The flames never dimmed.
Mezalith, once a jewel of towers and marble streets, was now a pyre. Entire districts had collapsed into rubble, their spires burning like torches against the bleeding sky. The air reeked of smoke and charred flesh, thick enough to choke even the strongest lungs. Screams echoed from every street, sometimes sharp with terror, sometimes cut short by silence.
Kaelen pulled Ren through the chaos, every muscle taut. The boy stumbled, coughing from the smoke, but Kaelen did not slow. To linger meant death—or worse.
Ahead, the Avenue of Kings had become a river of fire. Wooden stalls and stone arches alike collapsed under the weight of divine ruin. The bodies of soldiers and civilians littered the street, glowing faintly as embers fed on them.
Ren squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't… Kaelen, I can't."
Kaelen knelt quickly, gripping the boy's shoulders. "Listen to me. You can. You keep walking, no matter what you see. You don't look down. You don't stop." His voice was rough, harsher than he intended, but he could not soften it. There was no softness left in this city.
Ren nodded weakly, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
They pressed onward.
From the plaza came the sound of chanting—not human, but deep, resonant, each word carrying the weight of command. Kaelen risked a glance.
At the heart of the burning city stood a god.
He was vast, towering above the ruined plaza, his form armored in obsidian that glowed with molten cracks. His face was hidden beneath a helm shaped like a beast's skull, and in his hands he carried a chain of living fire. With every sweep of the chain, buildings toppled and mortals screamed.
Around him, survivors were dragged forward by soldiers—men who once bore the banners of Mezalith but now marched like puppets. Their eyes glowed faintly, hollow. One by one, they were forced to kneel before the god.
Kaelen's gut twisted. He recognized the banners, the armor. These were men he had once stolen from, guards who had chased him through alleys. Now they were husks, emptied of will.
The god's voice rolled across the plaza, terrible and absolute.
"Mortals of ash, kneel before Maltherion, Breaker of Chains, and be bound to glory. Resist, and burn."
Maltherion. Another name. Another tyrant among the thousand.
Kaelen ducked back behind the crumbled wall, dragging Ren with him. His pulse hammered. The shard at his side pulsed furiously, as though answering the god's call. It burned against his hip, demanding to be raised, demanding to be used.
Ren's whisper was sharp with fear. "Kaelen… he'll see us."
"Not if we keep moving." Kaelen scanned the street. Smoke and shadow cloaked much, but patrols of glowing-eyed soldiers stalked every corner.
He had no path forward.
The shard pulsed harder, the whisper flooding his mind. Strike him. Strike now. A god can fall.
Kaelen grit his teeth, forcing the thought away. He had barely survived against bandits. To face that would be suicide. And yet—how many more would burn before dawn? How many children like Ren would be forced to kneel?
A sudden sound tore him from his thoughts. From the far end of the street, a figure emerged—hooded, cloaked in soot, moving with purpose. Unlike the hollow-eyed soldiers, this one's step was sharp, alive. In their hands glimmered steel, curved like a scythe.
The figure paused, scanning the street. Their hood slipped just enough for Kaelen to glimpse her face—a woman, scarred but fierce, her eyes alight with something that was not fear.
She saw him.
For a heartbeat, Kaelen froze, hand tightening on the shard. Friend or foe?
The woman raised a finger to her lips, then gestured sharply—follow me. She darted into an alley, disappearing behind the smoke.
Ren whispered, "Do we trust her?"
Kaelen's answer came without thought. "We don't have a choice."
He pulled the boy into the alley.
The path was narrow, half-collapsed, but it led them away from the plaza's blaze. The woman waited ahead, pressing herself against a wall. When they reached her, she spoke in a low, urgent voice.
"You're carrying it."
Kaelen stiffened. "Carrying what?"
Her gaze flicked to his side. "Don't play games. I felt it the moment you stepped near. The shard. You have it."
Ren shrank behind Kaelen. The woman's tone carried neither reverence nor fear, but recognition, as if she had been searching for this moment.
Kaelen's voice hardened. "And if I do?"
"Then you're already dead," she said flatly. "Unless you come with me."
From the plaza, Maltherion's roar split the air, followed by the thunderous collapse of stone. The chain of fire cracked again, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
The woman's eyes bored into his. "Choose fast, thief. With me, or in chains."
Kaelen hesitated, torn between instinct and survival. The shard burned at his side, whispering violence, urging him to strike. Yet the woman's eyes—sharp, unyielding—were not the eyes of a zealot or a god's servant.
He chose.
"Fine," he muttered. "Lead."
The woman didn't waste words. She spun and darted deeper into the alley, moving like someone who knew the city's veins better than the gods who now claimed it. Kaelen pushed Ren forward, following close. The streets here twisted like a labyrinth, narrow and cracked, the fires above casting a blood-red glow.
Behind them, Maltherion's roar echoed again, followed by the crash of collapsing stone. Every sound was a reminder: the city was dying, piece by piece.
They emerged into a courtyard sheltered by fallen arches. Here, the fire dimmed, shadows pooling thick. A handful of figures waited—men and women, soot-streaked but alive, their weapons salvaged from the ruins. Their eyes turned sharply as the woman entered, then widened at the sight of Kaelen.
One of them spat. "You brought him here?"
The woman raised a hand. "He carries it."
A hush fell.
Kaelen stiffened, instinctively shielding Ren. "I don't know what you think I have"
"Don't lie," the woman cut in. Her voice was steel. "We've hunted shards since the first fire fell. That glow on you? No mistaking it. The gods want it. Which means we want it too."
Ren gripped Kaelen's sleeve. "Don't give it to them," he whispered.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "And what would you do with it? Worship it? Sell it? Kill me and take it?"
The woman stepped closer, her scar catching the light. "My name is Lyra. We don't serve the gods. We kill them."
The words landed like a blade. Kaelen blinked, stunned.
One of the others, a broad-shouldered man with a hammer, snarled. "Don't waste breath, Lyra. He's a thief. Look at him—ragged, half-starved. He'll crack the moment a god looks his way."
Lyra didn't flinch. Her eyes stayed locked on Kaelen's. "Maybe. Or maybe he's exactly what we need. No soldier. No king. No priest. Just someone the gods won't expect."
The shard pulsed as if in agreement. Kaelen's gut twisted. He hadn't asked for this. He didn't want it. He was no savior—he was a survivor. Yet every path forward seemed to circle back to the crystal in his hand.
Before he could answer, the ground trembled.
A shadow swept over the courtyard. Maltherion.
The god's form loomed beyond the arches, taller than the broken towers, fire leaking from every crack in his obsidian armor. His chain of flame dragged across the streets, reducing walls to molten slag. His helm turned, the empty beast's skull face locking onto their hiding place.
"Found you," the god's voice thundered.
Panic surged. The rebels scattered, dragging weapons to hand. Lyra cursed under her breath, then shoved Kaelen hard. "Run!"
But Kaelen didn't move. His feet rooted to the stone as Maltherion's steps shook the earth. The god's fire painted the courtyard in searing light, leaving nowhere to hide.
The shard screamed in his hand.
Raise me. Break him. Now.
Kaelen's breath came ragged. He saw again the bandit turned to ash, the whispers that clawed at his mind. To wield the shard was to burn himself as well. But what choice remained?
Ren's voice cracked through the chaos. "Kaelen!"
The god raised his chain. Fire coiled like a living serpent, ready to strike.
Kaelen lifted the shard.
Silver light erupted, colliding with the god's fire in a blinding clash. The courtyard became a storm—flame and silver colliding, tearing stone apart. Mortals screamed, diving for cover.
For the first time, Maltherion staggered. The chain recoiled as if stung, cracks spreading wider across his armor. His roar shook the heavens, more rage than pain.
Kaelen's knees buckled. The shard drained him like blood from a wound, every heartbeat leaving him weaker. But he held on, screaming through clenched teeth.
"Fall!"
The silver blaze surged, forcing Maltherion back a step. Just a step—but for a god, it was unthinkable.
Lyra stared, wide-eyed, awe mixing with fury. "By the saints… he did it."
Kaelen collapsed to one knee, the shard's glow dimming. Maltherion steadied, fury burning hotter. His voice rolled like thunder.
"You dare. You dare!"
The god's next strike would end them all.
Lyra's hand seized Kaelen's arm, dragging him up. "Move, thief! You bought us a breath—use it!"
The rebels surged around them, covering their retreat with blades and firebombs. Ren clung to Kaelen's hand, pulling him toward the shadows beyond the courtyard.
Behind them, Maltherion's roar split the city. Flames devoured stone, and the plaza of Mezalith crumbled further into ruin.
But Kaelen did not look back. He couldn't.
Not at the city he once called home. Not at the god he had defied.
Only forward, into fire and ash, clutching a shard that whispered of war.