The evening was quiet, the sky smeared with bruised purples and dark blues. Lanterns glowed faintly in the village, casting small, trembling circles of light that did little to warm the chill in Leon's chest. He leaned against the edge of the training field, the earth hard beneath him, hands digging shallow grooves into the dirt as if he could carve out his anxiety.
The memory of Vaelith's amusement haunted him. The effortless way the god had bent reality, placed him on his knees, unraveled his attack like it was child's play—he felt it in every fiber of his body. Weak. Insignificant. Borrowed. The words echoed louder than any clamor of battle. Leon tried to tell himself he had survived. He had endured. But endurance was thin armor against the knowledge of how small he truly was.
He rose, legs trembling, and walked toward the village library. The small structure smelled of dust, old paper, and wax—an aroma that had once comforted him. Now it felt oppressive. Every shelf, every scroll, seemed to mock his ambition.
He pulled out the tomes he had hidden from the others. Ancient histories of gods, forbidden rituals, and records of forgotten worlds. His fingers shook as he opened them, scanning lines of text dense with symbols that twisted his mind the longer he read. Each paragraph offered a fragment of truth, a sliver of hope—but they all came with the same cruel punch: he was nowhere near the scale of these beings.
Hours bled into one another. Candles guttered and relit themselves in the corners of his vision. Leon's mind raced, leaping between facts, hypotheticals, and desperate conjectures. He tried to piece together the nature of godly power, to understand weaknesses, to predict patterns—but every step forward revealed two more steps of distance between him and those who had made him a plaything.
He experimented cautiously. Drawing symbols in the dirt, testing the limits of Death's influence, calling on Lou's mark, trying to feel if its borrowed strength could stretch farther than before. It responded. The pulse of the mark vibrated like an anxious heartbeat. But every time he extended too far, the energy snapped back, leaving him rattled, drained, hollow.
Exhaustion crawled along his spine. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, mixing with the blood from a nose he didn't remember breaking. Yet he could not stop. Stopping meant admitting weakness. Stopping meant giving up.
Night deepened. The village settled into sleep, oblivious to the storm raging in Leon's mind. A distant dog barked, a child murmured in dreams, the soft crackle of a lantern disturbed only by the occasional wind—but to Leon, every sound was amplified, every shadow a potential threat.
He saw Vaelith in every flicker, every corner of the library. Half-formed, ghostly, always amused, always watching. His heart raced, yet his body remained frozen as he whispered, "There has to be a way… there has to be…"
Hours stretched. He lost track of time. He read, he practiced, he wrote notes in margins, he drew patterns in the air, tracing sigils with trembling fingers. His mind spiraled, thoughts ricocheting like stones in a canyon. The question wasn't if the gods would come for him again—it was when, and if he could ever be ready.
Sleep became impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, Vaelith's laughter, sharp and casual, split the quiet. The feeling of kneeling, the weight of inevitability pressing down, returned with every blink. Leon's chest ached, his throat burned with silent screams he could not vocalize. The Mark of Death pulsed against his back, responding to his despair with a cold, insistent awareness that he was, indeed, prey.
He stepped outside again, drawn to the night air. The stars were indifferent, the moon a pale witness. He moved among the long grass, testing the darkness, trying to strike at the shadows with borrowed power. The strikes tore through air and silence, leaving only emptiness behind. Nothing responded. Nothing bent. Nothing suffered.
Every failure weighed on him. Each misfire reminded him how small, how fragile, how utterly mortal he was. And yet he continued, driven by fear, pride, and a gnawing need to protect those who depended on him. He thought of Alina, of Mina, of the villagers. He thought of the laughter, of the warmth of their hearths, of the life they had fought for. And that thought alone was not enough. Never enough.
He stumbled to his knees in the field beyond the village, dirt clinging to sweat and blood, his breathing shallow and ragged. The wind whispered over the tall grass, soft and indifferent. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision. He closed his eyes, trying to pull the night into himself, trying to find stillness—but his mind would not quiet.
The knowledge he had gleaned offered no comfort. Every strategy had loopholes, every loophole was likely observed by eyes that could bend reality. Gods were not machines with predictable patterns. They were artists, shaping chaos, amused by mortal attempts at logic. And he had nothing but borrowed power, borrowed life, and an increasingly fraying mind.
The Mark pulsed again, cold against his spine, its warning a mirror of his own growing instability. Leon's hands shook uncontrollably. He clenched them until blood broke the skin, grounding himself in tangible pain because thought alone was not enough.
For a long moment, he simply sat. Breathing shallow, listening to the village settle. The quiet hum of lanterns. The distant murmur of night insects. The stars above. The life continuing, ignorant of how precarious it all truly was.
He whispered again, softer this time, as if speaking might anchor him. "There has to be a way…"
But even as he spoke it, he knew. He was small. Weak. And for all his stolen power, for all the Marks he bore, he was still prey.
The night held him in its indifferent embrace. Shadows lengthened, grass swayed in a rhythm older than thought, and the world carried on as it always had. Leon remained in the field, back pressed against the earth, head bowed, mind racing with infinite questions, infinite possibilities, and one terrible certainty:
He was alone in the darkness, standing against beings who would never hesitate, who would always win, and who might find his struggle only amusing.
And the evening lingered around him, silent, unresolved, as though the world itself had paused to watch and wait.
The weight of the impossible task pressed down like stone. Each name, each mark he had absorbed, each fight he had survived—all of it suddenly felt small in the vastness of what waited. He was nothing.
His eyelids drooped despite his insistence to stay awake. His thoughts drifted, involuntarily, to Krieg—the god who had given him power, who had trusted him with a fragment of divine force. Krieg's teachings, his guidance, the subtle encouragement to rely on his instincts, all returned in flashes. Leon's throat tightened, a lump forming as memories of the god who had believed in him collided with the creeping fear of being powerless.
"I… I'm sorry," he whispered, voice barely audible. "I've failed. I've barely survived. I'm… so far from what you trusted me to be."
He imagined Krieg's stern but understanding eyes, the faint smirk that had always reminded Leon that even in war, there could be levity, and the weight of disappointment that now seemed inevitable. "I wanted to protect everyone… I tried, I really tried," Leon muttered, voice trembling. His hands gripped each other until his knuckles whitened.
Shadows stretching from the surrounding trees like reaching fingers. Leon leaned forward, resting his head on folded arms. Exhaustion and fear tangled in his mind, clouding reason. He remembered every battle, every death he had witnessed, every mark he had taken. Each one a lesson, each one a reminder of his own fragility.
His eyelids finally succumbed, heavy as lead. In the quiet of the night, he dreamed—not of victory, but of Krieg, standing silently, waiting. A warm presence, a calm that contrasted the chaos in Leon's mind. He murmured apologies over and over, each one heavier than the last.
"I'm sorry… I couldn't be enough yet… I… I will try. I promise I will try."
The moon shone in the night sky, leaving him in the dim, wavering light. Ways away, the village slept, unaware of the torment of their protector. Even as Leon's breathing steadied, the weight of the coming battles pressed on him, unrelenting. The gods were out there, vast, unknowable, and infinitely stronger, and he was just one human with borrowed power, still learning how to stand.
And yet, in the soft darkness, he clung to Krieg's memory, letting it anchor him against the growing tide of despair, even as uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his resolve.
The evening stretched on, unresolved, heavy with anticipation, as Leon drifted deeper into sleep, caught between apology, fear, and the faint spark of determination that refused to die.
The first light of dawn stretched across the training ground, brushing the tops of trees in pale gold. Leon stirred where he had slept, the cold earth pressing against his back, but he did not wake to comfort. His eyes snapped open to a vision that had nothing to do with morning light.
The world around him was gone. In its place stretched a battlefield that defied scale—hills scorched, rivers boiling, skies churned with fire and storm. The air thrummed with power, each heartbeat of the world echoing in Leon's chest.
And at the center, impossibly tall and radiant, stood Skabelse, god of creation, his presence bending the heavens to his will. Clouds twisted like molten glass above his head, lightning arcing through them in impossible patterns, each strike reshaping the terrain below. He was laughing—or perhaps the sound was a scream, Leon could not tell—and the armies that surrounded him followed with unquestioning obedience, the very earth trembling beneath their advance.
Before him, immovable and calm, stood Vaelith. The god's expression was serene, almost casual, a single hand extended as if gesturing at the chaos. Where Skabelse radiated raw, terrifying power, Vaelith radiated control—a force so absolute that even amidst the storm, the ground seemed to respect him.
Leon's stomach turned. The premonition pressed on him from every side: the screams of mortals, the fire that devoured villages, the crack of divine energy ripping mountains apart. He saw lines of soldiers cut down before they even reached the battlefield, rivers boiling into steam where armies had marched, and villages collapsing under impossible weight.
Skabelse's eyes swept the battlefield, finally resting on Vaelith. "You amuse me," he said, voice a rolling thunder across the field. "A single anomaly standing against the inevitability of my will. Come, then. Show me why the mortals do not cower as they should."
Vaelith did not flinch. "I am not here to cower," the god replied, calm and low. "I am here to remind you that not all of creation bends without consequence."
The clash was instantaneous. A wave of pure divine energy leapt from Skabelse, shaking the ground, bending the light, and boiling the air itself. Vaelith met it with a single gesture, the assault folding around him harmlessly, the terrain erupting violently in sparks but leaving him untouched. Skabelse laughed again, eyes glinting with amusement and frustration, and launched forward, striking the battlefield itself as if to test his opponent.
Leon's knees buckled. He wanted to cry out, to run—but he could not look away. He saw Vaelith pivot effortlessly, moving like shadow and light combined, standing firm even as the storm of godly power tore the world around him. The god's calm, unwavering presence only made the devastation more frightening.
He saw soldiers of both mortal and divine lineage fall like wheat before a scythe. He saw flames leap from the earth to consume towns, mountains fracture, rivers boil, all under Skabelse's unstoppable will. And yet, through it all, Vaelith remained. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
Leon's hands shook. The premonition pressed on him like iron bands around his chest. I am not enough. I can't stop this. They will die. I will fail.
He saw himself in the center of the battlefield, powerless. His Marks flared faintly, a fragile spark against the storm, and every strike he imagined—every clever trick, every stolen skill—was swallowed instantly by the sheer presence of gods. His body went cold with dread.
Vaelith raised his hand again, and for a heartbeat, Leon thought the god looked directly at him. Not accusing, not mocking—just aware. A single, quiet acknowledgment of the small, trembling human standing on the edge of fate.
The vision shifted, sweeping Leon across the battlefield. Skabelse moved like a tidal wave, reshaping the very world with every motion, leaving nothing untouched. And still, Vaelith stood before him, unbroken, a small point of defiance against the storm.
The premonition faded slowly, leaving Leon back on the dew-soaked grass of the training ground, chest heaving, body trembling, and the echoes of divine war ringing in his mind. He pressed his hands against his face, trying to steady himself, but the image lingered—Vaelith standing calm, Skabelse's storm surrounding him, and the certainty that if the war came, Leon would be hopelessly outmatched.
The village beyond the training ground was quiet, ignorant of the violence that might soon come. But for Leon, the battle was already here, played out in his mind with every detail of destruction, every scream of the innocent, every strike of godly power.
He could not shake it. He could not fight it. And yet, he knew the first step must be to learn. To prepare. To survive what no mortal—or even a god-touched human—should be able to endure.
Leon stayed on the training ground for a long moment, staring at the grass and the faint glow of dawn, his chest heaving as the images of war and divine power clawed at his mind. His hands still trembled, the Marks along his spine feeling heavier than ever, as if carrying not just Death but the weight of the coming gods' war.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he rose to his feet. The chill of morning kissed his skin, but he hardly noticed. His mind was still trapped in the premonition: Skabelse towering over the battlefield, Vaelith the calm island in the storm, the screams, the fire, the devastation. How could I possibly stand against them?
The village lay just ahead, still quiet, lanterns flickering in the early light. Leon's steps were unsteady as he walked, each footfall grounding him only slightly. The premonition's echoes followed him, whispering doubt and fear into every corner of his mind.
When he reached the village square, he froze. Someone was already there—a figure seated on the edge of the fountain, wrapped in a cloak that shimmered faintly in the dim morning light. Despite the early hour, the air around the figure hummed with presence, subtle but undeniable.
Leon instinctively stopped a few paces away, sensing this was no ordinary visitor.
"Leon," the figure said, voice soft but carrying a resonance that cut through the haze of fear surrounding him. "I have been waiting."
Leon's brow furrowed. "Who… who are you?"
The figure shifted slightly, revealing just enough to see a face partially hidden beneath a hood. Eyes like liquid silver met his, calm yet piercing. "I am called Elyra," the figure said. "An oracle. I do not intervene in mortal affairs lightly, but I know the storms that approach. I have come to help you."
Leon blinked. "Help me? Against… the gods?" His voice caught in his throat, uncertainty bubbling over. The premonition was still vivid in his mind, and every instinct screamed that he was hopeless.
Elyra rose slowly, stepping closer, and Leon could feel a subtle warmth radiating from her. "Not to fight them," she said, "but to understand. To prepare. To see the paths that others cannot. Even you, Leon, must know what you face if you are to survive—and if you are to protect those who depend on you."
Leon wanted to scoff, to turn away, to tell her it was useless—but exhaustion and desperation held him still. He sank onto the edge of the fountain, the cool stone pressing against his legs, and buried his face in his hands. "I… I saw it," he whispered. "The war, the destruction… Skabelse… Vaelith… I—I'm not enough. I can't stop them. I'm nothing."
Elyra knelt beside him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. "You are not nothing, Leon," she said gently. "But you are mortal. That is the truth you must accept if you hope to endure. The gods are immense, yes—but even the smallest mortal spark can shape the future in ways the divine cannot foresee."
Leon lifted his head, eyes bloodshot, staring at her skeptically. "A spark… how? I can't even fight one of them. Vaelith… he made me feel every strike before it landed. How am I supposed to stand against Skabelse?"
Elyra smiled faintly, almost sadly. "You will not stand alone. You never have. But more importantly, strength comes in more than raw power. Strategy, knowledge, timing, understanding the web of the world—you can wield all of these. You can prepare for the impossible. That is why I am here."
Leon's hands clenched the edge of the fountain. His mind raced—so many questions, so many fears—but beneath it all, a fragile thread of hope began to form. "Then… you can teach me? Guide me?"
"I can," Elyra said, voice firm. "But you must first be honest with yourself. Admit your fear. Admit your limits. Only then can we begin to turn them into something useful."
Leon exhaled shakily, feeling the weight of his exhaustion finally pressing down on him. "I… I'm terrified," he admitted, voice low. "I feel powerless. I can't… I can't protect anyone if I'm this weak."
Elyra nodded, as if she had expected this. "Good. Fear is a guide, not a chain. You must learn to use it, not run from it. Only by facing your weakness can you find your path to strength."
The morning air hung between them, quiet but heavy with potential. Leon could feel the Marks along his arm thrum faintly, responding to the presence of the oracle. It was as if even Death itself acknowledged the truth in her words: survival would require more than brute force.
"I'll… try," Leon said, voice shaking. "I'll do whatever it takes."
"Good," Elyra replied, rising to her full height. "Then begin by listening, observing, remembering. Tomorrow, we start the first lesson. Tonight… rest, Leon. Even the most vigilant mind cannot endure without pause."
Leon nodded numbly. The premonition still lingered, but her words had drawn a thin line of clarity through the fog of fear. He stayed at the fountain, watching the village begin to stir around him. The lanterns swayed gently in the morning breeze, and he could hear distant laughter from children unaware of the chaos that might soon descend from the heavens.
For a moment, Leon allowed himself to just breathe, the terror of the premonition not gone but softened into something more manageable. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool stone, and whispered into the empty morning:
"I will… find a way, Krieg. I will not fail you… or them."
The wind rustled the leaves above, and Elyra watched him quietly, knowing that the battle for his mind had begun—but that hope, however fragile, was still alive.