Akrion had once set his eyes upon Ysmara Kaelen, a mortal woman whose beauty stirred even the restless hungers of the divine. The god of trickery and forbidden bargains pursued her with the patient cruelty of a spider drawing silken threads, weaving promises and lures, yet she slipped from his grasp. She chose Tzandrel—the war-god, the blood-soaked one, the flame of conquest. Akrion endured the wound of her rejection, endured it with a smile carved too deep and eyes that smoldered like coals beneath ash. He told himself he would return, when her womb had emptied, when her belly was no longer swollen with Tzandrel's child. Then he would come again to tempt her, to draw her into his arms with subtler snares, with bargains she could not deny.
Yet the skein of fate unraveled crueler still. Ysmara died giving birth to the boy, Orin Kaelen. A single breath torn from her lungs as the child entered the world. And Akrion's chance—his imagined triumph, his dream of conquest over her heart—perished with her. The god of bargains had been defeated not by a rival, nor by rejection, but by death's hand.
His fury shifted, as fury always does, to the one who remained. Orin, the child of Tzandrel. The child of the man who had stolen her away. To Akrion's heart, this boy was not innocent; he was the scar left upon the world after Ysmara's passing. He hated the boy with a hatred sharp enough to slice through eternity. Not because Orin had killed her—though mortals often did in the throes of birth—but because the child was Tzandrel's blood.
So Akrion cursed him. Not with fire that consumed, nor plague that blackened flesh, nor any doom so blatant the other gods might cry foul. No, his hatred was patient. His curses were woven from shadows and whispers, illusions and bargains. He would unravel the boy by inches, until Orin's life was a tapestry of betrayals, until his spirit bore more scars than his body could ever hold.
Yet there was a shield between them. Zyphara, the silver-veiled goddess of protection, had laid her hand upon the boy. She guarded him as if he were her own son. Where Akrion's shadow fell, her light broke it. Where his whispers rose, her silence drowned them. Akrion could not strike openly; his tricks were the only tools left to him. And so he began his slow cruelty.
***
The boy grew in alleys that knew no mercy. Cities spat out orphans like sour wine, and Orin was cast among them. At first he begged, small voice quavering, hands outstretched. Once, a baker took pity, moved to toss him the crust of a burnt loaf. Yet Akrion's hand slithered into that moment. Illusion shimmered—coin vanished from the baker's till, and to the man's eyes, it was Orin's fingers that had snatched it. Rage replaced pity. The crust was withdrawn, curses flung instead, and the door slammed.
Orin wept that night, his stomach gnawing itself hollow. He thought himself unlucky. He never knew the god who smiled behind the veil of air, savoring his misery.
Another day, parched and trembling, Orin stumbled toward a water-seller. The man lifted a ladle, grinning with false kindness. Yet Akrion had soured the water in the cask, tainting it with rot and shadow. The boy drank, and fever took him. For days he lay shivering in a midden heap, skin aflame, breath ragged.
Akrion whispered as he watched: Give me a piece of yourself, boy. Yield, and I will spare you. Orin heard nothing but the roar of fever in his ears, yet the god's words wrapped themselves around his dreams.
Zyphara's hand moved then, unseen yet undeniable. A healer's apprentice, no more than a girl, walked past the midden and halted. Pity turned her steps. She gave Orin herbs she was forbidden to waste, and he lived.
***
So it went.
Akrion cast snares in the shape of kindness. A man with too-soft eyes offered work and bread, leading Orin into a den where fists and chains waited. The boy fled with bruises blooming purple across his skin. A purse fat with coin lay glittering in the dirt—Akrion's lure. Orin grasped it with trembling joy, only to be seized by guards, beaten bloody for a theft he never made. Even children betrayed him. He once shared half his crust with a younger urchin, only to find himself stripped and beaten by the gangs, accused of hoarding food.
Every betrayal was too precise, too cruelly timed, to be chance. They bore the stink of divine trickery. And each time Orin nearly broke, Zyphara's protection held.
When fever gnawed, she guided a healer's hand. When cold pierced him, she left a ragged cloak abandoned in his path. When knives flashed in the dark, the gang-leader's foot slipped on unseen ice, sending the pack scattering.
To Orin, it seemed he was cursed and spared in equal measure. One moment the world spat venom, the next it yielded a threadbare kindness. He could not know that gods wove these contradictions around him. He only learned, too early, that smiles hid knives, that gifts carried poison, and that fate itself seemed to whisper bargains he never made.
***
Akrion's hatred did not abate. Each failure to crush the boy only deepened his resolve. He watched as Orin's skin toughened, as betrayal sharpened his eyes, as distrust hardened his heart. The child did not crumble. He adapted. He grew leaner, keener, a wolf's cub forced too early into the snow.
The god whispered still: You are mine, boy. Whether you know it or not, you are mine. Every scar you carry is my mark, every hunger my handiwork. In time you will curse not me, but yourself, and then I will have you.
And always, Zyphara's veil interposed. Her presence was no balm Orin could feel, no warmth upon his cheek. She was the unseen boundary that would not allow Akrion's bargains to close their jaws.
Thus Orin survived. Not unbroken, but tempered. Not untouched, but unclaimed. A child sharpened by shadows, shaped by betrayals, and preserved by protections he could not name.
And in the far reaches of the divine realm, Akrion smiled a smile too wide, whispering to himself in the silence of broken promises: "Let him grow. Let him believe he has endured. All iron must be heated, hammered, folded. And I—ah, I am the fire and the hammer both."
***
The realm of the gods was not a place mortals could ever name, for it shifted too swiftly for language to cling to it. Skies poured like rivers into oceans that hung overhead. Mountains breathed like lungs, inhaling storms and exhaling sunlight. Valleys rolled and then folded into themselves, becoming nothing more than thought. To walk there was to walk inside a dream too vast to end, where every step could plant itself on stone, cloud, or memory.
Here, reality bent to the weight of divine presence. Where a god strode, the shifting fabric of the realm stilled, giving shape to what they carried in their essence. Fire walked with Tzandrel, beauty unfurled behind Serenya, and silence itself followed Zyphara.
The goddess of protection moved as one who bore no need for haste, yet each step rippled through the chaos, steadying it into paths. Veiled in a sheen of argent light, she walked without falter, her spear of ivory resting lightly in her grasp. Wherever she went, the turbulent ground steadied, acknowledging her dominion.
Her destination was a hollow cut into the firmament—a place where even divine air recoiled, folding inward upon itself, as though the realm had tried to forget what lay within. A pit of red laughter and black smoke. This was the sanctum of Akrion, the god of trickery and forbidden bargains.
He had never loved temples of light. His dwelling was a hall of broken oaths, a throne raised from contracts torn and splintered, their shards bound together with blood and shadows. Chains rattled from invisible heights, some clinking loose, others drawn taut around phantoms who writhed and begged for release, only to vanish the instant one looked upon them. Torches burned with flames of colors unnamed—violet that seared like ice, gold that smelled of rot, azure that flickered with whispers. In such light, truths looked like lies, and lies like truths.
Akrion sat upon his throne, sharp-faced, cloaked in tatters of midnight stitched with ember threads. His smile was a blade: too wide, too polished, too patient. His eyes glowed with the calm cruelty of one who had never needed to hurry, for eternity belonged to him.
When Zyphara entered his hall, the chains shivered, the torches bent their flames, and the smoke recoiled. For rarely did gods of such opposite nature meet face to face without ritual or ceremony.
"A goddess in my den of bargains," Akrion murmured, his voice a stream of honey poured over venom. "Tell me, what pledge do you come to make? What price will you pay?"
Zyphara's veil shimmered in the restless light. She stood with her spear grounded at her side, her posture calm, unshaken. Her voice was level, resonant as a bell tolling through smoke. "I come not to make pledges. You know why I am here, Akrion. I will not waste words circling the matter. You have been weaving your snares into the life of a mortal boy—Orin Kaelen. The illusions, the poisoned gifts, the betrayals timed too perfectly. They reek of you. I have seen them unmasked."
Akrion's laugh was soft, a flutter of amusement that rang off the chains. He tapped one finger against his throne's armrest. "Break him? Oh, no, dear sister of shields. I merely test him. Trickery is the whetstone of strength. Without me, mortals grow dull. Without the bite of my bargains, they crumble into softness. I am the trial they never ask for, yet cannot live without. Have I not always been so? Have I not always offered choice, even when the choice leads only to ruin?"
"You do not deny it," Zyphara said, her eyes narrowing, though she did not lift her weapon.
"Deny?" Akrion leaned forward, his grin sharpening. "What would be the point? I am trickery itself, not its mask. I am the claw hidden in velvet, the pit beneath the carpet. To trick is to exist. To bargain is to breathe. When mortals clutch bread and taste ash, when they clutch hope and bleed despair, that is my hand. I am the flaw in every oath, the shadow beside every torch. And tell me, goddess—without shadow, what meaning has your light?"
Zyphara's spear lowered slightly, its point grazing the floor. Not a threat, but a declaration. "I did not come to strip you of purpose. I came to remind you that your hand upon this boy is seen. Every move, every cruel temptation you weave into his path—I will be there. You may trick him, you may set your cards upon the table, but you will not break him beyond what he can bear. My watch is upon him, Akrion. And when you reach too far, I will stop you."
For the first time, the smile at Akrion's lips dimmed. His eyes gleamed not with rage but with a spark of interest, like a gambler who discovers the game has raised its stakes.
"You guard him so fiercely," he said softly. "Why this boy? A thousand, a thousand thousand children suffer my bargains daily. Their tears are as wine to me. Why does this one mortal earn your veil?"
"Because he is not only mortal," Zyphara answered, her tone deepening, vibrating against the walls of the hall. "The threads that knot about him are unlike any other. If you succeed in breaking him too soon, you do not merely ruin a boy. You tilt the balance of the age to come. That I will not allow."
Akrion reclined once more, though his smile remained thin, his fingers steepled. "How exquisite. So the goddess admits the boy is precious. You clutch him like a jewel too fragile to endure heat, while I see raw iron ready for the forge. And who, if not I, is the hammer? Without me, he cannot be tempered. Without me, he is nothing but a dull blade."
"Forged, yes," Zyphara said, her voice sharpened. "Shattered, no. There is a line, Akrion. Cross it, and you will find me standing against you every time."
"Lines, lines," Akrion sighed, tilting his head. "The cosmos is drawn in lines, and I am the smudge across them. You claim you do not strip me of my purpose, yet you bind my hand. Tell me, goddess, is that not its own trick? Is that not your bargain, hidden in silver light?"
Her gaze hardened, though her voice never lost its calm. "Call it what you will. I will not overstep. Sacred Hospitality forbids me from striking you here, as it forbids you from striking me. Tzandrel broke that law and found himself chained for a thousand years. I will not fall to his folly. This is not a threat, Akrion. It is a warning. Play your games within the bounds of endurance. If you reach beyond them, consequences will find you."
Akrion tilted his head back, lips curling into that predatory smile once more. "So be it. I will not stop—I cannot. I am the venom in wine, the gleam in coin, the whisper in silence. Yet I will not transgress your balance, for I know the weight of penalty. I will dance, goddess, and the boy will stumble through my snares. Whether he rises—that is your burden. Whether he falls—that is mine. Between us, perhaps he will become something worth watching."
For a moment, silence reigned. The chains hung still, the phantom wails hushed.
At last, Zyphara turned. Her veil whispered as it moved, stirring the smoke, forcing it to recoil. "So be it. Trick him, shadow him, but know this—I am watching. And I will not let your darkness consume him."
She left without looking back, her path cutting clarity through the warped hall. Where her feet pressed, the chaos steadied, unwilling to touch her.
And Akrion, seated upon his throne of broken promises, threw back his head and laughed. His laughter echoed in endless circles, too soft and too cruel, until even the chains seemed to shudder at the sound.
"Let us see, little goddess," he whispered into the emptiness. "Let us see how strong your shields truly are."
***
The prison of gods was no fortress of stone, nor cage of iron bars. It was a world unto itself, woven by decree of Fate when divine hands overstepped their bounds. Mortals thought of prisons as places to confine flesh; the gods required prisons vast enough to confine power.
This prison hung on the edge of the shifting firmament, an island of stillness adrift in the eternal flux. The sky above it was a dome of gray iron, starless, sunless, lit only by a cold, sourceless glow. The ground was barren rock, veined with cracks that pulsed faintly with imprisoned flame. Winds circled endlessly, hollow and without scent, carrying the sound of chains though no chains could be seen.
Here Tzandrel, god of war and bloodshed, endured his sentence. Not bound by shackles, not walled within dungeons, but confined nonetheless. The world itself was his cage; the horizon curved into itself, so that no matter how far he strode, he returned to the same scorched plain. His power surged within him, restless, fierce—but the prison swallowed it whole, rendering his might a toy for his own company. He could summon storms and watch them vanish into silence, he could raise an army of phantoms only to see them crumble into ash before they struck a blow. His godhood had not been stripped from him, yet it was made idle, looped back upon itself until he was forced to wear it like a burden.
It was into this place that Zyphara came, her veil trailing silver across the ash. Unlike him, she could come and go as she pleased. The firmament bent to her will, parting the walls of confinement as if they had never existed. Where she stepped, the cracks in the rock stilled, the wind hushed, the prison itself yielding to her presence.
Tzandrel stood upon a rise of black stone, his form unbowed despite the weight of centuries. His hair, once a banner of flame, now fell dark and matted around his shoulders. His armor was broken, not by battle but by disuse, rent at the seams, scarred by the futility of his own blows against this endless cage. Yet his eyes still burned. They burned with the same crimson fury that had driven him across battlefields, the same light that once made mortals tremble and gods wary.
When he saw her, his lips curved—not into a snarl, nor a boast, but a smile. It was weary, yet genuine, and for a moment he looked less a god of war than a man who had waited too long for company.
"I thought you would never come," he said. His voice rolled like distant thunder, yet lacked its former sharpness. Imprisonment had sanded away the echoes of conquest.
Zyphara inclined her head, veil stirring. "I come when I choose, Tzandrel. You know this."
He gave a low chuckle. "Yes. You always were mistress of your own will."
She drew closer, her spear trailing faint light across the barren ground. "I did not come for banter. You asked me once what news I would bring if I ever visited. So hear it: your son lives. He grows. Stronger than many of his age, though hardship has shaped him harshly. He survives."
At that, Tzandrel's gaze sharpened. The fire in his eyes flared, not with anger, but with pride. "Good. I would expect no less. No son of mine should bend like reed before the storm. He must stand, even when the wind tears at him. That is my blood in him."
Zyphara tilted her head slightly. "Your blood, yes. Yet it is not only that which keeps him alive."
He let out a slow breath, not denying her meaning. His gaze wandered across the endless gray dome above them. "And his mother? Ysmara… tell me she did not suffer."
Zyphara's veil softened with a faint shimmer. "She died bringing him into the world. Swift, if not merciful."
Tzandrel closed his eyes. For a moment, his shoulders sagged, and the god of war looked small—small within the vastness of his cage, small against the memory of a mortal woman he had once loved. "Ysmara," he murmured, tasting her name as if it were a prayer. "She deserved more. If I had not been cast into this exile, I would have guarded her heart, kept it from breaking. I would have spent my strength to lengthen her days. I could have bent her fate aside with a stroke of my hand."
"You know well that fate is not so easily bent," Zyphara said gently.
"Damn fate," he snarled, the fire returning. His fist struck the rock, sending cracks spidering across its surface before the prison swallowed them whole. "She was mortal, yes, yet she bore herself with a strength greater than queens. Sweet in her kindness, fierce in her defiance. Even when the world spat on her, she endured. Do you know what it is, goddess, for one such as I to love one such as her? To adore not her worship, not her trembling, but her—herself? And then to lose her, not in battle, not by blade, but by the cruel ordinariness of childbirth? Tell me, what cruelty is sharper than that?"
Zyphara watched him, and though her face was veiled, her voice carried the weight of pity. "Cruel or kind, it was the thread allotted. She walked her span, and it ended where it must."
"Must?" His laugh was hollow. "So says fate. So say the gods who bow to it. Not I."
"Even you," she reminded him softly. "For here you stand, chained not by shackles but by decree. Not even war resists fate's hand forever."
He turned his gaze upon her then, and the fire dimmed. "And yet here you are. Visiting me. Why? You never cared for me as others did. You were never friend, never foe. We spoke when need demanded, nothing more. Once, I tried to draw you into my bed, and you denied me with that same calm veil. And yet—you come."
"Because I guard your son," Zyphara replied simply. "Because the boy bears a mark upon him that draws eyes, and one of those eyes belongs to Akrion."
At that name, Tzandrel's expression twisted. "That carrion crow. Still circling the bones of what he cannot claim."
"He plagues the boy with his tricks," Zyphara continued. "Yet he has not broken him. I make certain of it."
Tzandrel's head inclined, a gesture that was neither bow nor thanks, yet carried the weight of both. "For that, I am in your debt. My son should not walk alone, even if I cannot be beside him."
"You thank me," she said with a faint note of amusement. "Strange words from the god of war."
"Exile teaches many things," Tzandrel admitted with a grim smile. "When one's only army is silence, one learns to measure words like arrows."
They stood in silence for a time, the barren wind circling them. At last Zyphara turned, her spear rising faintly. "I have lingered long enough. My duties pull me elsewhere. You know well how it is to be occupied by them."
His eyes darkened, and he barked a short laugh. "Duties? I envy you. My power rots in here, wasted on phantoms and storms that vanish into themselves. I should be leading wars, shaping empires, not amusing myself with sparks in a cage."
"That," Zyphara said, "is what prison is."
He exhaled sharply, then softened, his gaze following her veil. "Then go. But know this: I thank you for guarding him. For keeping him from ruin. Without you, he would already be ash under Akrion's heel."
"You are welcome," she said simply.
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "And perhaps one day you will admit you care more than you claim. Perhaps you already love him, though you guard it behind that veil."
Her laugh rang bright, breaking the heavy silence. "Do not be foolish. He is a child."
"A child now," Tzandrel said with a grin that revealed a trace of his old arrogance. "But he will grow. And he will be handsome, as I am handsome beyond compare. Perhaps then, goddess, he will succeed where his father failed."
She shook her head, veil rippling like silver flame. "If his god-father could not charm me, what chance will he have?"
With that, she turned, walking away. The horizon folded, the veil of confinement parting for her alone. She vanished into the shifting firmament, leaving behind the god of war standing alone upon his barren rise, smiling faintly at the thought of a son he had never held.
***
The summons went out across the firmament like a bell tolling through dream and waking. No god could ignore it. No matter what sanctum they ruled or what dominion they brooded over, the call drew them, tugging at the marrow of their divinity. When an assembly was called in the name of all, even the most reclusive were compelled to answer.
The meeting place was neither hall nor temple. It was paradise conjured for this purpose, standing at the heart of the divine realm. Here rivers of crystal water ran without source or mouth, forests of emerald leaves swayed without wind, and meadows of flame and frost bloomed side by side without contradiction. Light pooled in great columns from a sky that shifted hue with each heartbeat—dawn, noon, dusk, and midnight all cycling as if time itself bent in reverence.
Here the gods gathered, numerous beyond count. Each bore the signature of their nature: Serenya, goddess of beauty, walked like dawn wrapped in flesh, her smile radiant enough to bend even prideful brows. Akrion drifted in smoke, perched upon nothing, eyes gleaming with too-patient amusement. There were others—gods of craft, of hunger, of thunder, of secrets—each filling the air with the weight of their essence.
Zyphara arrived veiled, her ivory spear casting calm across the meadow. Where she stood, the turmoil of clashing powers softened, as though the meeting itself found balance in her presence.
Yet a hush fell when the news was spoken.
One among them rose, his voice like stone breaking. "Brothers. Sisters. The unthinkable has come to pass. A god is dead—slain not by another divine hand, but by mortals."
The silence deepened. Even gods who had endured centuries without speaking now lifted their gaze. The word mortals rippled through the assembly like a stone tossed into a still pond.
The voice continued, grave and implacable. "Aurelthas, the Unbending, God of Pride, has fallen. His body was undone, his essence stripped. Mortals took his raw System energy, harvested it, and bound it to themselves. They wield it now as power beyond their birthright."
A murmur spread, gods shifting uneasily, robes and armor rustling though no wind blew. Some voices rose in outrage, others in disbelief. Aurelthas had been unyielding, his pride unassailable. To imagine him struck down was to imagine mountains crumbling into sand.
"It is not only him," the voice pressed. "Others have been struck—names yet whispered, wounds yet hidden. Few mortals know this craft, but knowledge does not remain hidden long. Already, whispers run through their ranks. If it spreads unchecked, they will come for all of us. They will reap us, one by one, until nothing remains but their stolen strength."
The meadow seemed to darken, as if clouds rolled across the ever-changing sky. Akrion's smile widened, shadowing his sharp features. Serenya pressed a hand to her breast, her beauty paling into dread. Gods of war muttered curses, gods of storm clenched fists, gods of hearth clutched their robes as if seeking shelter.
"They dare," one growled. "They dare to hunt divinity?"
"Revenge," another cried. "We must strike swiftly, before the rot spreads. Burn their villages, scour their kingdoms. Let mortals tremble at the cost of their arrogance."
"Yes," said another, voice like a bell tolling doom. "Let them learn what it means to slay a god."
The assembly swelled with fury, voices overlapping, powers rising like tides. Even Zyphara felt the press of wrath against her calm. Yet before rage could boil into decree, the light changed.
It did not blaze brighter. It became absolute. Every color drained, every sound hushed, and a radiance not born of sun or fire descended into their midst. It was not a god, though it shone greater than gods.
It was Fate.
Fate did not often take shape, but when it did, none mistook it. It came now as a figure wrought of pure spirit, dazzling and impossible, radiant beyond description yet simple in form. Its face was neither male nor female, its body neither mortal nor divine. It was presence, standing luminous among them, undeniable.
All voices died.
"You speak of vengeance," Fate said. Its voice was not heard so much as known, pouring directly into the bones of every god. "You cry for punishment, for the slaughter of mortals who have trespassed. Hear me now: you shall not harm them."
Murmurs rose—fearful, incredulous. A storm-god bellowed, "They killed Aurelthas! They feasted on his essence!"
"They shall not be touched," Fate replied. "Their destinies are mine to weave. You, who are bound to dominions, to fire and storm and beauty and war—you have limits. You may test them, bargain with them, twist within them. Yet beyond them, you cannot go. It is decreed."
A god of night snarled, "You conspire against us. You would topple us, let mortals rise in our stead."
Fate's radiance pulsed once, vast and steady. "Accuse if you wish. Yet truth does not bend to accusation. The mortals know what they know because I allowed it. Their knowledge is no theft. It is gift—or burden—woven by my hand. This is my work, not yours."
The gods shifted, their anger restless. One, tall and robed in stormclouds, lifted a fist. "We need not cower before you. Together we could resist. Break your decree."
"And if you do," Fate answered, "you will find consequence swifter than any mortal blade. Not even gods live beyond my reach. Remember Tzandrel, who thought himself above law. Remember where he languishes now. You call me foe, yet I am the ground beneath your feet, the thread that holds you from unraveling. You may rage against me, but you cannot step beyond me."
The meadow trembled. Gods who had roared fell silent, the weight of truth pressing them down. None denied that Fate's will girded their very being. None denied that to break it was to unmake themselves.
Zyphara stood still, veil unmoved, yet her grip on her spear tightened. Even she, who defied gods in their cruelty, knew better than to defy the one who bound cruelty and mercy alike in its net.
Fate's gaze—or what felt like a gaze—swept them all. "You will not seek vengeance on the mortals who felled Aurelthas. You will not hunt those who drink of divine essence. Their end is written in mine, not yours. Watch them if you wish. Fear them if you must. But touch them not. Any god who transgresses this law shall find themselves unmade."
Then, with no flourish, no thunder, the radiance winked away. Fate did not depart; Fate was never absent. Yet its shape was gone, its words ringing in the silence it left.
The gods looked at one another. They had come in rage, and now found their fury bound. None dared speak first.
At last, Akrion's laughter broke the stillness—soft, curling, dangerous. "How exquisite," he purred, smoke coiling around him. "Our pride slain, our hands tied, our enemy untouchable. The game grows ever more entertaining."
Serenya turned from him with a shudder. The storm-god who had raised his fist lowered it, seething but silent. One by one, the gods began to drift from the meadow, their forms dissolving into their dominions, their wrath carried away but not extinguished.
The assembly dissolved, not dismissed but defeated. They left knowing vengeance was forbidden, yet their hearts burned with the knowledge that mortals now held the secret to godslaying. And above them all, unseen yet omnipresent, Fate watched still.