A great stillness had settled over the battlefield.
The air, once thick with the clash of divine wills, now carried only silence. Wisps of energy drifted like dying embers, the remnants of a god whose presence had been erased. The heavens bore the weight of the moment, an unnatural hush stretching across the realm, as if the universe itself hesitated to acknowledge what had just transpired.
The God of Time stood apart from the others, watching. His expression was unreadable, but the way his fingers twitched against the flowing fabric of his robe hinted at the storm beneath his calm facade.
He had seen many things. Moments frozen, rewound, unraveled. He had seen history bend and break, seen the rise and fall of empires before their rulers had even drawn their first breath. He existed within time but was not bound by it. And yet, even he did not foresee this.
The betrayal was complete. The God of Armor was gone. But the answer they sought had not been revealed.
The Lightning God stood nearby, his golden eyes distant as he observed the empty space where their fallen brother had once stood. He had not moved since the final blow had landed, his face a mask of indifference. Thunder rumbled around him in restless waves, but he made no effort to control it.
The Water God knelt by a stream that had formed from the battle's destruction, his fingers trailing idly through the water. He had not spoken since the moment the betrayal had taken place. That was his nature. Always watching, rarely speaking—except when the moment called for it.
The God of Time exhaled, slow and measured. His gaze flickered between them before settling on the Lightning God.
"It wasn't him."
The words drifted like falling ash, heavy in their simplicity. A statement, not a question.
The Lightning God did not react at first. Then, without shifting his gaze, he said, "No."
A silence stretched between them, vast and unspoken.
The God of Time closed his eyes briefly. The weight of eternity pressed against him. He had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that the God of Armor had been the key, that his destruction would unlock the power they sought. A force beyond even divine comprehension. A force that could reshape reality without consequence.
But they had been wrong.
"The river bends," the Water God murmured suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand, watching as droplets slid from his fingertips, vanishing before they could reach the ground. "But the sea remains."
The Lightning God's expression did not change.
The God of Time turned toward him, studying him carefully. "You knew."
The Lightning God did not answer. But his silence was enough.
The three Gods sighed, each contemplating their actions and future ones. The dust had yet to settle and energy could still be felt shifting on the rocks and in the air.
The God of time summoned his dagger and looked at the engraving on it...Balul..
He gritted his teeth " curse that old thing"
The water God muttered needlessly looking around as if in search for something
" Still with the hate I see" the lightning God said.
The God of time clicked his tongue.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through the Time God's gaze. He had lived long enough to understand the subtleties of deception. He had been part of this plan—had known what needed to be done—but now he wondered if he had ever truly been included in the deeper truth.
A slow sigh escaped him. He was tired.
"We move forward," the Lightning God said at last. His voice was quiet, but final.
The God of Time let his eyes drift to the empty space once more. The weight of what had been done would not fade easily.
"What now?" he asked.
The Lightning God turned his gaze toward the mortal world. Below them, spread across the lands, were nations filled with rulers who believed they held power. Kings and emperors, queens and warlords—each thinking themselves at the center of their world.
The Lightning God's lips barely moved.
"The mortals."
The Water God tilted his head, watching the shifting currents at his feet. A small smile ghosted his lips, but he did not speak.
Far below, across the mortal realm, a different kind of silence filled grand halls and royal chambers.
In the kingdom of Vyreth, a king knelt before a towering marble statue, his forehead pressed to the cold stone floor. Candles flickered around him, their flames casting ghostly shadows against the engraved features of the god he worshipped. His lips moved in whispered prayer, though his voice trembled.
Beyond Vyreth of the plain lands, in the desert kingdom of Arzareth, a queen stood alone in the temple of her ancestors. Before her, a statue carved from obsidian loomed high, its expression both wrathful and merciful. She pressed a hand against its surface, her fingers curling into a desperate plea.
In the northern isles, warlords knelt not out of reverence, but out of fear. They did not pray with words, but with offerings—blood spilled upon sacred ground, their warriors standing watch as the gods they had long forsaken were called upon once more.
The rulers of men bowed.
Not out of devotion. Not out of love.
But out of need.
Above them, the gods listened.
But they did not listen for prayers.
They listened for something far greater.
And when they found it, the world would tremble