A heavy silence hung over the square. From Zeus's form, reduced to ash, nothing remained but gray traces carried by the wind and a fear lodged deep in the throats of the people. No one spoke. No one moved. For a crowd that had just learned gods could die, time itself seemed frozen.
Zeythara slowly exhaled. The storm that had coiled within her chest had dispersed, leaving behind a deep, cold composure. A faint light still trembled in her palms—not the light of destruction anymore, but of dominion. She was no longer hiding her power. There was no reason to.
The villagers still thought she was Elenor. Yet the figure standing before them was not the quiet woman they knew. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders like night itself, and her gaze sealed the square with the resolve of a queen. Some of the men stepped back instinctively; half-formed prayers died on their lips.
"A sorceress…" one whispered.
"No," another said, voice shaking. "This is… something else."
Kaelric took a step forward—then stopped. He was looking at Zeythara, truly looking. The woman who had walked beside him pretending to be powerless, who had played a role before his eyes, and the being who had just erased a god from existence were one and the same. What rose inside him was not only shock, but a realization laced with jealousy. His power was truly gone. Hers had never left.
"You…" Kaelric said, his voice dropping despite himself. "Was that a role too? Even for me?"
Zeythara turned her head. Her gaze was not harsh—but it was sharp, undeniable.
"Not everyone can carry the truth," she said calmly. "Not even you."
Kaelric fell silent. He could not argue. Because he knew she was right.
At the edge of the square, a child began to cry. A mother pulled the child into her arms. Slowly, the people began to stir, fear giving way to uncertainty. Zeus was gone. But no one knew what had taken his place.
Zeythara stepped forward. This time, the ground did not melt. The sky did not thunder. She had restrained her power. She stood among humans—not as one of them.
"This village," she said, her voice calm yet absolute, "no longer lives by the rules of the old world."
No one asked a question.
"Gods can fall," she continued. "Power is not carried by inheritance, but by will. And will…" a faint smile touched her lips, "…is most dangerous when it is underestimated."
The wind shifted. The ash scattered completely.
Zeythara turned away. She walked toward Kaelric and, as she passed him, spoke in a voice only he could hear:
"This isn't over."
Kaelric remained where he was—like a man staring not at the square, but into the dark beyond it.
And far beyond the sky, on distant worlds, other beings felt the change.
A name was echoing once more.
Zeythara.
And this time… it was inevitable.