Chapter 725: 725

Yet, despite their small numbers, people turned to them when justice was truly sought. Whether one was a commoner or a noble made no difference before Xerosis. That certainty was why her name was invoked when other paths failed.

So when the petitions began arriving in great numbers, demanding answers about the rumored court, the human followers of Xerosis did not announce dates, locations, or judgments. Instead, they took it upon themselves to inform the godlings of the situation unfolding among humanity.

Their response was measured and careful.

In their letters, they made it clear that nothing would proceed without the knowledge and consent of the godlings themselves. The rumors, the unrest, and the calls for justice were acknowledged but no action was claimed beyond that acknowledgment.

Some godlings, like Zephyr, scoffed at this. To them, the actions of humans bordered on arrogance, and their eagerness to speak of courts and justice was almost entertaining. It was clear, in their eyes, that the news of such a court must have been leaked by human nobles, driven by resentment rather than any real authority.

Even if the godlings were to deny any knowledge of the court’s location or date, it was clear the information would still find its way into the world through human hands. This was made explicit in their response to the human followers of Xerosis. Silence or refusal would not halt the spread, only delay it.

The followers of Xerosis, many of whom served as judges sought out by the nobles to stand for them during the court session, acted immediately once this became apparent. They moved to clarify their position before misunderstandings could take root.

They addressed the nobles directly.

They made it clear that they would not be drawn into any play of power. Their involvement was not born from allegiance, ambition, or opportunity, but from the belief that what was being attempted was right. That alone was the reason they had agreed to stand in the court.

Just as firmly, they stated what they would not allow.

Their names, their positions, and their goddess would not be used to advance noble agendas or to spread carefully shaped narratives. They were not a private force acting on behalf of wealth or status. They did not stand with titles or banners.

They stood with the people and with the victims.

This response was enough to bring the nobles back into line. It became clear to them that they had begun to overstep their boundaries, mistaking proximity to justice for control over it.

Still, even as they withdrew, many could not deny the feeling that lingered beneath their restraint. There was something almost intoxicating about the way the godlings appeared restrained, even mild, when faced with the presence of Xerosis and the weight her court carried.

It was a realization they did not voice aloud, but one that stayed with them all the same.

Meanwhile, the godlings who had journeyed to the southern continent were already on their return. When word of their imminent arrival reached the others, Zephyr and the remaining godling leaders chose not to withhold the situation any longer. Instead, they informed the returning godlings of the claims being made against them by humans.

The reaction was immediate, and far from amused.

Hearing of courts, accusations, and mortal demands tested the restraint of even the most composed among them. It took considerable effort not to abandon their measured pace and simply finish what had been left undone. The idea that humans would dare invoke justice against beings of divinity was an affront that settled heavily among them.

Their disdain for humanity deepened.

To the godlings, the situation reeked of shamelessness, mortals attempting to shield themselves behind gods, laws, and divine names rather than standing on their own strength. They saw it as another example of humans using divinity as a tool, twisting reverence into leverage for their own ends.

In their eyes, this was cowardice.

The journey home, once anticipated with ease and satisfaction, lost its former lightness. What should have been a return marked by unity and calm was now weighed down by irritation and unresolved tension.

As they gathered, a new dilemma emerged among the godling leaders. None of them possessed knowledge of the specific godlings responsible for the actions described in the accusations. If such acts had truly been carried out, they had been done without their awareness.

And so, a demand was issued.

The godlings responsible were ordered to step forward and reveal themselves.

The accused godlings did not hide, nor did they show fear. When the demand was made, they stepped forward openly, unbothered by the weight of mortal accusations. Yet before any distinction could be drawn, something unexpected occurred.

The godlings, those uninvolved, those who had merely observed began to include themselves among the offenders.

No single voice led it. No agreement was spoken aloud. Yet one by one, they claimed responsibility.

This made it impossible to separate guilt from innocence. What should have been a moment of exposure dissolved into confusion, and the clarity the leaders sought slipped from their grasp. The godlings who had directly carried out the actions grew visibly displeased at this turn. Their intent had not been to share blame, nor to dilute responsibility.

The tension that followed was immediate.

Disagreements flared, words sharpened, and what began as dissent threatened to become open conflict. The unity of the godlings strained under the weight of collective defiance and fractured accountability.

Among them all, only the druids were exempt.

Their absence from the decision was known and undisputed. The actions had been taken without their notice, and they had only been informed after the damage was already done. No one contested this, and no blame was placed upon them.

Still, exemption did not mean absolution for the rest.

Though the acts themselves were carried out by only a few godlings, it could not be denied that the decision had been agreed upon by all. Consent, whether active or passive, bound them together. They had all stood within reach of the moment when restraint could have been exercised.

Some had chosen action.

Others had chosen silence.

That was the difference.

The offenders were those who stirred the elements, who shaped force into catastrophe and brought about the disaster that followed. The rest watched from the side, neither intervening nor objecting, bearing witness as the consequences unfolded.

The returning godlings amongst all this decided to make landfall on a uninhabited island, its black cliffs stark against the churning sea. Hundreds of thousands of godlings, apeling, werewolves, merfolk, and harpies gathered, the sheer scale of their presence sending tremors through the rock and waves alike.

"Thank you all for coming," the towering apeling began. His tone carried respect, but also firmness. "It pleases us, truly to see how you stand together. How each of you, in unison, bears this weight with us. But it is unnecessary for all of us to be condemned. We are here to discuss that."

A merfolk rose from the shallows, water dripping from his scaled shoulders. "You mean... that while we all agreed to the decision, only some of us carried it out?"

"Yes," another offender, a harpy, interjected. "You all chose to stand together. That is admirable but that is why we convened this council."

A werewolf shifted on the rocks, "So... we are not denying our responsibility. We simply want to clarify who acted and who observed?"

The apeling nodded. "Exactly. The line is simple. The offenders moved. We brought about the disaster. The rest, though part of the council that consented stood aside. They observed, but did not touch the elements."

A low murmur began to ripple through the assembly. The merfolk shifted uneasily, the water around sloshing with a faint agitation. The harpy’s claws scraped against stone as she leaned forward, eyes narrowed, feathers bristling. Even the werewolf let out a low growl, more of frustration than threat.

One of the older godlings, a harpy figure with wings folded tightly against his back, let out a deep, rumbling voice. "We hear your words, apeling. We understand the distinction you draw... yet it feels hollow. How can it be that only those who touched the elements bear the blame, when we all, every one of us, agreed to this course?"

Another, a merfolk Sharkman, "It is not merely action that binds responsibility. Our consent, our agreement... it allowed this calamity to happen. To sit back and call ourselves observers, while watching others shoulder the consequences... it feels... wrong."

The apeling’s massive shoulders shifted, a subtle sign of restraint, but he did not interrupt. His eyes swept across the gathered godlings.

A Werewolf godlings spoke. "We knew what would happen! We deliberated, and yet now you say the blame is yours alone? We stood by, but we were complicit! It is injustice to let the burden fall only upon those who acted while the rest remain unscathed."

"We sought this meeting not to shame, not to divide, but to ensure clarity." The apelings finally spoke up.

The assembly remained silent for a long moment, the wind tugging at feathers and fur alike.