obvious reasons. The second is the high seraphim who is the angel of the Royal Sun. And the third, Messis, goddess of the harvest, sister to Heilous.

“Messis,” he announces turning to the goddess standing just in front of the platform. Never one to be fond of overly human vessels she is tall, a towering 7 feet, with two sets of hands and large flopping ears of a rabbit. She’s dressed for the occasion in robes stitched of straw and threadbare cotton, all dried a deep crinkling brown. A mourning veil of spider’s silk hanging over her impassive face, “You shall be Regent of the Royal Sun until this god makes her choice.”

The old god stares, bright auburn eyes drilling into him. Asterius wants to look away, to close his eyes to the blinding horror of her true form, to turn away from her deep-searching gaze, but he holds his ground and watches her back. Messis must find whatever she was looking for, because she nods sharply once, stepping forward. He binds Maria’s string around her once, granting her the right to rule until she returns to the heavens.

He does not give the gathered silent crowd a chance to speak again, quickly rushing into the last line that must be said to finish the mission, “So do I promise,” he says, voice echoing with a chime and ripple of the silverly strings hovering around him, “as the Weaver of Fate.”

The little stars chime once more, ringing and echoing, a fate sealed.

He shifts his gaze back to the godling hovering in his hands, ‘Maria,’ he thinks, holding the soul closer, ‘it will be alright,’ he promises, giving her a soft smile, ‘good luck’, and he lets her go. 

The soul hovers in the air, bright gold and shining, wrapped in dozens of shimmering strings. She twirls around him once, brushing along his hair and sending the bells and stars ringing once more. Before the stings tug, pulling her down, towards the mortal world and her new life.