The sun hung low over the village, casting long shadows as the day's work came to an end. Zareth kept his head down, his shoulders hunched as he made his way through the market square. Around him, villagers bustled about, excitement brewing in the air. Today was choosing day, the day when the gods would select new disciples from among the mortals, granting divine power to those deemed worthy.

Not him, though. It was never him.

Zareth had tried. Every year, he had entered the tests with hope. He had prayed at the temples, offering what little he had to the gods in the hopes that they might see him, notice him, choose him. Yet year after year, he had walked away empty-handed.

He didn't have the strength for Kovos, God of War, or the charm for Elyra, Goddess of Love. He lacked the wisdom for Morthos, God of Knowledge, and the connection to nature for Gaela, Goddess of Life. Every god, every test, had ended the same way: failure. And now, as he walked through the village, he felt the familiar sting of rejection burning in his chest.

As he approached the training grounds outside Kovos' temple, the sound of laughter caught his attention. A group of boys—broad-shouldered and grinning with the confidence of those favored by the gods—stood in a circle, jeering at a smaller figure in the center.

Zareth recognized the boys immediately. Oron, the son of one of the village's wealthiest families, had been chosen by Kovos last year. He had been granted strength, enough to become one of the god's prized disciples. Now he used that power to remind everyone of his superiority.

"Come on, runt!" Oron sneered, shoving the smaller boy toward the ground. "You think you're worthy of any god? Look at you. A waste of space."

The smaller boy stumbled, trying to keep his balance, but Oron pushed him again, harder this time. The others laughed.

Zareth felt a surge of anger, but he knew better than to get involved. He had been on the receiving end of Oron's bullying before, back when he still believed he could be chosen by Kovos. Back before the gods had made it clear that Zareth was nothing to them.

Oron spotted him from across the training ground and grinned, his eyes lighting up with malice.

"Hey, look!" Oron called, waving a hand at Zareth. "If it isn't the godless one!"

The others turned, their smiles widening as they saw Zareth. He tried to move past them quickly, but Oron was faster. He stepped in front of Zareth, blocking his path, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Where you headed, Zareth?" Oron taunted. "Off to pray to no one again? How many times is it now? Five years? Six? Not a single god wants you, huh?"

Zareth clenched his fists, his heart pounding. "Just leave me alone, Oron."

Oron's grin widened. "Leave you alone? Come on, we're all friends here." His voice was mocking, dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you try one of the tests again? Maybe Kovos will take pity on you this time. Oh wait—he doesn't take weaklings."

The group erupted into laughter, their voices cutting deep into Zareth's chest. He had heard it all before, the insults, the sneers, the jabs about his failure to be chosen. He had tried, year after year, pouring everything into the trials, only to be met with the same result: rejection.

"I said, leave me alone," Zareth repeated, his voice low and tense. His hands shook, not from fear, but from the familiar rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The helplessness.

Oron leaned in closer, his breath hot on Zareth's face. "Or what? You're not chosen. You have no power. You're nothing."

The last word hit like a punch to the gut. Nothing. That was what the gods saw him as. That was what everyone saw him as.

Without waiting for a response, Oron shoved him hard, sending Zareth sprawling into the dirt. The group howled with laughter as Zareth struggled to get back up, his clothes caked in dust.

"Maybe Death will take you!" Oron called after him, his tone mocking as always. "He's the only one who hasn't picked yet, right? Maybe that's where you belong—with the forgotten!"

Zareth's hands curled into fists as he pushed himself to his feet. He wiped the dirt from his face, the words cutting deeper than the blows. Death. Even in jest, it stung. Because even Death, the one god who never chose, was seen as better than nothing.

He turned away from the group, walking quickly now, not caring where he was headed as long as it was away from the mocking laughter, away from the pain of being overlooked again and again. His steps carried him further from the village, away from the temples and shrines that represented everything he could never be. Away from the life that had rejected him.

Zareth didn't stop until he reached the edge of the forest. His chest ached with a deep, familiar hollowness. He had thought that maybe, this time, things would be different. That maybe one god would see something in him that no one else had. But the truth had become clearer every day: he was invisible.

He glanced around, realizing where his aimless steps had taken him. The path to the village had faded behind him, and before him, hidden behind thick vines and crumbling stone, stood the Shrine of Death.

The forgotten shrine.

Unlike the grand temples of the other gods, this shrine was neglected, abandoned. A place no one visited, and no one spoke of. The one god who had no followers. The one god who had never chosen anyone.

Zareth's breath slowed as he stood before it, his heart still pounding from the confrontation with Oron. The cold wind rustled through the trees, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He wasn't sure why he was here. Maybe it was because he had nowhere else to go. Or maybe, in some twisted way, Oron's words had struck a chord in him. Death had never chosen anyone. No one worshipped Death. But maybe… just maybe, Zareth wasn't the only one who felt forgotten.

Slowly, he stepped forward, his feet crunching against the gravel as he approached the shrine. It was small, barely more than a few stones stacked together, and overgrown with moss and dead vines. His mother had told him stories once—stories about how Death wasn't something to be feared, but a necessary part of life. Those stories had been a comfort once. Now they were just old memories.

He knelt before the shrine, his hands trembling slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small charm he always carried. It had been his mother's, and it was the only thing he had left of her.

"I don't know why I'm here," he whispered to the wind. "I don't even know if you exist."

The cold air wrapped around him, stilling everything around him. The forest seemed to grow quieter, the wind dying down as the weight of his words hung in the air.

Zareth closed his eyes, letting the silence sink in. "I'm just tired of being nothing."

A moment passed. Then, from the depths of the stillness, a voice—low, quiet, and ancient—cut through the air.

"You are not nothing."

Zareth's eyes snapped open, his heart leaping into his throat. He looked around, but there was no one there. The village was far behind him, and the shrine stood as it always had: empty, forgotten.

"You seek what others cannot offer," the voice continued. It was neither loud nor soft, but it filled the space around him. "You seek me."

Zareth's breath hitched. "Who—who's there?"

The cold intensified, wrapping around him like a shadow. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as though it had been there all along, just waiting for him to listen.

"You came to me," the voice said, low and calm. "When all others turned away."

Zareth's throat was dry, his mind racing. Death. The god no one worshipped. The god who had never chosen anyone. Yet here, now…

"I don't—" He swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "I don't understand."

"You will." The voice was closer now, almost intimate, as if it were speaking directly into his ear. "I choose you."

Zareth's pulse raced, confusion and fear warring within him. He had never been chosen, not by any god. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign, for someone to acknowledge him. But Death?

"You… you choose me?" he whispered, voice shaking.

"Yes," Death answered, calm and assured. "You are mine, Zareth. Now rise, my first disciple."

The shadows thickened, pulling him into their cold embrace, and for the first time, Zareth felt something stir deep inside him:

Power.