The bronze doors of the Last Pantheon part without sound. No scrape of metal on stone, no groan of ancient hinges, they simply open, as if the barrier between mortal and divine dissolves rather than moves.

  I step through.

  The mortal priest does not follow.

  Within, the Pantheon unfolds beyond physical space. What appears modest from outside expands into impossible within. Columns rise beyond sight, their spiraling forms lit from no particular source.

  The ceiling arches into darkness, yet somehow stars glimmer there, not reflections, but actual celestial bodies suspended in the dark

  Twelve thrones line the chamber.

  Eleven stand empty, their stone surfaces cracked or worn completely smooth by time. Some lean at precarious angles; others have collapsed entirely, leaving only rubble where divine seats once stood.

  Dust pools around their bases, disturbed only by my passing.

  One throne remains occupied.

  Veradin sits not as a statue but as presence.

  Divine fire clings to his form, a thing of sacred flame that lights without burning. His beard flows like molten silver to the floor, as if forged from precious metal rather than hair.

  Upon his head rests a crown hammered iron, simple, unadorned, practical.

  Death's Champion," he acknowledges, "You return victorious from the deep dark."

  I incline my skull slightly, the fragments shifting within to accommodate the gesture.

  "Arkashoth ends," my grave-voice rasps. "Its kingdom falls."

  Divine light flares within those ancient eyes. Not surprise, gods seldom experience such mortal responses, but recognition of significant change.

  The balance shifts beneath the mountain.

  "Yes." Veradin rises from his throne.

  "You have accomplished what our mightiest warriors could not. The deep corruption retreats for the first time in centuries."

  His divine presence expands, filling the chamber with pressure that would crush mortal flesh.

  I feel it press against bones, testing joints and connections, searching for weakness. Not an attack, merely divine scrutiny.

  "Yet this was but beginning," he continues, stepping down from the throne. "Brannug awaits in the old city. What burns there tests even immortal resolve."

  I stand unmoved before divine presence.

  My bones have faced gods before. Some corrupted, some transformed, some diminished. All dangerous. All bound by rules even they cannot break.

  "Domhrann's Forge," I state.

  Veradin's eyes narrow, "Yes. The heart of our ancient kingdom, now the prison of our greatest sacrifice."

  His massive hand rises, palm upward as if weighing invisible burden. "Brannug o'Clannfaust, our last king, and Domhrann, God of Creation's Fire, merged into single entity when corruption breached our ancient home."

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Fire ripples across his beard.

  "They, neither mortal nor god, but something between. It burns eternal, containing what lurks beneath, preventing its escape into the wider world."

  I shift stance, fragments settling into more stable configuration.

  "Now you would see an end to it?" My death voice rattles.

  Veradin's divine light pulses once, neither confirmation nor denial. "I would grant mercy to what remains."

  His voice softens, a god's version of compassion. "Brannug was my champion in life. Domhrann, my brother in divinity. Their sacrifice saved what remains of our people."

  He steps closer, his shadow falling across my form. "They burn, Forgotten Thing. Not as mortal flesh burns, quickly consumed by flame, but as divinity burns, eternal. Time means nothing to such suffering."

  I stand motionless before the divine presence, shadows casting strange patterns across my bone frame. The fragments within me shift, wolf, dragon, soldier, commander, Veradin's unspoken request.

  "You cannot go," I rasp. "One of the last gods. You alone support this pantheon."

  Veradin's flame dims slightly, acknowledgment rather than denial.

  His massive hand lowers.

  "Perception serves you well, Death's Champion." His gaze lifts to the eleven empty thrones surrounding us. "These halls once filled by divine counsel. Now only echoes remain."

  He moves toward the center of the chamber where a circular mosaic depicts the world above, Haven a mere speck within its borders.

  "A time of miracles is over," he continues. "The age when gods walked freely among the realms has passed. I who survived the twilight of the gods, corruption, the cost of miracles."

  Divine light ripples across his beard as he turns back to me.

  "I remain anchored here, maintaining what little divine barrier still protects Maha Marr. Should I leave this divine tether to attempt mercy myself," His voice trails off. The last barrier would fall. The final divine sanctuary would crumble.

  My bone fingers tighten around Aeternus's hilt, the blade responds to my resolve.

  "I am no god's champion, serve purpose." I state simply. The fragments within me agree on this single truth.

  Veradin's eyes, ancient and knowing, study me.

  "No," he agrees. "You are something else entirely. But to approach Domhrann's Forge requires more than borrowed bone and ancient steel. Even Aeternus, the sword you bear, mighty as it is, would not preserve your form against such flame."

  Veradin extends one massive hand, divine light in palm.

  "What stands within the Forge is no mere fire, no simple corruption. It is divinity in torment, creation's flame. It will burn and unmake you."

  He pauses, gaze focused on bone and purpose to study what lies beneath.

  "Unless you are forged anew."

  Inside hollow frame, the fragments stir. Commander Ikert's remains, the core from which I first rose. Carida's bones, nestled within protective ribs. Dragon fragments along my spine. Balverine claws that cut corrupted flesh. Soldier fragments who remember battlefield tactics.

  Each piece speaks in its own way, not with words, but with impressions and instincts. The dragon bones harbor ancient pride, resistant to change. Balverine fragments urge caution. Commander Ikert's remains stand firm on duty's foundation.

  Carida's bones pulse with something different. Not fear, not resistance, but recognition. Her remains recognize divine purpose when presented.

  I lift my skull, blue flame flickering within empty sockets.

  "Forged anew," I repeat, the grave-voice scraping. "What transformation?"

  The mosaic floor beneath us shifts, patterns rearranging into images of flame and forge. The depicted fire does not consume but transmutes, changing without destroying.

  "The essence remains," Veradin says, "but the vessel strengthens. What you are survives. What you carry endures. But what contains it all must withstand divine fire."

  I consider his words. My purpose remains unchanged, protect Haven, hold back corruption. The form matters less than the function.

  "Will I remain myself?" Identity matters little to those already dead. Yet I have become more than borrowed bone. The fragments have formed something greater than their sum, a purpose, a will, a being that stands apart from the broken pieces that compose it.

  Inside my frame, the fragments stir.

  All borrowed. All temporary. All subject to dissolution upon contact with divine flame.

  All a part of the whole.

  "I offer something not granted in an age," Veradin continues. "Divine Forging. Not creation, not destruction, but transformation. To make permanent what was temporary. To forge certainty from chance."

  Divine light intensifies around his form, casting stark shadows behind me across the ancient pantheon floor.

  "But such gift requires choice, Champion of Death. You must select which fragments endure, which elements of borrowed existence become eternal. For even divine power has limits, and what burns in the Forge will test those boundaries."

  I consider his words.

  Within me, borrowed memories stir, fragments vying for attention.

  "Choose," he commands finally. "For what you select becomes permanent, beyond the reach of even divine flame."

  I close hollow sockets, turning attention inward.

  A Broken Legacy. A Sworn Oath. A War That Will Test His Soul.

  “If my brother can no longer wield the sword, then I shall become his sword.”

  he will not fail.

  Read Now