The temple had long since crumbled, claimed by weeds and vines, half-swallowed by the mountain itself. Once a place of worship and now it stood in broken silence, its cracked columns strangled with creeping moss, its murals faded into obscurity by time and smoke. Birds no longer nested in its beams. Even beasts avoided it.
At its center stood a blackened throne of stone and gold, jagged like it had been carved from lightning itself. Hovering just beside it, as if suspended by thought alone, was a long golden spear. It glowed faintly, humming with a power that made the air near it feel too thin to breathe.
On that throne sat a man with eyes like fresh blood, burning and unblinking. His face rested on his hand, elbow against the armrest, watching the chamber with a look of quiet boredom… and careful attention. His other hand drummed rhythmically on his knee.
Behind the throne stood a broken altar. Jagged runes shimmered across it, flaring with light that pulsed once every few seconds, like a dying heartbeat. Faint whispers curled from the stone like smoke, unintelligible.
Beneath the throne, bowing so low that his forehead touched the cold stone floor, was a man in ragged but clean clothes. A mortal.
And somewhere high in the chamber, swinging lazily from a thick tree branch sprouting from the ancient ceiling beams, lounged a woman in heavy golden armor. Her face, half-lit by the broken sun shafts pouring through the cracks, looked beautiful but cold. Her legs dangled off the swing, one hand holding a small wooden bowl. She ate from it absentmindedly, as if food were merely an obligation, not pleasure.
The mortal man dared to speak.
His voice shook like parchment in a storm. "Y-Your Highness… My family… Y-you will save them, right? If I cook more food like this for you? Just as you… promised?"
The woman paused. Her brow creased, annoyed. She didn't even sit up.
"Huh?" she muttered with a mouth half full. "You think we lied to you? After giving our word?"
Her eyes, golden and sharp like daggers, fixed on him.
"Who do you think we are? Now shut up and bring me more of this food. It tastes way better than the trash we get in heaven."
The man gave a high-pitched, panicked squeak.
He bowed again and again, backing out quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Yes, of course, Your Grace! At once! T-thank you!"
The doors creaked shut behind him.
He stepped out into the temple's broken outer court, a crooked smile creeping onto his face.
They were going to save his family.
He looked down at the pack slung over his back, filled with smoked tail meat from a rare creature called the Red-Tailed Bat. He had prepared it with his own herbs, roasted over the fires of the sacred brazier they gave him. The angels had liked it. More than liked it.
"I'm going to save them," he whispered. "They'll be okay now…"
His mind wandered.
To his wife. To her body, ruined by the Night's Bite, how black bones had grown from her stomach one night, spiraling out of her like worms, one sharp limb curling back up and piercing straight through her eye. She died gasping, eyes wide with pain.
He remembered the screams of his children, how they had clutched at his arms, shaking him, begging him to fix it. To stop it.
But he couldn't.
Until now.
He looked up.
The view from the mountaintop was… beautiful. The sky was still frozen in that pale, pre-dawn dimness. But far below, he could see the broken sprawl of the kingdom. Forests tangled in shadow. Empty towns. Rivers that no longer sparkled.
He imagined something better.
He imagined meat sizzling in pans again. His children laughing. His wife, whole.
The wind brushed his face.
And then—roots.
Fast, alive.
Something snaked around his ankle.
He looked down in horror as vines exploded from the cracks in the earth around him, thick and pulsing. They coiled around his body like snakes in heat, wrapping tight around his arms, his chest, his neck. They squeezed. His body lifted from the ground, limbs pinned.
He gasped.
Only his face remained free as the vines thickened into bark.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't.
His skin wrinkled. His hair grayed.
He aged in seconds.
Muscle wasted away. Teeth fell. Eyes yellowed.
Within moments, he looked a hundred years old. Then more.
And then…
He was still.
A new tree had grown on the mountain, gnarled and twisted, a silent scream forever frozen in wood.
Miles away, in the countryside, stood a modest cottage.
Its roof was patched with straw and wood. The windows were small, fogged, but warm light flickered from inside. Not poor. Not noble. Just… alive.
In the courtyard, in a patch of cracked stone and weeds, something had grown.
A tree.
Thin, new, but tall. And on its branches hung glowing orange fruits, they were soft, almost translucent, like little suns wrapped in skin.
The door creaked open.
Two children stepped out.
A boy, maybe thirteen, led the way. His sister, younger by a few years, clung to his side. Their eyes went wide.
"Wow…" the girl whispered.
The boy stepped closer.
The fruit shimmered.
They smiled.
And for a moment, just a moment, something in the world felt kind again.