The storm did not come with rain.
That was the first thing Aren noticed.
Dark clouds pressed low over the village of Lareth, heavy and unmoving, as if the sky itself had decided to stop breathing. The air smelled sharp—burnt metal and ozone—making the hairs on Aren's arms stand on end. Chickens stopped clucking. Dogs hid beneath carts. Even the wind refused to move.
Aren stood at the edge of the fields, sickle resting against his shoulder, eyes fixed upward.
"Another omen," old Mara had whispered that morning. "The gods are restless."
They were always restless.
At seventeen, Aren already understood what most adults refused to accept: the gods did not protect mortals. They used them. Villages like Lareth were offerings made without consent—lives crushed beneath divine whims, erased and forgotten.
The first bolt struck without warning.
Not lightning—judgment.
It tore through the sky like a wound, white-blue and screaming, slamming into the hills beyond the village. The earth shook. Houses rattled. Someone screamed Aren's name.
Then came the second strike.
This one hit the shrine.
Stone exploded outward. The statue of the Storm Herald—polished and prayed to for generations—shattered like cheap clay. Fire and lightning rolled through the streets, swallowing homes, people, memories.
Aren ran.
He didn't know where. He only knew he couldn't stop.
A third bolt split the village square in half.
The gods had come.
Divine Collateral
Aren skidded to a halt near the well, heart hammering, lungs burning. He turned just in time to see a towering figure descend through the clouds—humanoid, radiant, wrapped in crackling arcs of power.
A god.
Or one of their servants.
It didn't matter.
Its voice boomed across the village, cold and absolute.
"By decree of the Celestial Concord, this land is reclaimed."
Reclaimed.
As if it had ever belonged to them.
Aren watched as the being raised a hand, lightning spiraling into a spear of light. His mother was still in their home. His little brother had been sick—too weak to run.
Something inside Aren snapped.
Not fear.
Not despair.
Anger.
Raw. Blinding. Unreasonable.
He screamed—not in prayer, but defiance—and the sky answered.
Lightning surged, not downward, but toward him.
For a heartbeat, the god hesitated.
Then the spear fell.
The Silence After
Aren woke buried beneath ash and broken stone.
The storm was gone.
So was the village.
He clawed his way free, ears ringing, body numb. Everywhere he looked there was ruin—blackened earth, shattered foundations, bodies half-hidden beneath debris.
No survivors.
He stumbled to where his home had been.
Nothing remained.
Aren fell to his knees, fists digging into the dirt until they bled. He waited for tears.
None came.
Only the memory of that moment—the lightning bending, responding to him.
The gods had destroyed everything.
But they had made one mistake.
They had awakened something.
Aren stood slowly, staring at the empty sky.
"I won't pray," he said, voice hoarse.
"I won't kneel."
"I won't forgive."
Thunder rumbled far away—not threatening, not divine.
Acknowledging.
The Path Forward
That night, Aren left Lareth behind.
He carried nothing but his rage, his questions, and a growing certainty that terrified him more than the gods ever had.
Somewhere in the world were truths older than the heavens. Power not granted, but claimed. And if the gods ruled from thrones of gold…
Then one day, he would take one.
And when he sat upon it, the sky would fall for them.