As the King with his blessed cortege, slowly moved around this cycle’s yields, dozens whisperers could be heard all around the array.

“ᶜᵒᶰʲᵘʳᵉʳ⋅⋅”

“Thaumaturge”

“ˢᵒᵘᶫ ᵖᵃᶦᶰᵗᵉʳ⋅⋅”

“Law of Abovespace”

One by one, voices could be heard in a fuse-ordered manner – indeed, not even Chronomancers could know what was happening between as well as in every split of that second, when the King had to stop before yet another reconciled aspirant.

As dimensions comply with one another, there’s an old byword dedicated in their name:

“One Timeweaver for the sphere, the second one to acquire privacy.”

That’s why the King always traveled with at least three of them during such a day as Naming Ceremony. And only the King himself, with the special group of Chronomancers, knew the secret of that arrangement.

“ᴸᶦᶠᵉ ᶜᵘʳᵛᵉʳ⋅⋅”

“Matter Inventor”

“Energy Compiler..”

“Landmaker”

“Gardener.”

And the King moved forward.

Echoes of this one, neverspoken yet somewhat familiar word, danced around the Great Field, laughing and vibrating cheerfully as it slowly ascended past the enriched acoustic of that godloved world-corner.

Every laugh and half-loud heartening, that took place and always will, for what is known and admired during such recurring celebrations, now got cut in half and replaced with even quieter gossips than some of the shyest whisperers of those with less-respected destinies, but nevertheless of a great importance to the world’s balance.

As the fuse went on and on, some of the newly formed Guardians could be seen slowly attaching themselves to one of the King’s parade. It took solid ten or more candidates till the rumors and surprise could give up space to the old, befriended cheerish and pured curiosity.

No Angels were born that day.

Or so did the world thought.