Chapter 3:
The room was cold, the air heavy with the weight of years that had passed without a sound. Ashen stood before the portrait of Malthor, the tyrant king whose very name seemed to make the air thicken with menace. The figure in the painting—tall, imposing, with eyes that glowed with cruel intent—stared down at him, as if daring him to rise to the challenge. The faint glow from the nearby candles flickered, casting shadows that twisted unnaturally along the walls.
Lira's voice broke the silence. "Malthor didn't start as a king. He was a scholar, a humble servant of the gods—at least, that's what the stories say. He was ambitious, obsessed with the divine power he thought he could control. When the gods fell, he saw an opportunity."
Ashen turned from the portrait, his gaze fixing on her. "He bargained with the gods?"
Lira nodded, her face hardening. "He didn't just bargain. He stole from them. Some say he made a pact with a being older than the gods themselves—an ancient entity from the void. It's why he has so much power. Why he can bend men and monsters to his will."
Ashen's mind churned. The notion of a mortal—no, a man—claiming such power was both fascinating and terrifying. He remembered the days when the gods ruled with an iron grip, their powers vast and all-encompassing. To think that one man could steal even a fraction of that, let alone wield it with such authority, made his skin crawl.
Lira's eyes darkened, her fingers tracing a scar on her wrist—a reminder of something, or someone, long lost. "Malthor's power isn't just physical. It's in the air, in the minds of those who live under his rule. He doesn't need armies to control them. Fear is his weapon. And when fear doesn't work, he uses something darker. He can… manipulate people's thoughts."
Ashen felt a cold shiver run down his spine. "And how does he know about me?"
"He knows more than we realize," she said, her voice low. "There are whispers that your fall wasn't just an accident. He's always had a hand in it, somehow. I don't know how, but I suspect that your power… your divinity, whatever remains of it, is the key to his ultimate plan."
Ashen clenched his fists. The idea that his fall could have been orchestrated—manipulated by someone like Malthor—made his blood burn with a fury he had not yet known. It was an unsettling truth. The questions about his past, his fall, grew louder in his mind. The memory of a battle, an overwhelming sense of loss—his body, his spirit torn from the heavens. But it was all fragmented, like a broken mirror.
"I was betrayed," he muttered, more to himself than to Lira. "But by whom? And why?"
Lira watched him with quiet understanding. "The truth of your fall isn't something that can be answered in a day, Ashen. But you need to know something: the more Malthor searches for you, the more dangerous it becomes for everyone around you. He's not just a king; he's a force of destruction."
Ashen exhaled, feeling the weight of her words settle like a stone in his chest. He hadn't wanted to believe that someone—something—could be more dangerous than the gods themselves, but in Malthor, he saw that truth unfold before him.
Lira turned, her gaze sharp and purposeful. "If we're going to stand a chance against him, we need to find allies. There are people in Solis who still remember what it was like before Malthor's rule. They're scattered, hiding in the shadows, but they can help."
Ashen nodded. He wasn't sure what he expected from this journey—answers, redemption, power—but he knew one thing for certain now. Malthor had to be stopped. And if Ashen's own past, his own divinity, could be the key to bringing the tyrant down, then he would face whatever consequences that might bring.
They left the small room in silence, the heavy air following them as they entered the streets once more. The market was still busy, but the atmosphere was different now. People walked faster, glancing nervously over their shoulders as though they feared something was coming. The heat of the day had long passed, and the evening air was cool, carrying with it the scent of the coming night.
Lira led Ashen through the maze of narrow streets and alleyways, each corner feeling more oppressive than the last. She moved with purpose, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of caution, a hint of something more—like a predator aware of its surroundings.
"We're going to meet someone," Lira said abruptly, breaking the silence. "A friend. He's a former member of the clergy, but he doesn't exactly follow their rules anymore."
Ashen raised an eyebrow. "A former priest? I thought the clergy was loyal to Malthor."
"They are. But not all of them. This one's different. His name is Caelum. He was once a high-ranking priest in the Solis temple, before he saw the truth about Malthor's rise to power."
"What makes him trustworthy?"
Lira paused, her eyes narrowing as they rounded another corner. "He saved my life once. And I've seen him fight. He's not just a priest. He's a warrior."
Ashen couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity. He had always thought of priests and monks as men of peace, their hands never meant for bloodshed. But the world Lira spoke of—one where survival was the only law—seemed to blur the lines between right and wrong. Perhaps a warrior in a priest's robes was not so strange after all.
They arrived at a large, weathered door at the end of a quiet street. It was barely noticeable, the wood warped from years of exposure to the elements. Lira knocked twice, a rhythmic pattern, before stepping back.
A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a man cloaked in dark robes. His face was obscured by a hood, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—met theirs immediately.
"You're late," the man said, his voice low, but steady. "I thought you were being followed."
Lira stepped forward, her face hardening. "We need to talk, Caelum. The situation's worse than we thought. Malthor's close, and Ashen—"
Caelum's eyes flicked to Ashen, his gaze sweeping over him with an unreadable expression. "The fallen god," he murmured, a strange reverence in his tone. "I thought the stories were lies. But you're real."
Ashen met his gaze, feeling the weight of Caelum's words. The stories of the gods' fall had always been just that—stories. Legends told by those who had been left behind. But standing in front of Caelum, hearing the reverence in his voice, Ashen realized that he was more than just a forgotten god.
He was a symbol—a reminder of a time long past, and the hope that it might one day return.
"I'm no god anymore," Ashen said quietly, his voice betraying none of the anger or frustration he felt. "But I will be the one to stop Malthor. Whatever it takes."
Caelum's gaze held steady for a moment longer before he nodded slowly. "Then we'll need all the help we can get. The shadows are closing in. And the time for whispers is over."
The door swung open fully, and Caelum stepped aside, allowing them entry into the darkness beyond.