Two years.
It had been two years since the gods executed my father, branding him a traitor, and tore my mother's essence from her before casting her into the mortal realm. Two years since I was exiled to the slums—the place where gods no longer mattered, and power was currency.
Two years of surviving on scraps, bruises, and the laughter of those who found joy in beating me down.
It was strange, how quickly the rumours had spread. One whisper—He's Thunderus's son. The son of the traitor!—and the slums turned their back on me. The mid-gods and low-gods who were once a part of my dads domain wanted nothing to do with me, as if my father's sins were contagious. And those who didn't turn away? They turned me into their punching bag. A vent for all their frustrations in life.
I looked down at my trembling hands, bruised and bloodied from another "lesson." My lip was split, my ribs ached, and my breath rattled, but I refused to stop standing.
Because I couldn't stop.
Because I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me kneel. I was stronger. I had to be stronger. After all I am the son of 'Thunderus The Great God of War'
"Oi, Cairith, you're still alive?" A sharp voice struck through my ringing ears.
I didn't bother looking up. I knew the voice. Darion.
He was the eldest son of an affluent merchant family—a family that had once basked in wealth and status, until Darion's endless bad behaviour made them an embarrassment to the divine elite. Like me, he'd been cast to the slums, but unlike me, he thrived here.
Where I was powerless, he was cruel. Where I was rejected, he ruled with a gang of four other gods who followed him like dogs. Pathetic mutts who were nothing without their leader.
"I'm starting to think you like this, Cairith," Darion sneered as he circled me. "Always so defiant. Always getting back up. Do you think it makes you stronger?"
I clenched my fists. My silence only seemed to amuse him further.
"That's what I like about you." He smirked, signalling for his lackeys to surround me.
"You're too stupid to know when you've already lost."
I swung first.
My fist collided with his jaw—enough force to make him stumble back a step. For a moment, his smirk faltered, replaced by something similar to surprise.
Then came the laughter.
"Still putting up a fight, huh?" Darion grinned, rubbing his jaw. "Alright then, let's play."
The next punch wasn't mine. It hit my stomach like a hammer, stealing the air from my lungs. Before I could recover, another blow struck my side, and I felt the sharp crack of a rib. The others joined in, each kick and punch bruising what little dignity I had left.
But I kept getting up.
Every time they knocked me down, I dragged myself to my feet, spitting blood and glaring at them with everything I had. I didn't care if my arms shook or if my legs threatened to collapse beneath me. I'd learned early that they hated it when I didn't stay down and I wasn't going to let them get the pleasure till every single muscle in my body had been ripped to shreds.
Darion grabbed my collar, pulling me close until his breath brushed my cheek.
"Now that I think about it you never answered my question," he whispered. "Why do you keep fighting back?"
I met his gaze, unflinching. "Why do you keep bullying me? Do you think hitting the weak proves your strength?"
"Do you think it's fun?"
For the first time in my two years here, I heard him laugh—not the mocking kind that I'd heard so often, but something deeper, more genuine.
"Yes," he said. "It's very amusing."
His answer stunned me. For a moment, the pain in my body dulled, replaced by a single thought:
Hurting others… is fun?
Before I could say anything more, Darion shoved me to the ground, his smirk returning.
"Alright, enough games. Let's make this interesting. I'm hungry. Go steal some food for me, Cairith," he ordered. "There's a merchant on the main road selling roasted birds. Bring me one, or you'll wish you died today."
The others laughed as I staggered to my feet. My whole body screamed in protest, blue bruises starting to swell, but I didn't have a choice. They'd never leave me alone if I refused.
The merchant's stall was crowded, gods bartering and shoving past each other in the chaotic marketplace. The smell of roasted meat filled the air, a cruel reminder of how long it had been since I'd eaten anything decent, the aroma reminded me of the stuff our cooks would prepare as my stomach grumbled.
I crept closer, my hands shaking as I eyed the roasted birds on display. The merchant, a burly mid-god with sharp eyes, kept watch like a hawk, swatting at any hand that got too close without paying.
You can do this, I told myself. Get in, grab it, and run.
But when I reached out, my hand froze. The merchant's gaze snapped to me immediately.
"Stop their you fucking brat!" he shouted, lunging for me.
I didn't wait to see if he caught me. I ran, shoving past the crowd as the merchant cursed behind me. My lungs burned as I sprinted toward the forest on the edge of the slums, my legs barely carrying me forward.
The bullies were already waiting, laughing as I stumbled into the trees empty-handed.
"No food, Cairith?" Darion's voice was cold. "Pathetic piece of shit. Can't even steal properly."
"How did you even survive for two years?" One of the four spoke out.
"Don't tell me you fed on the insects and garage on the ground." Someone else continued.
"Ugh. Is he a dog or what?" The fourth one gagged,
I lowered my eyes in shame. Not because I had failed to steal, but because they were right. My pride wouldn't allow me to steal and no one in the slums was stupid enough to give me free food. So I had to hunt.
"Well since this mutt failed his task. Guess it's time for punishment?" Cairith glared, his eyes full of rage.
"Catch him boys."
They chased after me, as I ran through the forest slipping behind the canopy as soon as they lost sight of me. Each twig that snapped near me made my heart beat out my chest. The sound of birds chirping was enough to make me twitch.
"Where did the brat go?" One of them questioned.
"Split up" Cairith ordered, as all of them ran past me.
I panted taking a breath of relief, wondering how I was gonna live. The slums were a no go and the forest was too dangerous.
I was lost deep in my thoughts when a shadow loomed over me.
"Found you little puppy." Cairith smiled, his grin wide. Flare rising in his eyes. Bloodlust beaming from every part of his body.
"So tell me how do you wanna die?" He questioned. His tone a mix of sarcasm and seriousness.
Before I could run he lunged at me, pinning me next to a tree. The rough bark digging into my skin as his heavy hands pressed m throat.
"Fuck you! Just kill me already." I spat.
"Kill you? Nah that would be too easy. I wanna see just how far I can go before you beg me to spare you." His grin dropped.
He was serious.
He clenched his fists covering it in essence. The last time I was hit with it I wasn't able to move for several days. This time, it seemed like one or two wasn't going to be the end of it.
He drew is fist back ready to pummel me to death. I tried to swingle my way out of his grasp but to no avail.
Is this the end? What was the point of my life?
"Any last words bastard?"
The world stilled.
For a moment, the pain in my ribs, the weight of the tree trunk behind me, even the sound of Darion's mocking voice—all of it disappeared.
And then I saw him.
The Fool.
He emerged from the shadows, his mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement, his too-wide smile stretching across his face like a wound. He lounged against a tree as if this was all some grand performance.
"Having fun, Cairith?" His voice was singsong, mockingly playful. "I'd say he's winning this little game, wouldn't you?"
"Go away," I shot, my voice trembling.
"Go away? After I've come all this way to help you? That's not very polite, little godling." He tutted, stepping closer until his presence drowned out everything else.
Darion didn't notice him. No one ever did. The Fool was mine alone—a freak that haunted me when the world grew too dark.
"You can't win this, Cairith," The Fool continued, crouching down to meet my gaze. "Not like this. But if you take my hand…" He extended it, his long, skeletal fingers gleaming in the faint light. "…I'll show you how to make him scream."
I stared at his hand, hesitation warring with desperation in my chest. The memory of my father's words echoed in my mind: Protect him. Don't make my sacrifice worthless.
But what good were my father's ideals when the gods had trampled on them? When Darion and the others laughed as they tore me apart?
What good were they if no one was alive to abide by them. What was their purpose if I wasn't alive.
Is a man really defined by his ideals?
My dad was a perfect man with strong ideals and strength to keep them, yet he ended like that. I am neither perfect nor strong. Then why do I need to have ideals? If all they lead to is pain and suffering. Am I not better off without them?
Every bit of my fiver was screaming out to not give in to the temptation, but my instinct for survival overwhelmed it.
I hesitated, my hands trembling. My breath jagged but slowly reached out.
The Fool's grin widened as our hands touched, and a jolt of cold shot through me, like ice tearing through my veins. The pain was sharp but fleeting, replaced by something else. Power.
And then… laughter. My laughter.