In the sky-bound halls of the gods, whispers stirred like wind through dry leaves.
The High God sat on a throne of sunfire, fingers drumming against the golden armrest. Around him, the other deities gathered. Some wore bodies shaped like mortals, others like beasts, storms, or light itself. Their voices were low, sharp, nervous.
"He should not have grown this strong," muttered Irothea, goddess of tides. Her form rippled like water, her eyes silver pools. "A mortal should never wield such weight."
"He has done nothing wrong," said Caelion, god of storms, lightning crackling faintly across his shoulders. "He has kept our wars clean, our enemies broken."
The High God did not look at either of them. He stared at the ceiling, where stars hung like jewels frozen mid-fall. "And yet mortals speak his name more than ours. They offer prayers to me, yes — but they speak of him. Their trust is in him. Do you not feel it?"
Silence stretched. Even the storms in Caelion's chest stilled.
"He is a threat," the High God said finally. "Not by action, but by existence. It is not malice that forces this decision — it is necessity."
Some gods nodded. Others shifted uneasily. None offered challenge.
In the mortal world, Azraelion rested. He had returned from the battle victorious. The smell of smoke still clung to his armor. He sat with his men by a dying fire, laughing quietly at their jokes, sharpening his blade more from habit than need.
A young soldier stared at him, wide-eyed. "Sir," the boy said, "is it true you once cut down a dragon by yourself?"
Azraelion smirked, a rare, tired smile. "It wasn't a dragon," he said. "It was worse. Big, ugly, breathed fire, but it bled like anything else."
The boy laughed. So did the others. They spoke not of gods that night — only of Azraelion, their savior, their living legend.
Above them, unseen, the gods watched.
"He inspires too much loyalty," Irothea said quietly, almost regretfully.
Caelion clenched his fists. "If we strike him down, the mortals will curse us."
"They will grieve," the High God replied, "but grief fades. Fear remains."
He stood. His voice carried like a hammer hitting iron. "Tomorrow, we summon him. We will honor him publicly. And privately, we will bind him. He will not leave the heavens alive."
Caelion's storm eyes burned. "I will not be part of this."
"You already are," the High God said, turning away.
Back on the mortal soil, Azraelion looked up at the night sky, at constellations carved by divine hands. For the first time in years, he felt a shiver crawl down his spine, though no wind touched him.
He could not name it. But something had shifted.
And far above, gods prepared the first knife of betrayal.