The staircase of light did not lead to a cloud-filled paradise. It led to a quiet, sterile sorting room, the waiting area for a universe that had long since forgotten how to handle gods born from mud.
As George, Kas, and Typhon crossed the threshold, the world they left behind snapped shut. The air instantly became crisp and thin, smelling faintly of old paper and copper coins. There was no sky here, only an infinite expanse of interlocking ivory arches that spiraled up into a golden fog. Below them, the floor was a solid sheet of frosted glass, beneath which millions of glowing threads the raw telemetry of Earth's trials pulsed like dying nerves.
They stood in the Antechamber of Submission.
