Around the farmhouse, the wards shimmered like breath on a mirror, pulsing softly beneath the stormcloud-stained twilight. Intricate sigils carved into stone, wood, and soil glowed with spectral light—some humming faintly, others beginning to crackle and writhe as if anticipating the violence to come. These were no mere charms; they were ancient, interwoven protections, the fusion of Norse staves and Vedic yantras, crafted through blood-binding rites and whispered invocations. A net of divine defiance. A final stand.
"Stay close," Erik said, voice low and taut like a drawn bowstring. His calm masked a maelstrom of fear, not for himself—but for her.
Then the sky broke.
The farmhouse door burst inward with a thunderous crack, wood and iron torn apart like parchment under a god's fist. Wind screamed through the shattered threshold, carrying with it the metallic tang of ozone and the sacred burn of marigold smoke. The scent of divine wrath. Rain lashed in sideways, drenching the walls, as divine invaders emerged—shapes cloaked in fury and sanctified rage. Eyes like burning suns, skin shimmering with divine essence. They moved like the storm itself, blurring with speed, limbs cloaked in glimmering war-armor woven from celestial silk and dragonhide.
And the wards answered.
The air howled as a lattice of golden and silver runes ignited. A bolt of raw Aesir magic lanced from the floor, striking a wind-god full in the chest. He screamed—a sound like shattered glass and howling wolves—as glowing chains erupted from the ground, binding him in a prison of ice and flame. Another figure—a fleet-footed Vahana spirit, messenger of the gods—landed lightly, only to step directly onto a trap sigil. The rune flared, then detonated in a blossom of violet fire. The spirit vanished, atomized in divine flame.
Lightning slashed overhead—jagged and furious—and with it came Odin's ravens, Hugin and Munin, circling like carrion sentinels, their eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge and malice. One cawed once, then dove, trailing streaks of burning shadow. Below, Indra's thunderbolts began to rain down—cracking the soil, obliterating the flower beds where Priya once planted tulsi and neem. But each divine strike met with furious resistance: mirrored shields of sacred geometry rose from the wards, deflecting the attacks in blinding sparks.
Then Priya stepped forward into the chaos, her sari soaked and whipping around her like a war-banner. Her fingers weaved mudras in the storm-churned air, forming sacred sigils with each flick and twist.
"Kali Ma," she whispered, then roared, "shield us!"
A spiral of obsidian shadow burst from her palms, a maelstrom of fire laced with blood and night. The energy surged outward, wrapping a lunging demigod in a cocoon of flame and teeth. He screamed as spectral hands—dozens of them, the arms of the dark goddess—ripped at his soul and dragged him into nothingness.
Erik was beside her in an instant, his left hand raised, palm outward. From the runes etched into his skin, frost poured—pure, ancient, elemental. The magic of the Runesmiths of old. He stomped the ground, and with a guttural rúnic incantation, a wave of glacial force swept outward, freezing the ground, trapping three more attackers in a shell of jagged ice. One shattered as he thrashed—his divine essence snuffed like a candle.
But for every god they struck down, two more emerged. The skies split again, and a streak of blue fire slammed into the earth. Thunder roared like a warhorn. A spear of lightning—no, not lightning, but wrath made visible—plunged from the heavens and tore through the farmhouse roof. The wood splintered like bones, and a rain of glass and embered thatch fell like frozen shrapnel.
Erik saw it an instant too late.
"PRIYA!"
He shoved her behind him. The bolt struck his chest like Thor's hammer—raw, punishing. His body arched violently as the pendant on his chest ignited, searing itself into his flesh. The scream he choked back was drowned in the chaos. He collapsed, steaming, smoke curling from the scorched runes carved into his collarbone.
"Erik!" Priya's cry cracked the air, more piercing than thunder. She dropped beside him, her trembling fingers brushing his cheek, his neck—desperately searching for the pulse beneath the burned skin.
But there was no time to mourn.
A hulking figure surged through the rain—skin like molten gold, six arms wielding curved blades that shimmered with destructive intent. A forgotten god of vengeance. Priya rose, fire in her eyes, blood and tears smeared across her cheek. She screamed a prayer so old it cracked the stones beneath her feet. Shadow surged from the floor, coiling around her like a second skin. Her hands moved, faster than thought, faster than fear—flames danced across her wrists as she hurled bolts of black fire, searing through armor and flesh. The god screamed, retreated—but not before hurling one last divine lance.
The spear struck her in the side. She collapsed like a crumpled hymn, her body convulsing. Prayer beads spilled from her waist, scattering across the ruined floor like fallen stars, still warm with devotion.
Her lips trembled, and from them came a name. A whisper. A prophecy.
"Kael…"
Erik stirred, pain anchoring him to the edge of consciousness. Through blurred vision, he saw her—the only light in this storm-wracked world. He dragged in a breath that tasted of blood and ozone.
"They… come without sanction…" he rasped, barely audible. "The law of gods… forbids divine power at full strength without the All-Father's edict… or the Great Mother's will. This… this is not war. It's rebellion."
Priya reached for him, bloodied fingers lacing through his. "They break the oldest laws," she gasped, "this isn't justice—it's vengeance unchained."
"Then their power… has limits," Erik breathed, his lips cracked with frost and ash. "And limits can be broken."
A moment passed. The fire dimmed. The shadows danced slower. The ward-lines flickered and flickered out.
Only silence remained, except for the steady drum of rain.
Then, just before the darkness fully claimed them, their fingers tightened. Against all pain. Against death itself. Because somewhere beyond this storm, beyond this god-cursed night, Kael was still out there.
Their son.
A child born of fire and frost. Of mantra and rune. Of a love that broke the old rules and dared the wrath of heaven.
He was their legacy. Their vengeance. Their hope.
And the gods would learn what it meant to war against something truly divine.