"I'm not a god," Nolen said, almost begging. "I'm just a—just a guy. A normal guy. I think there's been a mistake."
The figure cocked their head. "You walk upon this land with breath in your lungs, blood in your veins, and a body of flesh. That alone marks you as divine."
"What?"
"The mortal races of this realm have not seen a true human in over four thousand years. You are the last. The return."
A silence passed. Even the wind hushed.
Nolen swallowed hard. His mind raced, struggling to catch up with the madness unfolding before him. "What happened to the others? The other humans?"
The figure paused — just for a moment. A tremble in their stillness.
"They ascended. Some say they burned the sky to make their way home. Others say they were hunted. Or exiled. Or that they grew tired of our prayers and vanished into the bones of the earth. All we know is that they left... and we remained."
Nolen looked around at the kneeling crowd. They were all people, but not like him. Taller, thinner. Skin like stone or bark. Some had horns, or glowing eyes, or feathers stitched into their hair. None of them looked human.
And yet... they looked at him like a god returned.
"How did I get here?" he asked.
The figure hesitated, then motioned to the sky. "A flare of light tore the heavens. You fell through it. A star without flame."
Nolen remembered nothing. No death. No pain. Just a voice. A word: Awaken.
He closed his eyes.
This is insane. It's a dream. A hallucination.
But the breeze on his face was too sharp. The grass against his fingers too cold. His heartbeat too loud in his ears.
"I need time," he muttered.
"Of course," the figure said, bowing again. "There is much to remember. Come. Let us take you to the Shrine of the Hollow Flame. You will rest, and the echoes of your old world will fade."
Two others approached. One bore a long staff of twisted bone. The other held a small creature in their arms — foxlike, with crystal antlers and fur like snow. It bowed its head to Nolen in silence.
He stepped back instinctively, but they didn't move closer.
"None shall touch you, Divine One," the first said. "You are of sacred blood. To bruise your skin would poison the land for a hundred seasons."
"I get paper cuts," Nolen muttered.
They didn't laugh. Just stood, waiting.
He sighed. There was no waking up. No pause button.
If this is a dream, it's a long one.
If it's not… I might be stuck here.
And worse?
They actually believe I'm their god.
Far above them, hidden behind a cloud shaped like a ring, a single eye blinked open in the sky — colorless and vast, watching the Ash-born walk among its children once again.
The shrine wasn't a building. It was a temple grown from a dead god.
That's what they told him.
In reality, it looked like a massive, hollowed-out tree the size of a cathedral, with scorched black bark and glowing roots that throbbed faintly beneath the ground. Inside, incense smoke curled like fingers toward the high dome ceiling, and murals of faceless humans floated above the altar in solemn reverence.
Nolen sat cross-legged on a cushion too fancy for his dignity, trying not to sweat.
Across from him knelt six robed figures, each representing a branch of the "Flame Doctrine." They wore masks carved from animal bone and had titles like Ash-Keeper, Voice of the Ember, and — unironically — Divine Sweeper.
The Divine Sweeper's job was apparently to brush his footprints from the floor so no one else would walk where he had. They carried a golden broom.
"Please stop that," Nolen whispered. "It's really weird."
The Sweeper froze, bowed deeply, and whispered back, "Your command is law."
Nolen groaned inwardly.
A priest stepped forward. "O Ash-born, if it pleases you, we humbly request that you demonstrate a miracle, so that the young may rejoice and the sick may have hope."
"Miracle?" Nolen said, voice cracking. "Ah, I… you know, the divine cycle... leaves one weakened. I don't want to accidentally... unmake your shrine."
The priests gasped in awe.
"Such restraint. Such mercy."
The Divine Sweeper wept quietly behind their broom.
Oh god, Nolen thought. They bought that?
That night, as Nolen wandered the gardens alone, he kicked a stone in frustration.
The stone exploded.
Literally exploded. Not a crack or a crumble — it burst into powder and sent a shockwave that blew leaves off the trees and knocked over a statue of something with seven heads.
He screamed.
Moments later, the cultists rushed into the courtyard and fell to their knees.
"He communes with the Flame in silence!"
"He speaks in tremors!"
"He has judged the statue of Gorran-Who-Snores!"
Nolen froze mid-hyperventilation. "What?"
The Ash-Keeper rose solemnly. "The seventh god of laziness was false. You have struck him from the pantheon."
I just kicked a rock!
The thing is… Nolen really is a god. Or close enough.
But the problem?
His strength is so far beyond mortal standards that his senses can't register the effort it takes. He can't feel his own power — like a man born in a vacuum, unaware of air pressure. He keeps trying not to mess up and keeps doing exactly that.
He sneezes — a minor earthquake. He waves someone away — they're blasted into a wall (they call it "the divine push"). He's sleepwalking — the shrine glows. He mutters "I wish this would burn down" — and a distant mountain catches fire.
He thinks he's bluffing. The cult thinks he's testing them. Reality itself is just barely holding its breath.