The first thing they felt was heat.
The sun bore down on them, unrelenting, as they stood on the cracked earth. The winds that rushed from the rivers were thick with dust, and the air shimmered from the weight of the heat.
Icaris flexed his fingers, feeling the unfamiliar texture of dry soil against his skin. He was aware now—of his body, of the world pressing in around him, of the fact that he and the others were naked beneath the open sky.
It should have meant nothing. They had no shame, no concept of modesty. And yet, as he stood among his kin, something twisted inside him—a faint, nameless discomfort.
He looked toward the horizon. They were not alone.
A group of figures stood at a distance, half-hidden behind dunes and rocks. Humans.
They were small, covered in loose, woven cloth, their skin darkened by the sun. Their faces were a mixture of awe and fear. Some clutched tools—wooden staffs, baskets, jugs—others gripped stones, as if unsure whether to run or defend.
The Archons did not move.
The humans whispered among themselves in a language that should have been foreign, yet somehow, the Archons understood.
"They came from the sky."
"Are they gods?"
"They have no garments—no markings—what are they?"
A boy, barely more than a child, took a step forward. His wide, dark eyes locked onto Icaris. He had nothing in his hands, no weapon, only curiosity and something that felt like recognition.
Icaris did not breathe, but he felt the weight of the air between them. This was the first time he had ever been looked at, not by another Archon, not by something that had fallen with him, but by a being of this world.
It was Serapha who moved first.
She stepped forward, unbothered by her lack of covering, her golden gaze steady. The humans flinched, but none ran. Her voice, when she spoke, was smooth, unwavering.
"You will clothe us."
It was not a request.
The humans hesitated. Then, after a long pause, the eldest among them—a woman wrapped in sun-bleached linen—lowered her head.
"Come," she said. "The gods should not be bare."
The Archons walked in silence as the humans led them through the winding paths of the settlement. It was small, primitive—made of mud-brick homes and shaded stalls woven from reeds. Smoke curled lazily from a fire pit where clay pots simmered, carrying the scent of herbs and roasting meat. The people watched them from doorways, wide-eyed and whispering.
"They think we are divine."
Oris's voice was quiet, and thoughtful, as he walked beside Icaris. His silver eyes flicked toward the people bowing their heads in reverence. "Because we fell from the sky."
Zephir scoffed from the back of the group, arms stretched lazily behind his head. "Humans are fools. If a rock fell from the sky, they'd worship that too."
Nyx shot him a sidelong glance. "Are they wrong?"
Zephir grinned. "About me? No."
Serapha ignored them. She walked at the front, her expression unreadable as always. Her golden presence was the brightest among them, making it difficult for humans to look directly at her for too long.
The only sound from Inis, the Archon of Time, was the shifting of his feet against the earth. He was silent in the absence of time, as the others often said. Mute since the moment of their arrival, he spoke with his hands instead.
They are afraid, but they will obey.
His fingers moved fluidly, each gesture sharp and precise. Icaris understood him without effort. They all did. Language, for the Archons, was instinctual—spoken or not.
Voresis, the Archon of War, walked just behind him, her blind gaze fixed ahead. Blind in the face of war. She had not spoken since they arrived. She didn't need to.
Icaris watched her carefully. He knew she was aware of everything around her, despite the lack of sight. Her body was tense, as though expecting a fight to break out at any moment.
"They see what they wish to see," Mourne muttered, trailing his fingers along the wooden frame of a home. "They fear us, so they worship us." His voice was quiet, as if speaking too loudly would break something fragile in the air.
Venya, the Archon of Preservation, exhaled slowly. "It is better than the alternative."
Icaris said nothing.
A group of humans approached hesitantly, carrying folded cloth in their arms. Simple tunics and robes of woven linen. Nothing grand, nothing ceremonial. The people were dressing them not as gods, but as men.
Serapha accepted the garments first, her golden hands brushing against the cloth as if testing its weight. She nodded once in silent approval, then passed them to the others.
As Icaris pulled the rough fabric over his skin, he realized something unsettling.
The humans had given them form.
The humans had given them names.
The humans had given them purpose.
And that meant, in some way, they had already begun to change.
As the Archons pulled the rough linen over their skin, a strange weight settled over them. It was not the fabric—it was something deeper.
Names.
Forms.
Purpose.
These things had never mattered before. Yet now, wrapped in human cloth, standing before human eyes, they existed in a way they had not before.
Icaris adjusted the tunic over his shoulders, feeling the coarse fabric scratch against his skin. It was strange. He had never felt discomfort before, but now he was aware of touch, weight, and presence. The thought unsettled him.
Zephir tugged at the neckline of his robe, scowling. "Ugh. This is wretched. Do humans always wrap themselves in such filth?"
Nyx smirked. "They do not have our luxury of imperfection."
Zephir rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into the folds of his robe. He hated the reminder that, unlike mortals, the Archons were meant to be incomplete. Flawed, in ways even they did not fully understand.
Voresis, blind in the face of war, turned her head slightly. Though she saw nothing, she perceived everything. Her voice was low and sharp. "Do not mock them."
Zephir's grin faltered. She never spoke unless necessary. The fact that she had meant he had overstepped.
The humans led them deeper into the settlement, past walls carved with symbols—primitive scripts that told of gods and beasts, of harvests and offerings. Stories.
Icaris ran a hand over the etched stone. Humans had stories.
Atriel, the Archon of light, placed a palm against another engraving, tracing the lines with his fingertips. He closed his eyes, as if feeling the echoes of something ancient. Something worth keeping.
Inis, silent in the absence of time, lifted his hands. His fingers moved swiftly.
They wish for us to stay.
Serapha, still at the head of the group, nodded. "Then we shall."
The words settled like stone in Icaris's mind. He did not question them, though a part of him wondered why. Why did it feel so natural to accept this? To allow humans to shape them?
The humans did not ask them to speak. They did not ask for guidance.
They only offered shelter.
And the Archons, with all their power, allowed themselves to be taken in.
As the sun sank behind the horizon, and the first night on Earth draped them in shadow, Icaris felt the first stirrings of something he could not name.
Doubt.
The night was thick with heat.
The Archons sat within a large earthen hall, its walls reinforced with woven reeds and hardened clay. A fire burned at the center, casting flickering shadows across their faces. The humans had provided them with a meal—flatbread, figs, roasted lamb.
The Archons did not need to eat. Their forms did not weaken, did not hunger, and yet…
Icaris found himself reaching for a piece of bread. The coarse grains pressed against his fingertips, and when he brought it to his lips, a new sensation bloomed on his tongue.
Taste.
He frowned. It was… unnecessary. Yet it was not unpleasant.
Across from him, Zephir was already devouring chunks of meat, humming with satisfaction. "Now this—this I could get used to."
Nyx exhaled through her nose. "Greedy as always."
"You say that as if we have something to lose," Zephir replied, licking his fingers. "If we can't die, we may as well indulge."
Mourne sat beside him, quiet as ever. His hands rested against the wooden table, fingers lightly drumming. He had not touched his food.
Inis, the silent one, made no movement toward the meal either. Instead, he lifted his hands in slow, deliberate gestures.
They will not stop calling us gods.
Venya, leaned forward. "It is easier for them to believe we are divine than to question what we are."
Icaris set his bread down, his fingers twitching. "We are not gods."
Serapha, sitting at the head of the table, finally spoke. "We are what they make of us."
A hush settled over them. The words should have felt meaningless, yet they did not.
Voresis, blind in the face of war, shifted. Though her gaze saw nothing, she turned her head toward Serapha.
"And if they make us monsters?"
The words carried weight, heavier than the air between them.
Icaris watched Serapha carefully, waiting for her answer.
She met Voresis' sightless gaze, unflinching. "Then we shall bear that, too."
The fire crackled. Outside, the murmur of human voices carried through the walls—whispers of reverence, of awe.
They had arrived as nothing.
Now, they were something.
And what that something would become…
Icaris wasn't sure he wanted to know.
A gust of air disturbed the flames as Halos, the Archon of Space, approached the table, his steps eerily silent. He lowered himself onto the bench beside Icaris, his presence vast yet contained, as if he existed in multiple places at once but chose this singular moment to remain.
"You seem troubled, Icaris," Halos murmured, his voice smooth, stretching through the space between them like an unseen tether.
Icaris tensed at the name—not his true one, but the one humans had given him. It felt unnatural, but refusing it felt even stranger. He glanced at Halos, the Archon's deep violet eyes reflecting the firelight like fragments of the void itself.
"It is not trouble," Icaris replied after a moment. "Only… uncertainty."
Halos tilted his head slightly, as if observing Icaris from an angle beyond human comprehension. "Then you are further ahead than most."
Before Icaris could ask what he meant, a soft hum filled the air, like the faint chime of a bell just out of reach.
Eros, the Archon of Love, hovered above the table.
Not seated. Not standing. Simply floating—as if the concept of weight had no claim over him. His presence was warm, inviting, yet distant in a way that made it unclear whether he was truly present at all.
"We should cherish this." His voice was gentle, unhurried. His golden eyes traced each of them as if he were memorizing this moment. "This beginning. It is rare for things to start so beautifully."
Zephir scoffed. "Beautiful? We fell from the sky, landed in the dirt, and now we're playing house with mortals." He waved a hand toward the settlement outside. "Where's the beauty in that?"
Eros only smiled. "Oh, Zephir. You will learn that beauty is not found. It is made."
Zephir rolled his eyes, but before he could argue, a loud, wet tearing sound interrupted the conversation.
All heads turned toward Solvix, the Archon of Hunger, who sat at the far end of the table, utterly unconcerned with the discussion. His fingers, longer than they should have been, dug into the roasted lamb, tearing the flesh apart with ease. Grease dripped from his chin as he ripped into the meat with his teeth, eating with a slow, methodical intensity.
Nyx wrinkled her nose. "You could at least pretend to have manners."
Solvix paused, blinking at her with dark, fathomless eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, he licked his fingers clean, one by one.
"Why?" His voice was deep, hollow, as if spoken from the depths of an empty void. "Hunger has no need for decorum."
Icaris exhaled, rubbing his temple. This was what they were.
Serapha remained composed, watching them all, taking in each word, each movement, as if piecing together a puzzle none of them yet understood.
Outside, the humans still whispered. Still worshipped.
The Archons had come into the world as nothing.
Now, they were something.
What that something would become… was still unknown.
The fire crackled, and the murmuring of humans outside had dulled to a quiet hum. Yet, Icaris felt eyes upon them.
He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch the glint of small, wide eyes peering at them from the shadows of the doorway.
A child. Barely old enough to stand on his own, yet bold enough to watch them, fascinated by their presence.
Icaris's gaze softened. He lifted a hand and beckoned the child forward with a slow, deliberate motion. "Come here." His voice was calm, measured—an invitation, not a command.
The child hesitated, glancing back toward the village, but curiosity outweighed caution. He stepped forward tentatively, bare feet pattering against the dirt floor.
Before he could get too close, a shadow loomed beside Icaris.
Zephir.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, and grinned down at the boy. His sharp, golden eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"Aren't you bold?" His voice had an edge to it—half amusement, half something unreadable. He tilted his head. "Are you not afraid?"
The child flinched, clutching his small hands into fists, but stood his ground. His lips parted, and his tiny voice, though trembling, spoke with certainty.
"Are you going to protect us?"
The room fell silent.
Icaris straightened, his brows knitting together. "Protect you from what?"
The boy's eyes darted between them. "The demons."
The Archons exchanged glances.
Nyx folded her arms. "Demons." She scoffed. "Humans and their stories."
Eros, still floating above the table, placed a hand over his heart. "Not stories," he murmured. "Beliefs. And belief shapes all things."
The child took another step forward, braver now. "You came from the sky. That means you're here to stop them, right? The ones that take people away."
Icaris felt a sharp chill crawl up his spine. Not from the child's words—but from the truth beneath them.
Atriel, lowered his gaze, fingers curling against the table's edge. "They speak of the Remnants."
The air shifted.
Even Solvix, who had been more preoccupied with eating than talking, finally paused. His dark, endless eyes flicked toward the child, considering him for the first time.
Before anyone else could respond, Serapha moved.
With effortless grace, she rose from her seat and approached the boy. She crouched before him, lowering herself to his level. The firelight caught in her silver hair, making her seem almost ethereal.
She reached out, pressing a gentle hand against his head. "You do not need to fear."
The boy's lip trembled. "But the demons—"
Then it hit them.
The air itself quivered.
The ground beneath them lurched.
And then—
Screams.
From outside. From the village.
Not cries of joy. Not the whispers of worship.
Pure terror.
The child's head snapped toward the doorway, his small body shaking.
Icaris was already moving. His hand instinctively reached for a weapon that did not exist.
And beyond the firelight, in the darkness of the village—
Something stirred.
The air split open with a soundless scream.
From the darkness beyond the village walls, they came.
The Remnants.
Twisted, formless things, shadows that refused to obey the laws of the world. Their bodies flickered between states—some appearing humanoid, others stretching into grotesque, amorphous shapes. Their very presence distorted the air, warping the space around them as if existence itself rejected them.
The first to step into the firelight was tall and skeletal, its arms unnaturally long, ending in talons that scraped against the dirt. Its face was nothing but a gaping void, and from within came a churning, guttural howl.
Then—chaos.
The village erupted into screams as the Remnants rushed forward. Walls splintered. Fire pits toppled. People ran, tripping over one another, clawing to get away.
Icaris moved before he could think. His hand lifted, and his body acted on instinct.
A sudden pressure built in his chest.
He aimed at the nearest Remnant, and with a single motion—
BOOM!
A burst of pure energy erupted from his fingertips, the force kicking up dust as it slammed into the creature's chest. The Remnant twisted, its form buckling and distorting, but it did not fall.
It took another step forward.
Before it could lunge, a light split the sky.
High above, Halos descended.
His form glowed with cosmic radiance, and from his eyes, twin beams of searing violet light cut through the darkness. The beams struck two Remnants at once, tearing through their flickering bodies, leaving behind only wisps of empty void.
The moment they fell, Zerphir roared with exhilaration.
"Finally!" He had no weapon of his own, but that did not stop him. In the scramble, he had found a discarded mace—a crude thing of bronze and wood, but it would do.
With wild strength, he swung it into the skull of a Remnant. The force of the blow sent it staggering, its face caving in before it dissolved into mist.
And then—
Voresis.
Blind in the face of war. But never lost.
Her axe gleamed in the firelight as she moved through the battlefield with precision.
A Remnant lunged at a fleeing villager—only for Voresis to be there first.
She did not see her enemy. She felt them.
One swing. One clean, decisive motion.
The Remnant was cleaved in two.
Yet, for all their power, the battle was not just one of destruction—it was one of preservation.
In the chaos, Venya moved swiftly, her hands pressing against the nearest structures.
Her power flowed through them, reinforcing the walls, strengthening beams, ensuring that homes did not collapse on the people inside.
Nyx was nothing more than a blur of motion, appearing and disappearing in rapid bursts.
A Remnant reached for a mother clutching her child—but then Nyx was there.
She grabbed them both, whisking them away before the creature's claws could touch them.
Oris, standing atop a broken pillar, raised both hands. His voice carried through the chaos, low and steady.
"Do not run blindly." His presence alone was enough to soothe the panicked hearts of those who would otherwise trample each other in fear.
One battle. Two fronts.
Some fought. Some protected.
And above them all—Serapha watched.
The leader of the Archons stood still, her gaze locked onto the horizon. Not toward the Remnants they fought… but toward something else.
Because this was only the beginning.
Something else was coming.
The battle raged, firelight flickering against the forms of the Archons and the Remnants.
Icaris's energy blasts struck true, each one tearing through the twisted figures, but they would not fall easily. Some reformed just as fast as they were torn apart, their fragmented bodies stitching back together like time itself refused to let them die.
"They won't stay down!" Icaris called out, firing another round that rippled through a Remnant's chest.
"Then we break them faster than they can heal!" Zerphir bellowed, bringing his mace down onto another. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, cracking the ground beneath them.
Above, Halos hovered mid-air, his cosmic gaze locked onto the battlefield below. His violet beams flared once more, searing through the darkness, but something changed.
A Remnant turned its head toward him. Its face, an abyss of shifting void, reflected the cosmic glow back at him.
Halos's expression darkened. They're learning.
And then—the air shifted.
A cry, not from a Remnant—but from a human.
Halos turned sharply, eyes scanning below. One of the villagers had fallen, trapped beneath the rubble of a collapsing home.
Venya rushed forward, hands outstretched. The earth beneath her feet pulsed. The building's weakened frame solidified, stopping the collapse before it could crush the man completely. "I've got him!" she called out.
Nyx appeared a second later, her speed a blur of shadow and light. In a heartbeat, she had the man in her arms, whisking him away before another Remnant could strike.
And Oris—his voice, smooth and unwavering—called out to the fleeing villagers.
"Stay together! Do not scatter! Follow my voice!"
The chaos dulled. His presence alone was enough to anchor the panic, to keep the humans from dooming themselves in their fear.
But the battle was far from over.
A new presence loomed. Something deeper. Something older.
Serapha's eyes narrowed. She turned away from the battlefield, her gaze locked on the edge of the village.
The wind howled.
The air grew colder.
And then—
A Remnant unlike the others stepped forward.
This one was not formless, not a shifting, mindless shade.
It had shape. It had eyes.
And it was watching them.
A deep, guttural voice rumbled through the air.
"Found you."
Icaris tensed. The others paused.
This one… was different.
This one was hunting them.
The village fell silent.
The remaining Remnants froze in place, no longer mindlessly attacking. It was as if they, too, recognized the presence of something greater.
The figure stepped forward. Unlike the formless Remnants, this one had taken shape—an imitation of life, though twisted beyond recognition.
Its body was humanoid but stretched unnaturally tall, its limbs too long, its fingers tapering into curved, claw-like extensions. Where its face should have been, there was only a hollow, spiraling abyss, endlessly folding into itself.
It raised one hand, tilting its head as if examining them.
"Found you," it repeated, its voice an echo of countless tones layered over each other, as if many mouths had spoken at once.
Icaris's breath stilled. His fingers twitched at his side, energy already building.
This one is different.
Halos, still hovering in the air, narrowed his gaze. His cosmic beams could obliterate most Remnants in an instant—but he hesitated. Something about this one felt wrong.
Zerphir, ever the bold one, gripped his mace tighter. "Good. Saves me the trouble of looking for you."
Before anyone could move, Voresis stepped forward. Blind in the face of war—but never without purpose.
She listened.
Not to its voice, but to the way it stood. The way the air shifted around it.
And she realized something.
This Remnant… wasn't looking at them.
It was looking past them.
At the village.
At the humans.
And in that moment—
It moved.
Faster than a shadow, it lunged—not toward them, but toward the villagers.
The screams began anew.
Venya threw up a hand, reinforcing a wall—too slow.
Nyx raced forward, grabbing as many people as she could—too far.
Oris reached for his voice, trying to calm the panic—too late.
And then—
Icaris fired.
A pulse of golden energy erupted from his palm, slamming into the creature's torso.
The impact sent it staggering, its body flickering, distorting—
But not stopping.
It turned its head back toward him, its abyssal face unreadable. Then—
It spoke again.
"You're weak."
A spike of blackened energy formed in its palm, a crude weapon of pure entropy. It lifted its arm—aiming directly at Icaris.
And then it was gone.
Not destroyed—dragged away.
Serapha had moved.
Her hand, clad in divine light, had gripped the creature's throat before it could strike. With a single, fluid motion, she tore it from existence—casting it into the void beyond time.
The Remnant vanished.
The remaining lesser creatures, sensing their greater's fall, scattered into the shadows.
The village fell into a deep, uneasy silence.
Icaris let out a shaky breath. His hands were still trembling.
That… had not been an ordinary Remnant.
He turned to Serapha, his voice quiet but firm. "…What was that?"
Serapha exhaled, shaking her hand as if wiping away the remnants of its presence.
Then she answered.
"A warning."
The village remained silent, save for the crackling of torches and the labored breathing of those who had barely escaped death.
The Archons stood among the humans, their divine presence eclipsing the horror that had just transpired.
Icaris clenched his fists, still feeling the aftershock of his energy blast reverberate through his bones. Weak. That thing had called him weak.
He gritted his teeth. No Remnant had ever spoken before. No Remnant had ever… felt like that.
Serapha, standing at the center of it all, turned to face the others. Her golden eyes dimmed, yet unwavering.
"They are changing." Her voice carried over the hushed whispers of the villagers. "They are learning."
A tense pause. The words weighed heavily on all of them.
Halos descended from his place in the sky, dusting off his hands before glancing toward Icaris. "You felt it, didn't you?"
Icaris exhaled sharply. "Yes. That thing… it wasn't like the others. It wasn't just feeding. It was looking for something."
Zerphir tightened his grip on his mace. "Not something. Someone."
Voresis, still holding her battle stance, finally lowered her axe. "It saw the humans before it saw us." Her blind gaze lifted toward the village. "They are beginning to understand the difference between us and them."
Nyx, standing nearby, scowled. "If they're adapting, we have to do the same. We can't afford to let them get ahead of us."
Venya, still reinforcing the weakened structures, glanced over. "And what happens when they do?"
Silence.
Serapha finally turned away from them, gazing toward the distant horizon where the last traces of the Remnants had fled.
"Then the next war begins."
The words settled into the night.
The villagers, though they did not understand the language of the Archons, could feel the weight of their words.
Their supposed gods had come to save them.
And yet, the Archons themselves had no certainty of victory.
Icaris looked around at his kin, his mind drowning in questions.
The Remnants were evolving.
The Primordial they served had not yet come.
And if that creature's final words meant anything—
The Archons themselves were not ready for what was to come.
As the last of the fires dimmed, and the people gathered in fearful whispers—
The First Witnesses of the Archons' war had been marked.
And this battle was only the beginning.