The battlefield was silent.
A silence so heavy it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.
Ash drifted in the air like gray snow, settling over the corpses of gods and mortals alike. The rivers once crimson with Selanyth's pulse had turned black — thick, unmoving, dead. Winds that once carried Kaerion's storms now hung still, lifeless, tasting of dust and decay.
And among that stillness… Seth stood.
The God of Withering Time was breathing harder than he ever had before. His chest rose and fell like the tide of an ancient sea, his eyes — cold, hollow voids — fixed on the spot where Aelior had stood moments ago.
Gone.
The boy had vanished.
Seth's chains, rusted and corroded, still quivered faintly in the air where they had passed through him — through flesh, through being, through reality itself.
Nothing of him remained.
Seth's brow furrowed. "Impossible," he hissed under his breath. "My decay spares nothing… nothing."
His words faded into the dying wind.
Then a sound — soft, wet — drew his gaze downward.
Fernir.
The god of broken dreams lay sprawled upon the ashen ground, his body mangled beyond recognition. Bone antlers cracked and splintered, one snapped clean in half. His once-pale skin was shredded with deep gashes, dark ink still seeping like tar from the wounds. His robes hung in tatters, soaked crimson and black, and his trembling hand dragged weakly across the dirt.
He was crawling.
Alive — barely.
His breath rattled, shallow and broken, each exhale a struggle between life and death. He coughed, dark fluid spilling from his lips as he rasped, "H-He… Help me…"
Seth turned toward him slowly, a smirk cutting across his face like a blade.
"Well, well…" he drawled, his tone dripping venom. "Look at you, Fernir. The mighty dream-twister, brought to his knees. How pitiful."
He took a step closer, boots crunching over the shattered remnants of divine marble.
Fernir tried to speak again, voice trembling. "P-Please… I—"
Seth knelt before him, grin widening. "You know," he said almost gently, "your powers truly are remarkable. Manipulating dreams, bending reality… exquisite. But tell me—" He leaned closer, eyes glinting. "Why do such gifts belong to a weakling like you?"
Fernir's fingers twitched, desperate to find purchase, and in his delirium he reached for Seth's leg — just to steady himself.
Seth's expression twisted in disgust.
"How dare you touch me!" he snarled, driving his foot into Fernir's ribs.
The god gasped, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as he collapsed again, coughing blood into the dust.
Seth straightened, wiping invisible dirt from his hands. "You're almost gone anyway," he said coldly. "So why not let me help you finish it?"
He raised his corroded hand — the air rippled with decay, space bending around his fingers — when suddenly…
Light.
A faint glow pulsed across the battlefield.
It shimmered from where Selanyth and Kaerion's bodies lay entangled, motionless. Their divine remains — desecrated, still — now stirred with one final, desperate radiance.
Seth froze. His hand lowered slightly, eyes narrowing.
"What in the abyss—"
Before he could finish, a streak of golden light screamed through the air.
Swoooosh!
The blade hit him square in the face.
Seth roared in pain, staggering backward. Blood poured from his right eye, thick and dark, dripping down his cheek.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?" he bellowed, clutching his face as the world trembled with his fury.
Fernir — broken, fading, delirious — began to laugh.
A weak, rasping sound, yet somehow defiant. "Heh… heh-heh… l-look at you now…" His body trembled as his head lolled weakly toward Seth. "B-blind… and b-beaten… by a… child's curse…"
Seth's snarl twisted into something monstrous.
"Oh, you think that's funny?"
He dropped to one knee, grabbed Fernir by the throat — and pressed his hand to his skin.
Rot spread instantly, like ink through paper. Fernir's laughter turned to screams that echoed through the heavens themselves. His body convulsed as his very essence began to unravel.
Seth leaned close, whispering into his ear, voice low and cruel:
"You shouldn't have messed with me."
The rot consumed him whole. His flesh dissolved, his antlers cracked to dust, his name erased from the winds. Temples crumbled. Statues turned to sand. Every mortal who once whispered Fernir's name forgot it in the same heartbeat.
And then — nothing.
He was gone.
Seth rose slowly, his bleeding eye still burning with pain.
He looked around the field of ruin, muttering, "That kid… the sword… both disappeared. My decay passes through them like air."
His jaw clenched, fury simmering just beneath his breath. "I'll find out what happened. No anomaly escapes me."
He turned toward the fading glow of Kaerion's shattered storm and Selanyth's withered rivers.
And for the first time in eons, Seth felt something he had forgotten.
Doubt.
Back in the dungeon.
The creatures surrounded Aelior — shadows with claws and hollow eyes, their breath thick with hunger.
The boy stood motionless, eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable. His body trembled, but his will did not break.
The air thickened. The dark itself began to stir.
Something ancient awoke.
From the cracks of the abyss, golden smoke began to rise — faint at first, curling around him like a whisper of light. It pulsed once. Twice. And then began to take form.
Aelior's eyelids fluttered open.
Before him, the smoke solidified — gleaming metal breaking through mist.
A blade. A sword. The same one that struck Seth.
Its hilt shimmered with gold and red veins that pulsed like a heartbeat. Symbols — the same golden ones that once glowed beneath Aelior's skin — ran down its length, whispering in forgotten tongues. It sang, softly, the hum of worlds unseen.
Aelior stared, awestruck. "Wh-What is happening…? Where did this sword come from?" He took a slow step closer, eyes wide. "It's… beautiful."
The creatures hissed in the shadows, restless.
One lunged.
Aelior barely thought.
Instinct took over.
His hand shot out — grasping the sword — and in one blinding motion, he swung.
Shhhk!
The creature was cleaved clean in half, dissolving into black smoke before it hit the ground. Aelior froze, chest heaving, staring at the blade now glowing faintly in his grip.
"Damn…" he whispered, breathless. "That… actually happened."
Dozens more creatures stirred, slithering forward, circling him like wolves around fire.
Aelior's fear began to melt — slowly, replaced by something sharper, darker, alive.
He raised the sword again, its glow reflecting in his eyes.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"This," he murmured, "is going to be fun."