Rowen trudged along the dirt path leading to the forest, his feet kicking at loose stones as he walked. The crisp evening air brushed against his face, but it brought no comfort. Every step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the crushing emotions swirling within him. Shame. Anger. A profound sense of inadequacy. They all tangled together in a storm that churned endlessly in his mind.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The ceremony replayed in his head on an endless loop: the crystal flaring brilliantly for Elara, Markus, and the others, and then dimming into lifeless silence when it was his turn. He felt the weight of the villagers' pitying stares, the disappointment he imagined in the priestess's eyes, and worst of all, the empty reassurances from his family.
"They don't understand," he muttered to himself, his voice bitter. His foot struck a rock with unnecessary force, sending it skittering into the underbrush. "None of them do. How could they? They all have powers. They all belong."
Rowen's pace quickened, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Why me?" he shouted into the quiet woods, his voice breaking. "Why am I the only one left behind? What did I do wrong?"
His voice echoed back at him, hollow and empty. He stopped walking, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His gray eyes burned with unshed tears as he tilted his head back to glare at the darkening sky.
"Is this a joke to you?" he demanded, his voice raw. "Do you enjoy watching me struggle? Watching me fail over and over again? Why did you even make me if you were just going to make me worthless?"
The wind whispered through the trees, but there was no answer. Of course, there wouldn't be. The gods didn't care. They never had.
Rowen's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stem the tears that threatened to fall. "I don't even know why I bother," he whispered. "No matter how hard I hope or how much I try, it's never enough. I'll never be enough."
The words hung in the air, stark and unrelenting. They felt like a truth he couldn't escape, a weight that had been crushing him for years. He hated it. He hated the gods for ignoring him, hated the villagers for their pity, hated himself for being too weak to change anything.
The sounds of the ceremony faded behind him, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the cool breeze that swept through the trees. Here, there were no expectations, no ceremonies, no reminders of his lack of power. Here, he could simply be alone.
His foot caught on something hidden beneath the fallen leaves. He stumbled, catching himself on the nearby tree. With a grunt, he bent down, brushing away the leaves to see what had tripped him.
A small, dark green shard glowed faintly from the ground, but the mental and emotional exhaustion from another day of overwhelming disappointing embarrassment, caused him to overlook what had been the cause of his stumbling.
Rowen found a familiar spot. A large, gnarled tree that had always provided him comfort in times of solitude. The ground beneath was soft with fallen leaves, and he stretched out beneath the tree, letting his exhaustion wash over him.
His body ached, not just from the day's events, but from the burden of his unspoken frustration. He closed his eyes, the quiet of the forest lulling him into a much needed sleep.
But as Rowen drifted off, a faint, unnatural sensation stirred in the air. The shard that had tripped him earlier pulsed with an eerie light, hidden among the leaves not far from where Rowen slept.
A sudden, sharp vibration filled the air, though it went unnoticed by Rowen, still deep in slumber. Slowly, as if responding to some ancient call, the shard began to shift. It trembled on the ground, its glow flickering brighter and brighter until it was almost blinding. Then, with a sudden, sharp pulse, the shard launched into the air, flying straight toward Rowen.
As if magnetized by an unseen force, it hovered above his sleeping form, trembling with energy. Rowen's body shifted slightly in his sleep, but he didn't wake. The shard floated closer to him, the air around him charged with an unnatural energy.
With a soft, almost inaudible sound, the shard sank into his chest, merging with his body in an instant.
......
Prior to Rowen stumbling into the shard
Far beyond Rowen's despondent path, in a realm of shifting darkness and fractured light, a lone shard of power twisted and writhed like a wounded animal. It was all that remained of Zoreth, the god of greed, the once-feared deity whose name had inspired both awe and terror.
Zoreth's essence burned with indignation as he scoured the mortal plane, his search meticulous yet frenzied. He was a fragmented shadow of his former self, reduced to a flicker of energy after his humiliating defeat at the hands of Lucian. The memory of that battle was a wound that refused to heal.
"How?" Zoreth snarled, his voice a rasping echo in the void. "How did I fall to him? I was the pinnacle of power, of desire incarnate! He should have been nothing more than an upstart to me!"
The shard trembled with fury, its glow pulsing erratically. Lucian's face haunted him, the cold smirk of a predator who knew he had already won. Zoreth had thrown everything at him—millennia of hoarded strength, every ounce of cunning he possessed—and still, it hadn't been enough.
"It wasn't skill," Zoreth hissed, his bitterness cutting through the haze of his fragmented thoughts. "It was luck. That's all it was."
But deep down, he knew the truth. Lucian hadn't just been lucky. He'd been prepared. Ruthless. He'd exploited every weakness Zoreth had failed to see in himself, and the god of greed had paid the price.
Now, Zoreth was adrift, his once-magnificent form scattered to the winds. The shard that remained held only a fraction of his power, but it was enough—enough to start over, enough to exact vengeance. He needed a host, a mortal vessel to bind his essence to, someone who could carry the weight of his ambition and help him reclaim what he had lost.
Zoreth's search was methodical, despite his impatience. Not just any mortal would do. He needed someone unique, someone who could survive the bond and wield his power without succumbing to madness. Someone desperate enough to accept the god's influence and cunning enough to use it.
The shard pulsed as it sifted through potential candidates. Strength? No, that alone wasn't enough. Ambition? Promising, but it needed to be tempered with cunning. A hunger for power? Essential—but it couldn't be reckless.
What Zoreth sought above all was desire. Not just the desire for power or wealth, but the deep, gnawing kind—the kind that came from a place of pain, of inadequacy, of never feeling like enough. That was the raw material he could work with, the ember he could fan into an inferno.
It was in the quiet solitude of the forest that Zoreth's shard found him. The boy's emotions were like a beacon, raw and unfiltered, radiating anger, despair, and longing. Zoreth lingered in the edges of the boy's mind, watching and listening.
"So weak," the shard mused, its tone laced with disdain. "And yet… not weak at all."
Rowen's fury at the gods intrigued him, as did the deep well of self-doubt buried beneath it. The boy was fragile, yes, but there was potential in that fragility. It was a fertile ground for Zoreth's influence, a place where his power could take root and grow.
"He hates himself," Zoreth observed, his tone shifting to one of sly satisfaction. "He hates the world for rejecting him, the gods for ignoring him. That's the spark I need."
The shard coiled closer, its glow intensifying. "Yes, boy. You'll do nicely. Your pain, your hunger… I can work with that. You'll be my vessel, my second chance. Together, we'll reshape the world—and when I'm done, not even Lucian will stand in my way."
The shard hesitated, its fractured consciousness still bristling with the indignity of its defeat. "But first," Zoreth murmured, "I'll need to test you. Let's see if you can survive what's to come."
With that, the shard surged forward, drawn to the boy who sat beneath the ancient tree, oblivious to the storm about to descend upon him.