The God of Chaos leaned forward on his jagged throne, his glowing eyes narrowing as if they could pierce through Rovan's very soul.
"Let the land boil for two years," the god said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to ripple through the air. "After that, offer the blood of seven of the gifted. Their sacrifice will bring peace. A simple solution, don't you think?"
Rovan's heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to reject the idea outright, to yell at the god for even suggesting such a thing. But before he could speak, he caught a subtle movement from the corner of his eye. The centaur's hand had twitched, his fingers curling slightly—a silent warning.
With great effort, Rovan swallowed his anger and forced a neutral expression onto his face. "I… I need time to think," he said carefully. "I want to check on some things before making such a big decision."
The god chuckled, the sound like thunder rolling through an endless storm. "Of course. Take your time, mortal. It is, after all, a very simple solution."
Rovan nodded, backing away slowly. The centaur moved alongside him, his hooves striking the ever-shifting ground in a deliberate rhythm. As they left the god's chaotic realm, Rovan felt the weight of those glowing eyes on his back until the very last moment.
Once they were far enough away, Rovan exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "What was that? How could he—"
The centaur turned to him sharply, his dark eyes gleaming with a warning. The look he gave Rovan was clear: Not a word.
Rovan clenched his fists but obeyed, swallowing his protests. They walked in tense silence, the path beneath them shifting unpredictably, as if the chaos they'd left behind was trying to follow them.
As they moved further from the god's domain, the path grew quieter, the air lighter. Rovan's mind raced with questions, but his thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound—a soft, pitiful moan.
He turned his head and froze. Just ahead, lying on the side of the path, was a child. The boy's small frame was curled on the ground, his skin pale and slick with sweat.
Rovan rushed forward, kneeling beside the child. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked, his voice trembling. The boy's eyes fluttered open briefly, but he didn't respond.
Without hesitation, Rovan tried to lift him, sliding his arms beneath the child's limp body. But as he heaved, his breath hitched—the boy was impossibly heavy. It was as though he weighed more than a mountain.
Rovan grunted, his muscles straining. "What… what is this?"
The centaur stood silently behind him, watching with an unreadable expression.
Rovan shifted his grip and tried again, but the child wouldn't budge. He couldn't carry him, couldn't even drag him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to let go, either. It was as if some unseen force had locked the boy in place.
His mind raced. What is this child? Why can't I lift him?
Sweat dripped down Rovan's face as he struggled, his legs trembling under the weight. The boy's faint breaths were the only sound in the stillness, each one a fragile reminder of his existence.
Rovan looked to the centaur, desperation in his eyes. "Help me," he pleaded.
The centaur didn't move.
Rovan's arms trembled as he held the boy, his muscles screaming under the impossible weight. He was moments from collapse when the boy stirred, opening his eyes to reveal a piercing, otherworldly gaze.
"Why can't you let go?" the boy asked softly, his voice calm but haunting.
The question startled Rovan, his breath catching in his throat. "I… I want to help you," he said, his voice thick with effort.
The boy tilted his head, studying him. "You need to learn something, blacksmith. Not every situation can be helped. Not every person can be saved."
Rovan shook his head, his resolve hardening. "Maybe not. But if I can help—even a little—then I will."
The boy smiled faintly, a flicker of something ancient passing through his expression. "Very well. Set me down on that stone."
Rovan glanced at the smooth, flat rock a few paces away. Summoning the last of his strength, he staggered over and carefully placed the boy onto the stone. As soon as he did, the boy's body began to shimmer, his small frame stretching and transforming.
Rovan stumbled back, eyes wide, as the boy grew into a tall, regal man. His form radiated power, his presence overwhelming. The centaur immediately bowed low, his mane brushing the ground.
Heart pounding, Rovan dropped to his knees, following the centaur's lead.
The man—no, the god—looked down at him, his golden eyes filled with both kindness and sternness. "You are persistent, mortal. That is good, for what you seek requires more than strength or courage. It requires a willingness to sacrifice."
Rovan swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "What must I do?"
The god stepped down from the stone, the ground seeming to ripple beneath his feet. "The solution is simple," he said. "A blood covenant must be made between the gifted and the emperor's lineage. Never again shall the gifts be used for evil, and never again shall the leaders of this land call upon foreign gods for aid."
Rovan blinked, the enormity of the statement sinking in. "Will that… will that truly work?"
The god's lips curved into a small, amused smile. "You doubt me?"
"No, I…" Rovan hesitated, then looked up at the god, his voice steady despite his fear. "I just need to know if it's enough. If it will save the land."
The god studied him for a moment, then leaned closer. "It will. But there is one final part of the solution."
Rovan's heart sank. "What is it?"
The god's gaze grew heavier, more intense. "The being inside you. You must separate yourself from it. Give it to the chamber where the gifted were once kept. Let it remain there, forever warm, forever contained."
The blacksmith's blood ran cold. "What happens to me if I do that?"
The god's expression softened, but his words cut like a blade. "In doing so, you may alter yourself in ways I cannot describe. You may even wish for death."
Rovan stared at him, the weight of the decision crushing down on him.
The centaur stood silently beside him, his presence both comforting and unnerving.
Rovan clenched his fists, his mind racing. Could he make such a sacrifice? Could he risk everything—his life, his very being—for the good of the land?
The god's gaze didn't waver. "Choose, blacksmith. But choose wisely."
The god's golden eyes softened, but his voice carried a grave finality. "You must leave the realm of the gods, blacksmith. Delay any longer, and you may find yourself trapped here forever. The veil between worlds grows thin, and your body weakens with each passing moment in your world."
Rovan stood frozen, his thoughts a whirlwind. The weight of the god's words pressed heavily on him. "But what if I choose wrong?" he whispered.
The god inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "The path forward is yours to decide. Choose the solution you can live with, but understand that every choice carries its price. Choose wisely."
The air around them grew heavy, the divine presence almost suffocating. The centaur nickered softly, stepping closer to Rovan. "We must go," he said simply.
Without another word, Rovan turned and began the journey back. His legs felt heavier with each step, the world of the gods seeming to resist his departure. He made a silent vow not to revisit the other gods he had encountered. Their cryptic advice and endless demands had only left him more confused. He would not risk being delayed—or worse, persuaded into a path he could not bear.
The centaur walked beside him, silent but steady, his hooves clicking softly against the strange, shifting ground. The path ahead twisted and blurred, changing from rocky crags to swirling mist, then to a dense forest.
"How will I know if I've chosen right?" Rovan muttered, mostly to himself.
The centaur didn't answer, but his quiet presence was oddly comforting.
Hours, maybe days, passed. Time had no meaning in the gods' realm. Finally, they reached the border, where the mortal world and the divine world separated.
The veil shimmered before him like a living thing, threads of light and shadow intertwining in an endless dance.
Rovan reached out, his hand hovering just inches from the veil. He took a deep breath and stepped forward—
Nothing happened.
The veil didn't part.
He stepped back, confusion turning to panic. He tried again, this time pushing against it, but the shimmering barrier remained impenetrable.
"What's happening?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Why won't it open?"
The centaur's ears flicked back, his eyes narrowing. "Something is wrong."
The veil pulsed once, its colors darkening.
Rovan clenched his fists, his heart pounding. Was this punishment for leaving the gods without making a firm choice? Or had his time truly run out?
The barrier shimmered again, this time flashing bright red before turning opaque.
"What do I do?" Rovan shouted, desperation clawing at his chest.
The centaur only stared at the veil, his silence heavy with foreboding.