The air of the Hall of Devotion was thick with incense, the kind that clung to the skin like a memory. Eryndor sat upon his throne—if one could call the molten gold and obsidian construct a throne and not a cage. For millennia, he had sat here, listening to chants, tasting the invisible, intoxicating energy of worship. Every word uttered, every tear shed in devotion, had fed him, made him larger, stronger, untouchable.
And yet, today, it felt hollow.
He tilted his head slightly, ears attuned to the whispers of the faithful who gathered far below. They prayed, they sang, they bowed. But the satisfaction—the rush—was gone. A gnawing emptiness spread in his chest like cold fire. He realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he had been drinking from an endless cup that no longer had wine.
It started as a whisper in the mind, subtle at first. Why? Why did he sit here, day after eternity, drinking praise that tasted like ash? He had everything—a domain that stretched across mountains and seas, control over storms and seasons, the obedience of billions. And yet, when the voices lifted in song, he felt… nothing.
Eryndor's fingers, long and pale as moonlight, traced the carved runes of the throne. The runes pulsed faintly, dimmer than usual, as if sensing his doubt. The hall seemed to respond. Shadows leaned closer, whispers curled at his ears, reminders of the adoration he had devoured. But there was no warmth. Only cold, and a persistent ache in the space between his ribs.
The first wave of withdrawal hit like a tidal force. He shivered, though no mortal chill touched him. His vision trembled at the edges; the gilded hall, the endless spires, even the worshipers' faces began to blur. He remembered the first moment he had felt this: a flicker of longing for something beyond power, something fleeting, fragile, human. He had ignored it. Gods did not long. Gods did not feel.
And yet…
He rose. Not fully—his knees wobbled, betraying a weakness he had not known existed in millennia. The priests below gasped, frozen mid-bow. Even the devotions faltered as Eryndor stepped from the throne. For the first time, the hall seemed too vast, too empty, as if it had been a mirror to his soul all along, reflecting his growing hollowness.
I am hungry, he realized—not for praise, not for power, but for something… human. I am hungry for life, not devotion.
The thought was dangerous. It was sacrilege. A god could not crave mortality. Gods were eternal. Gods were infallible. Yet every pulse in his body—if he could still call it a body—throbbed with that impossible desire: to feel, to bleed, to break.
He walked to the edge of the balcony, staring at the endless city below. Worshipers moved like ants, chanting in perfect synchrony. Their voices should have lifted him; instead, they pressed down on him, heavy, mocking in their insistence. For the first time, Eryndor noticed something he had never seen: faces. Tiny, fragile, mortal faces full of hope, fear, and despair. Their mortality was beautiful. Their imperfection was intoxicating.
And the craving became unbearable.
A flicker of power—once a river, now a trickle—flared briefly in his hands. He caught himself. No. I will not feed. I will not. The hall shook, subtly, like an awakening storm sensing its master's doubt. Torches guttered; shadows recoiled. The priests screamed, panic-stricken at the trembling of eternity itself.
Eryndor closed his eyes. Pain cut through him sharper than any sword: migraines of divine proportions, echoes of voices demanding their sustenance. Every memory of power clawed at him: the conquest of kingdoms, the bending of storms, the warmth of adoration on his skin. He would not yield. He would become… human.
And so the first tremors began—not of the world, but of himself. Fingers lost strength, vision dimmed, and a raw, gnawing emptiness settled in his chest. He was a god weakening. He was a god withdrawing. He was, terrifyingly, becoming something less.
Something mortal.
And for the first time in eternity, he smiled—not with triumph, not with cruelty, not with dominance—but with pain, fragility, and an inkling of what it meant to truly live.
The gods around him, distant and unseen, might have mocked. They might have called him weak, insane, lost. But Eryndor didn't care. He had tasted the hollowness. He had glimpsed the possibility of life beyond devotion. And for the first time, the thought of mortality—so terrifying, so impossible—felt like salvation.
The withdrawal had begun. And the world, for all its endless prayers, would never be the same again.