They say the gods do not weep.
That they sit upon their thrones of stardust and silence, unmoved by the suffering of mortals.
But that is a lie. I know this because I saw a god fall—cast out, broken, and bleeding. And in the void between worlds, he wept.

His name was Elion. Once the Arbiter of Realms, keeper of order, lord of light. His hands shaped continents, his breath birthed storms, and his gaze kept the balance between life and death. Until the day he did the unthinkable—he gave fire to a mortal not of his world. A soul out of place. A boy from Earth.

Me.

I was seventeen, dying in a hospital bed, lungs full of smoke and dreams half-buried under rubble. I never asked for salvation. I never begged for a second chance. But Elion gave it to me.

And for that… he was betrayed.

The other gods stripped him of power, shattered his divine name, and hurled him into the Abyss Beyond Realms—a prison with no time, no stars, no hope. Where forgotten gods rot and madness feeds on memory.

But I remember him.

Now, five years later, in a world where dragons fear the sky and kingdoms kneel before monsters wearing crowns, I carry his last ember of divinity.

They call me the False Heir.
The Pretender.
The Human Curse.

But I will raise an army from the ashes of broken realms. I will tear open the gates of the divine. And I will rewrite the fate they tried to carve in stone.

Because gods do weep.
And for Elion, the god who saved me…

I will make the heavens bleed.

We didn't speak for a while after the Bone Prince.


She wouldn't meet my eyes. Just cleaned her blades and stared at the horizon like she was afraid it would come closer if she blinked.


I didn't push her. I know what it's like to carry a god's secret inside you. It's not a gift—it's a burden wrapped in prophecy.


By the next morning, we were moving again. West, into the Valley of Thorned Echoes. A cursed place. Abandoned temples. Statues that bled when it rained. But it was the only way to reach the ruins of Olyr—where the shard had first been forged.


We set up camp by the bones of a crumbled shrine. Moss-covered and forgotten.


"You should ask," Caeryn said suddenly, poking the fire with a stick.


I hesitated. Then: "What was inside you when you stabbed him?"


Caeryn nodded. "Once. A goddess of endings. Exiled before the first realm even had names. The others feared her because she saw truth. Not just what was—but what would be."


"She found me." Caeryn's voice cracked. "When I was left for dead by the Dragoons. Buried beneath my own squad. Crushed ribs. Frozen lungs. She whispered to me. Not promises. Just clarity."


"I'm already dying," she said. "All this did was give me a purpose."


Then I pulled the shard from under my cloak and placed it between us.


Caeryn narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"


"Forging a pact. Between fire and truth. Between Elion and Veyra. Between us."


She stared at the shard like it might bite her.


Then—slowly—she drew her dagger, sliced her palm, and let the blood drip onto the stone.


A surge of power erupted between us. Fire and shadow. Light and void. The ground cracked. The stars above dimmed. And for a heartbeat, we heard their voices.


When the light faded, our hands still burned from the mark left behind.


A sigil. Two symbols entwined: a flame wrapped in a broken crown… and an eye, open and weeping black tears.


Chapter 6 - Chapter Five: The Pact of Forgotten Gods