The morning sun had barely risen when Leon stood at the edge of the clearing outside the village, dew clinging to the grass beneath his boots. His arms were bare, the Marks pulsing faintly beneath his skin—War, Death, Pestilence, Famine—all coiled and obedient. For the first time, he felt complete, his powers not just mastered, but harmonized.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Time slowed, not in the world itself, but in his perception. Leaves that had fallen yesterday quivered as if caught in a fleeting current, insects paused mid-step, and the faint echo of a bird's song from the previous day lingered. The Death Mark hummed with life, and the others followed in subtle harmony.
Then, something shifted.
His status plate flickered, then blinked, then stabilized in a dazzling flash of light. Words appeared, impossibly bright:
"Leon – Godhood Achieved."
His eyes widened, a mixture of awe and disbelief coursing through him. A god… me? The realization pressed into his chest with a weight he had never felt before. His heart raced, and for a moment, he staggered backward, gripping his forearms where the Marks throbbed in response.
"You… you've done it," he whispered to himself, voice trembling. "All four… mastered…"
The air shifted behind him before he could fully comprehend the change. A ripple of cold authority brushed over the clearing, and Leon turned, instincts flaring.
Skabelse appeared. The god's short, silver hair was slicked back, but a few strands had escaped, brushing over his pale, luminous face. His eyes glimmered with sharp calculation—and faint, fleeting surprise.
"Interesting," Skabelse murmured, voice smooth yet carrying a note of restrained curiosity. "You've… reached godhood. That was never the goal," he said, voice laced with a sarcastic edge, as if congratulating Leon while mocking the inevitability of the situation.
Leon's fists clenched. "Skabelse… what are you talking about?"
The god's lips curved in a faint, cold smile. "Well, look at that, Leon… the child she carries. A new demi-god. Exactly what I've long needed to replace those lost among my ranks." He tilted his head, silver hair catching the sunlight as strands shifted across his face. His tone was dripping with sarcastic congratulations. "Unexpected… but effective. Cheers, Leon."
Leon froze, confusion clouding his mind. "Child? What… what are you talking about?"
Skabelse's gaze was calm, almost clinical. "Precisely. A new god is needed, and you have… inadvertently created one. That is what matters."
Leon's brow furrowed, his mind racing. What? I… I didn't even know… His voice caught. "Wait… I don't understand… Who's pregnant?"
Skabelse's expression didn't change, his tone dripping with cold amusement. "You will understand soon enough."
Leon's chest tightened. "Then why appear here? Why now?"
The god's pale eyes glimmered with a cold satisfaction. "Because the next step must be revealed… and the consequences made... Personal." He paused. "Two gods now walk the world: you, and the first Wolfkin god."
Before Leon could process further, a subtle shimmer rippled through the clearing. He blinked, and in the moment of distraction, Skabelse vanished.
For a heartbeat, everything seemed calm.
Then Leon realized something was wrong—the calmness surrounding him was gone. Before he could process it, Rebecca, Efil, and Lynnette rushed out to him, panic etched across their faces, shouting that Carla had vanished.
"What do you mean she's gone? Where?" he demanded, scanning the empty clearing.
Nothing. The wind whispered through the trees. The grass swayed, untouched.
Panic crept in. His heart pounded against his ribs as he took a step forward, eyes darting.
The village was quiet, too quiet. The distant hammering of the blacksmith, the laughter of children—all absent.
Rebecca shook her head, her hands gripping his arms. "We don't know… one moment she was here, and the next—she wasn't. We… we looked everywhere."
Leon's chest tightened, the Marks beneath his skin thrumming with alarm. He felt the power within him, a god among mortals, yet helpless in this moment. The thought of Carla—safe, alive, and yet whisked away beyond his reach—stirred every fiber of him.
His jaw clenched. "Skabelse," he muttered under his breath, cold fury threading his voice. "You won't get away with this."
The wind seemed to pause as if listening, but the god had already vanished from the mortal realm, leaving only the echo of his presence and the terrifying promise of what was to come.
Leon took a deep breath, forcing his mind to steel itself. The Marks throbbed in response—War, Death, Pestilence, Famine—all ready, obedient, and hungry for action.
Before he could take another step, the air beside him split open.
A vertical seam of pale light tore through reality itself, humming with ancient power. Elyra stepped through it, her silver eyes sharp and urgent, her usual calm fractured.
"Leon," she said, gripping his arm before he could speak. "There is no time. You cannot reach him from this realm."
His heart lurched. "Elyra—Carla is gone. Skabelse—"
"I know," she said quietly. "And if you stay here, you will lose her forever."
The portal widened behind her, revealing a vast expanse of fractured light, floating landmasses, and impossible geometry—the Realm of Gods. The pressure alone made Leon's breath hitch.
"You're ready," Elyra said, her voice steady despite the danger. "Whether you want to be or not."
Leon clenched his fists, then nodded once. Without another word, he stepped through the portal.
The world folded inward, sound vanishing as reality itself peeled away.
The Realm of Gods was silent in a way no mortal place could be—vast, endless, and watching.
And far from Leon's arrival…
Skabelse stood upon a floating dais of white stone, hands clasped behind his back. His slicked-back silver hair caught the light of a false sun, a pleased smile curving his lips.
Before him, suspended in a field of gentle, binding light, was Carla.
She was unconscious—but alive.
Skabelse tilted his head, studying her as one might inspect a carefully chosen piece on a board. "Unaware," he mused softly. "As it should be."
He turned his gaze upward, where countless threads of fate shimmered and twisted. "A new god born not of ambition… but connection."
He let the words linger, then continued, his voice echoing across the empty expanse. "You see, Carla, gods are not meant to be eternal. They erode. They stagnate. They grow complacent, convinced of their own permanence. When they fall—by war, by rebellion, by irrelevance—the world does not mourn them. It needs replacements."
Skabelse gestured outward, and the threads of fate trembled. "New gods bring recalibration. They redefine domains, shift balances, introduce uncertainty. Without them, existence calcifies. Order becomes rot."
His smile sharpened. "That is why you are important. Not because of who you are—but because of what you will become. A god born from bonds rather than dominion. A variable even I cannot fully predict."
His smile widened, slow and satisfied.
"Let us see what you become."
Darkness did not come all at once.
For Carla, it arrived in fragments.
She remembered warmth first—the familiar comfort of the village morning, the smell of bread baking somewhere nearby, the quiet rhythm of life continuing as it always had. She remembered sitting in the shade near the houses, relaxed and unguarded, with Rebecca, Lynnette, and Efil beside her. Laughter came easily then, soft and real, as one of the children played between them, clumsy and carefree.
Carla had leaned back against the grass, watching the child toddle about while the others talked idly, her thoughts drifting without worry. Beyond them, at the edge of the clearing, Leon trained alone. She remembered glancing toward him, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips as she watched him move—focused, distant, yet still him.
He looks tired, she thought then. But steadier… stronger.
There had been a strange pressure in her chest she couldn't explain. Not pain—just a tightness, as if something unseen had shifted around her. She remembered brushing it off, telling herself she was imagining things.
Then the light changed.
It wasn't bright or blinding. It was subtle. A soft distortion, like heat rippling through air that shouldn't have been warm. Carla remembered turning her head, confusion flickering through her thoughts.
That's strange…
A presence followed. Not hostile. Not gentle. Simply absolute.
Her instincts screamed, but there was no time to act. The world seemed to pause around her—the sounds of the village muffled, colors draining just enough to feel wrong. She felt herself lift, feet no longer touching the ground.
"Leon—"
She never finished saying his name.
Invisible restraints closed around her, firm but careful, as though whoever held her had no interest in causing harm. The air grew heavy, pressing against her lungs. Her vision blurred, and panic finally bloomed.
I can't breathe—
The last thing she remembered clearly was the sensation of being pulled backward—not through space, but through meaning. Like being unthreaded from the place she belonged.
Then came silence.
No fear. No pain.
Just darkness, folding gently over her thoughts.
And somewhere far away, beyond her fading awareness, something ancient watched her… and waited.
Warmth was the first thing Carla noticed.
Not the heavy warmth of sunlight or fire, but something gentler—like being wrapped in a familiar blanket that always smelled like home. She lay on soft grass that shimmered faintly, each blade glowing with a color that didn't quite exist in the waking world. Above her, the sky stretched endlessly, painted in slow-moving hues of gold and pale blue, as if time itself had decided to rest.
She breathed in and felt no pain.
No fear.
No weight pressing against her chest.
"Mom?"
The voice was small, bright, and impossibly precious.
Carla's heart tightened—not with panic, but with a joy so sharp it almost hurt. She turned her head, and there they were.
Her child ran toward her, laughter ringing like bells, feet never quite touching the ground. The child looked exactly as Carla had always imagined—healthy, radiant, eyes filled with a future that felt safe. When Carla reached out, little hands clasped hers without hesitation, warm and real in a way dreams usually failed to manage.
Behind them, Lynnette sat beneath a great white tree whose leaves drifted downward like snow, though they melted into light before touching the ground. She waved, smiling without exhaustion, without shadows under her eyes.
"You finally get to rest," Lynnette said, her voice soft. "You've done more than enough."
Nearby, Efil leaned against the tree's trunk, arms crossed, her usual sharp edge dulled into something peaceful. Rebecca lay stretched out in the grass, laughing quietly as she watched the scene, one hand shielding her eyes from a sun that didn't burn.
"This place suits you," Rebecca said. "No battles. No gods. No sacrifices."
Carla sat up slowly, her child climbing into her lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She hugged them close, breathing in their scent, memorizing the steady rise and fall of their chest.
This was what she wanted.
No screaming alarms in the distance.
No looming destinies.
No fear of tomorrow.
Just this.
Days—or maybe moments—passed without meaning. They talked, laughed, shared stories that didn't hurt to remember. Carla watched her child play, watched them grow just a little taller each time she blinked, but never too fast. Never enough to miss anything.
Sometimes Leon was there too.
He'd sit beside her, arm around her shoulders, expression calm and unburdened. No confusion. No fear. Just quiet understanding. He didn't ask questions here. He didn't need answers.
"You're safe," he would say.
And she believed him.
But then—
Something tugged.
At first it was easy to ignore. A faint pressure in her chest, like a hand pressing gently, insistently. The sky flickered once—just once—and Carla frowned.
"Did you see that?" she asked.
Lynnette's smile didn't falter. "See what?"
The grass beneath Carla's fingers felt… wrong. Too smooth. Too perfect.
Her child laughed again, but the sound echoed strangely, stretching longer than it should have. Carla pulled them closer, her heart suddenly racing.
"I'm not tired," she whispered, though she wasn't sure who she was talking to. "I don't want to wake up."
The world seemed to hesitate.
Far away, beneath the dream, something pulsed—slow, powerful, undeniable.
A heartbeat.
Her heartbeat.
The white tree shuddered, just slightly, and one of its glowing leaves fell without dissolving, hitting the ground with a sound that was far too loud.
Carla held her child tighter as the warmth around her began to thin, just a little.
And deep within her, something ancient and stubborn began to pull her—
not gently,
not kindly,
but with purpose.
The moment Carla felt the pull again, the world reacted.
The sky deepened into warmer tones, gold turning to rose, rose to something richer—comfort layered upon comfort. The grass beneath her thickened, softer than before, cushioning her as if the world itself feared she might slip away. The air grew heavy with the scent of baked bread, rain on stone, and something unmistakably familiar.
Home.
Her child laughed again, louder this time, throwing their arms around her neck.
"Don't go," they said—not pleading, not afraid, just stating a simple truth. "You're happy here."
Carla closed her eyes, breathing them in.
"I am," she whispered.
The pressure in her chest returned—stronger now. Not pain, but insistence. A rhythm that didn't belong to this place.
Thump.
Thump.
The sound echoed beneath everything, like a drum buried deep underground.
Leon appeared beside her again, closer than before. He smiled, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You don't need to listen to that," he said casually. "It's just noise. This is real enough."
Carla looked at him.
Something was wrong.
Leon didn't fidget. Didn't hesitate. Didn't carry that familiar tension in his shoulders. This Leon was too smooth—like a memory polished until the rough edges disappeared.
"You hate sitting still," she said slowly.
Leon chuckled, but the sound looped, repeating a fraction of a second too late. "People change."
Her vision blurred.
For a moment—just a moment—the warmth dropped away, replaced by cold. Darkness pressed in, and through it she heard muffled voices. Distant. Urgent.
Her name.
Carla.
She gasped, clutching at her chest.
"No," the dream said.
Not with a voice—but with the world.
The white tree burst into bloom, its light flooding everything, drowning out the darkness. Lynnette stood abruptly, walking toward Carla, hands outstretched.
"You're exhausted," she said gently. "Let us take care of things. Just rest."
Efil stepped closer too, her expression sharp again—but not angry. Protective.
"You've carried enough," Efil added. "If you wake up, it all comes back."
The heartbeat grew louder.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Carla's head throbbed. She pressed her palms to her ears, but the sound came from inside her.
"I can't just stop," she said, voice trembling. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."
The dream shifted again.
Her child tugged at her sleeve, eyes wide—not scared, but certain. "If you leave… this goes away."
The grass around them began to unravel at the edges, pixels of light peeling off into nothingness. In response, the sky folded inward, tightening like a closing fist.
The dream was panicking.
Images flooded her mind in rapid succession: birthdays she hadn't missed, quiet mornings, laughter without guilt. Every desire she'd buried was laid out in front of her, offered freely.
Stay, it promised.
No consequences.
No pain.
But beneath it all—
Her subconscious screamed.
This isn't right.
The cold returned in flashes. Weight on her chest. A tightness in her throat. Her breath came shallow now, no matter how deeply she tried to inhale in the dream.
"I can't breathe," she whispered.
Her child's arms tightened around her, unnaturally strong. The warmth began to burn.
"Then stop trying to wake up," the dream said softly, desperately.
Carla's vision fractured—half bathed in golden light, half swallowed by darkness. The heartbeat roared now, shaking the ground, cracking the white tree's trunk.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"I want this," she sobbed. "But I can't stay."
The world screamed.
Light shattered. The sky split open, revealing endless black threaded with blinding pulses of reality forcing its way in.
And Carla began to fall—
not out of the dream,
but through it.
Carla's eyes snapped open, the warmth of her dream instantly replaced by cold air and a lingering metallic tang.
Before her, the world was shattered. Stone cracked, the air shimmered with residual energy, and the bodies of two figures lay sprawled across the battlefield. Blood coated their forms—Leon and Skabelse—each battered, torn, and unrelenting until the very end of their fight.
Carla's chest heaved. She stumbled forward, horrified, searching for any sign of movement. Then she saw him—Leon. He coughed, blood streaking his face, but his eyes, sharp and alive, met hers.
"Leon!" she called out, her voice breaking with both relief and panic.
His lips parted, strained, but he whispered her name just as she had spoken his. "Carla…"
And in that instant, before either could take another breath, the air shimmered violently around them. Both Leon and Skabelse vanished into thin air, leaving nothing behind but the echo of a man's voice, low and venomous, carrying through the void:
"I'm sick of this."
A snap echoed sharply, resonating in Carla's chest as if it had split the world itself, leaving her alone in the aftermath, trembling, with only the lingering taste of blood and the memory of their struggle.