Karl Olsan did not sleep.
Sleep implied surrender—an unguarded moment where weakness could seep through the cracks. Since Alice Vortex had left the ruined capital, sleep had become impossible. Every time his eyes closed, something else opened.
He stood alone at the highest spire of the obsidian citadel he had raised from the bones of conquered kingdoms. Below him, the land stretched vast and scarred, marked by the passage of his will.
Cities burned dimly on the horizon like dying stars. Armies knelt even in his absence. His name was whispered with fear, prayer, and blasphemy in equal measure.
And yet—
He felt watched.
Not from below.
From within.
You hesitate, the voice murmured.
It no longer whispered as it once did. It did not need to. It had grown comfortable in him, coiled around his soul like a second spine. The Evil God—older than language, born of humanity's first betrayal—did not speak in words alone.
It spoke in sensation. In pressure. In memories sharpened into weapons.
Karl clenched his fists.
"Silence," he said aloud.
The darkness laughed.
She unsettled you.
The memory of Alice's eyes—steady, sorrowful, unafraid—rose unbidden.
Not accusing. Not worshipping. Simply seeing.
"She's nothing," Karl said. "A tool. A delusion crafted by the Church."
Then why did you not kill her?
The question struck like a hammer.
Karl turned, pacing the spire.
The stone beneath his boots cracked with each step, responding instinctively to his agitation. Shadows peeled from the walls, writhing, restless.
"I spared her because killing her would have changed nothing," he said. "The world would still rot."
Lie.
The Evil God surged.
Suddenly Karl was no longer standing in his citadel.
He was falling.
Wind roared in his ears. His body was wrong—fragile, human, weak. A cliff edge flashed past his vision, moonless and merciless.
Panic seized him, raw and animal.
You remember this, the god crooned.
Karl screamed as the impact came—
—and snapped back into his body, collapsing to one knee.
He gasped, armor clanging as if struck from within. Blood trickled from his nose, dark against pale stone.
"You said you would free me," Karl growled. "You said power would end the pain."
And it did, the god replied smoothly. You no longer beg. You no longer flee. You no longer dream of escape.
Karl's breath hitched.
Dreams.
He had not dreamed since Alice left.
She threatens our balance, the god continued. Light corrodes despair. If she remains, she will peel you apart—life by life.
Karl pressed his palm to his chest.
Inside, something fragile stirred. Something that did not kneel.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice low.
The god's presence expanded, vast and suffocating.
I want completion, it said. Total dominion. The eradication of choice. Humanity must be ruled or erased—there is no middle path.
"And me?" Karl asked. "What am I to you?"
A pause.
Then—
You are my vessel.
The words landed like a brand.
Not partner.
Not chosen.
Container.
Rage flared—bright, violent, terrifying. Darkness exploded outward, shattering the spire's pinnacle into a storm of debris. The citadel trembled, wards screaming as they strained to contain his power.
"I am not your prison," Karl roared. "I am not your corpse to wear!"
The god recoiled—not in fear, but in calculation.
Then why do you still draw upon me? it asked softly. Why does my power answer when you call?
Karl froze.
Because without it—
He remembered weakness.
He remembered ridicule.
He remembered being small.
His fury dimmed, replaced by something uglier.
Dependence.
The god wrapped itself tighter around his soul.
You cannot rule without me, it whispered. And without ruling, you are nothing.
Karl sank to the stone floor, breath ragged, hands trembling.
For the first time since his rebirth, he did not feel like a god.
He felt like a throne being occupied.
Far away, beneath white marble spires and sanctified silence, Alice Vortex knelt in chains.
They were not iron.
They were light.
Holy sigils burned around her wrists and ankles, radiant and merciless. Each pulse of magic sent pain lancing through her nerves—not enough to kill, not enough to maim. Enough to correct.
The Hall of Judgment towered above her, filled with robed figures seated in concentric tiers. Cardinals. Inquisitors. High Luminaries whose faces were hidden behind masks of gold and porcelain—symbols of purity untainted by humanity.
At the center stood High Pontiff Elowen, staff of dawnlight gripped tightly in her hands.
"You disobeyed," Elowen said, her voice echoing unnaturally. "You were commanded to destroy the Black King."
Alice lifted her head slowly.
"I was commanded to bring salvation," she replied. "Not execution."
A murmur rippled through the hall—controlled, disapproving.
"He is an abomination," another voice snapped. "A tyrant who butchers nations."
"Yes," Alice said. "And he is suffering."
The chains tightened.
Pain blossomed white-hot behind her eyes, but she did not cry out.
"Suffering does not absolve sin," Elowen said. "You allowed him to live. Worse—you spoke to him. You planted doubt."
Alice swallowed, forcing herself to breathe through the agony.
"Doubt is not corruption," she said hoarsely. "It is the beginning of choice."
A sharp crack split the air.
Elowen slammed her staff against the marble.
"Choice," she hissed, "is a luxury the world cannot afford."
Silence followed—heavy, sanctified, absolute.
Alice's heart sank.
This was not about Karl.
It never had been.
"You fear him," Alice said quietly. "Not because he is evil—but because he does not kneel to you."
Gasps erupted. Several Luminaries rose halfway from their seats before Elowen raised a hand.
"Careful, child," the Pontiff warned. "Your light does not place you above judgment."
Alice's voice trembled now—not with fear, but grief.
"I saw him," she said. "Not the god. Not the tyrant. I saw a man being consumed by something older and crueler than either of us. And you would rather kill him than admit the Church failed him."
Elowen stepped closer.
Her mask reflected Alice's face—bruised, chained, unbowed.
"We do not save monsters," Elowen said coldly. "We erase them so the faithful may sleep."
The words struck deeper than any spell.
Alice bowed her head, tears slipping free.
"Then you are no better than him," she whispered.
That was the moment her sentence was decided.
"Strip her of her authority," Elowen commanded. "Seal her light. Let her remember what she is without divine favor."
The hall blazed.
Sigils flared, overwhelming, invasive. Alice screamed as something fundamental was torn from her—not her faith, not her compassion, but her connection
. The light that had answered her since childhood recoiled, severed by force.
She collapsed forward, gasping, body shaking violently.
"You will remain alive," Elowen said. "As an example. Redemption is not yours to grant.
Guards seized Alice, dragging her toward the lower chambers.
As darkness closed in, a single thought burned brighter than any holy flame she had ever wielded:
Karl was right.
Gods demanded obedience.
And those who refused were broken.
That night, as Alice lay alone in a cold cell carved deep beneath the cathedral, something stirred across the world.
Karl awoke screaming.
Not from a dream—but from absence.
The Evil God's presence surged violently, enraged, as if struck from afar.
She is being punished, it snarled. Your saintess bleeds because of you.
Karl sat upright, breath ragged, heart pounding.
Images flooded his mind—chains of light, a woman kneeling, her radiance torn away by hands that claimed holiness.
Something inside him snapped.
Not into rage.
Into clarity.
"They're the same," he whispered. "You. Them. Gods who demand surrender."
The darkness hissed, uncertain now.
You need me.
Karl rose slowly, shadows gathering, armor reforming around his frame.
"Maybe," he said. "But you need me awake."
For the first time since his rebirth, Karl did not reach for the god's power blindly.
He pushed back.
And far beneath a sanctified city, Alice Vortex felt something warm brush against her severed light.
Not divine.
Human.
And for the first time since her judgment, she smiled.