Light forced his eyes open.
Veltharion blinked. Once. Twice. His consciousness crawled back slowly, like morning dew sliding down a leaf—unhurried, reluctant, with no sense of urgency whatsoever. His body felt heavy, as if gravity in this place had doubled since the last time he was awake.
'How long was it?'
The question surfaced faintly in his mind, but he didn't care enough to seek the answer. His sleep had been wonderful. Perhaps the best in several thousand years. And now something had disturbed it.
That alone was reason enough to be irritated.
"Veltharion."
A voice. Sharp. Familiar. Annoying.
He recognized it immediately—Aethris, the God of Change and Evolution. Among all the beings in this realm, Aethris was perhaps the one Veltharion least wanted to hear upon waking. Or upon any occasion, really.
"You need to wake up. Now."
'No, I don't.'
Veltharion closed his eyes again. The darkness behind his eyelids felt comfortable. Safe. Far better than whatever problem Aethris wanted to dump on him.
A pulse of energy struck his chest.
Not painful—Aethris wouldn't dare truly harm him—but enough to jolt his divine form into full awareness. Veltharion's eyes snapped open, this time with a flicker of genuine annoyance burning in their depths.
"That," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"was unnecessary."
Aethris stood before him, radiant in golden armor that shifted and evolved constantly—edges sharpening, patterns flowing, never staying the same for more than a heartbeat. His face held the same restless energy, eyes blazing with an intensity that made Veltharion tired just looking at it.
"Fifty thousand years," Aethris said.
"You've been asleep for fifty thousand years."
Veltharion processed this information with the enthusiasm of someone being told about weather patterns in a distant realm.
"Is that all? Felt shorter."
"This isn't a joke." Aethris stepped closer, his form radiating barely contained frustration.
"The Parliament has convened. They're discussing your fate as we speak."
'My fate ?'
The words should have alarmed him. They didn't. Veltharion had existed since the dawn of creation, had witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations, had seen gods far more ambitious than himself crumble to nothing.
The concept of "fate" being decided by a committee of lesser deities struck him as almost amusing.
Almost.
He rose from his resting place—a void sanctuary he had crafted eons ago, a pocket dimension where time meant nothing and comfort meant everything.
His divine form materialized fully: tall, silver-haired, with eyes the color of stagnant mist. Unlike Aethris's ever-changing appearance, Veltharion looked... still. Permanent. As if he had been carved from the fabric of eternity itself and simply refused to change.
"What exactly has the Parliament so concerned?"
Aethris's expression shifted into something between satisfaction and contempt. "Your followers, Veltharion. Or rather, the lack of them."
Ah.
That.
Veltharion had known this would become a problem eventually. He simply hadn't expected "eventually" to arrive while he was napping.
"How many remain?"
"Three."
The number hung in the air between them. Three followers. Out of the millions who had once worshipped him, built temples in his name, prayed for his blessing of eternal peace. Three.
Veltharion searched within himself for concern. For panic. For any emotion appropriate to the situation.
He found mild inconvenience.
"The Law of Existence is clear," Aethris continued, clearly enjoying this.
"A god with fewer than five followers cannot maintain full divine authority. Below that threshold, you will begin to fade. Your powers will weaken. Your seat among the Celestial Five will be revoked."
"And you would take it, I assume?"
Aethris didn't deny it.
"Someone must maintain balance. Someone who actually does something."
There it was—the eternal conflict between them. Stagnation versus Change. Veltharion had never understood why the universe needed constant evolution, constant movement, constant effort.
Things were fine as they were. Or they had been, fifty thousand years ago.
"The Parliament awaits," Aethris said.
"Luminara has agreed to serve as judge. Even Noctis emerged from his shadows to attend. This concerns everyone, Veltharion. Your negligence affects the entire pantheon."
Negligence. Such a strong word for someone who simply preferred not to interfere.
But Aethris was right about one thing—ignoring a summons from the full Parliament would only make things worse. And as little as Veltharion cared about politics, he cared even less about giving Aethris an easy victory.
"Fine."
He moved through the void between realms, Aethris following close behind. The journey took no time at all—space meant nothing to beings of their caliber.
One moment they stood in his sanctuary; the next, they materialized in the Grand Chamber of the Divine Parliament.
The chamber was vast, constructed from solidified starlight and the memories of dying suns. Fifty thrones arranged in concentric circles surrounded a central platform where Luminara stood, her form blazing with the white fire of absolute justice.
Behind her, higher than all other seats, loomed the empty throne that represented The Absolute—the entity that governed even gods.
Veltharion scanned the assembly. Pyrros, God of Fire and War, glared at him with open hostility.
Solarius, God of Light and Prosperity, wore a look of polished disappointment. Dozens of Major Gods filled the middle rings, their expressions ranging from curiosity to contempt.
And there, in the shadows at the edge of the chamber, Noctis watched with eyes that revealed nothing.
"Veltharion of Stagnation and Eternity,"
Luminara's voice rang out, cutting through whispered conversations.
"You stand before this Parliament accused of neglecting your divine duties. For fifty thousand years, you have abandoned your followers. You have refused to answer prayers. You have contributed nothing to the mortal realm while consuming resources meant for active deities."
Resources. As if faith were a budget line to be managed.
"How do you respond?"
Every eye in the chamber fixed upon him. Veltharion felt the weight of their judgment, their expectations, their barely concealed eagerness to see him fall.
He should have prepared a defense. He should have gathered evidence, marshaled arguments, demonstrated proper respect for the proceedings.
Instead, he yawned.
"I was tired."
Murmurs erupted across the chamber. Pyrros's flames flared bright with outrage. Even Luminara's composed expression flickered with surprise.
"You were... tired," she repeated.
"Extraordinarily so. I'd been awake for nearly two hundred thousand years before that nap. Surely I'm entitled to some rest."
Aethris stepped forward, seizing the moment.
"This is exactly the attitude that has brought us here. Veltharion treats his responsibilities as optional. His domain—Stagnation—has become his personal philosophy. He contributes nothing. He inspires no one. He exists merely to exist."
Several gods nodded in agreement.
"I propose," Aethris continued.
"that Veltharion be given one mortal year to prove his worth. If he cannot gather at least one thousand followers in that time—genuine believers who have accepted his blessing through proper contract—he will be stripped of his position among the Celestial Five and relegated to Minor God status. If he fails completely..." Aethris paused for effect.
"He will face Erasure."
Erasure. Complete removal from existence. Not death—gods couldn't truly die—but something worse. The total annihilation of everything he was, had been, or could ever become.
Luminara considered this.
"The terms are harsh but not unjust. Veltharion, do you accept?"
He should argue. He should negotiate. He should do something to fight for better conditions.
But that sounded exhausting.
"One year," Veltharion said. "Fine."
"Then it is decided." Luminara raised her hand, and divine light sealed the agreement into cosmic law.
"You have one mortal year, beginning now. May The Absolute guide your path."
As the Parliament dispersed, Aethris approached him one final time.
"You'll fail," he said quietly.
"You know that, don't you? The mortal world has changed beyond recognition. They don't worship gods anymore—they worship Hunters, celebrities, power they can see and touch. You have nothing to offer them."
Veltharion looked at him with those ancient, tired eyes.
"Perhaps," he admitted.
"But at least failing will be quieter than staying here."
He turned away from the chamber, from the politics, from the weight of divine expectation.
The mortal world awaited.
And somewhere down there, three believers still remembered his name.