rant never cared for gods. Not on Earth, not in death. Religion felt like a pyramid scheme dressed up in incense and guilt. Faith? Just a crutch wrapped in candlelight. He used to say that out loud. Swear by it. Die by it.

  And then, well—he did.

  Ishtar knew his stance, of course. She knew everything. And yet, when his soul burst through the veil, slick with metaphysical afterbirth, something about him... caught her attention. Scraped against her mind like a whispered dare.

  She hadn’t planned to care.

  But she does now.

  There’s a hunger in her. Seductive. Curious. Dangerous. It coils inside her like heat in wine, slow and burning. Grant Calloway—this stubborn, unbelieving, soul-stained mortal—stirs something deep.

  His certainty is gone. Broken, like the world he left behind. Because the gods? Oh, they’re real. Just not the way Earth hoped. No halos. No holy light. No white-bearded men on golden thrones or trunk-faced sages dispensing enlightenment.

  Fools, all of them.

  Ishtar watched from the outside as Earth tore itself apart over sacred names. Crusades and cults. Mushroom clouds in the name of peace. So earnest in their delusion.

  If only they knew.

  No god would’ve stepped in. Not one. Not the golden calf. Not the elephant prince. Not even her.

  Especially not her.

  Because here’s the cruel truth: Earth’s gods? They don’t care. Not really.

  And Zen—her twin brother, the flower-crowned, sandal-wearing slacker—he was the one stuck managing it. Worse yet, he was the one who got Grant killed.

  She could laugh if she weren’t still so infuriated.

  Of course, someone else had set it in motion. That much is clear. But Zen bungled it anyway—dropped Grant into the Resurgence like a drunk spilling communion wine on sacred parchment. No grace. No finesse. Just chaos and bleeding seams between worlds.

  Typical.

  And that smirk. That lazy, sun-kissed smirk.

  He never respected the stakes. Never cared about the cost.

  But Grant? Oh, Grant is a glorious piece. A king disguised as a pawn. She saw it even if Zen didn’t. And when the transition fractured—when something other tried to wrap its claws around him—Ishtar intervened.

  She wasn’t supposed to.

  He should’ve slipped through. Filed. Processed. Forgotten.

  But he fought.

  That presence—dark, alien, invasive—tried to coil around him like ivy choking stone. It wanted him hollowed. Repurposed. Corrupted.

  But Grant refused.

  Where others scream, he seethed. Where most souls shattered, he solidified. His will—dense, serrated, stubborn—burned through every tether. Held. Endured.

  And that—that’s when she noticed.

  So she reached out.

  Her touch grazed the edge of him. Resonance flared—sharp, intimate, undeniable. Like fate had teeth and was grinning. She seized the moment, stole the script, rewrote the lines.

  She claimed him.

  His rebirth becomes hers—slipping into it like a stolen silk robe. She names the project herself, just to taste it.

  And it works.

  He’s reborn. Breathes again—ragged and raw—on the cracked, crusted soil of Eidolon. Bones set. Soul stitched. Body reknit. A divine dare hurled across dimensions.

  But that presence? It lingers. Hidden. Waiting.

  Not acceptable.

  He’s hers now. Her instrument. Her curiosity. Her play.

  Ishtar watches as he stumbles into the world. Watches him breathe, bleed, learn. Watches him bend the rules until they scream.

  She gave him tools—gifts wrapped in divine logic and whispered clauses. Muscles tuned for survival. Instincts sharp as razors. Power he doesn’t understand yet.

  But every gift has conditions.

  The gods are real.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  And Grant?

  He may kneel to one.

  Her name is Ishtar.

  She isn’t light or lace. She’s not worshipped with roses. Not sung to in chapels.

  She’s the director of divine affairs. The bureaucrat behind the miracle machine. Clipboard in one hand. Pen of judgment in the other. Cosmic CEO.

  Miracles?

  Filed under “pending.”

  Prayers?

  Triple-checked and timestamped.

  Disasters?

  Catalogued, quantified, prioritized.

  And still—they remember her. They must.

  Ishtar doesn't care whose names are carved into the stars. Doesn't care about worship. Or doctrine. Or the soft politics of pantheons.

  She wants one thing.

  To be remembered.

  Someone’s voice slices through the celestial fog like a sniper round through stained glass.

  "What is going on here?"

  The world… stops breathing.

  Ishtar, ever the smug queen of overconfidence, halts mid-eye-roll. Her face—usually carved from condescension—tightens. Just for a second. Just enough. Her lips flatten into a blade.

  "No…" she mutters, low and raw, like the word burned its way out.

  Zen, meanwhile, stretches like a cat waking from a nap it didn’t earn, rubbing the sleep from a soul that should’ve been working overtime. He exhales, long and slow.

  "Shit…"

  Then—

  Everything. Stops.

  Time hits the brakes so hard I swear I hear the screech. The laugh track stalls mid-giggle. Reality holds its breath like it just got caught sneaking in after curfew. Even my thoughts feel like they’re wading through syrup.

  The voice doesn’t just speak—it lands.

  "You…"

  It slides into my skull like cold silk soaked in midnight—elegant, suffocating, and smug enough to make you shiver.

  I open my mouth. Try to speak. Nothing. My jaw locks up, tight and useless, like trying to start an engine buried under ice.

  "Did I say you could speak?"

  Ah. One of those.

  All right. We’re doing the mind game thing. Cool. Internally, I shrug.

  Didn’t say I couldn’t think, now did you?

  And hey—no “please,” no “thank you”? Bit rude. Where I’m from, we call that poor manners. Call me old-fashioned.

  The silence that follows isn’t just quiet—it’s pressure. Heavy. Absolute. Like standing in the eye of a hurricane made of unspoken judgment.

  Then—

  She laughs.

  Not the chuckle of someone amused. Not even the full-bodied cackle of a villain chewing scenery. No. This is something else.

  It pours into my skull—rich, slow, warm, and laced with danger. Like whiskey aged in nightmares.

  "Manners? From an earthling? That is a rare commodity."

  She hums—a sound that slides between flirty and fatal, like the moment before someone kisses your cheek and slips a knife in your ribs.

  "I don’t know what games my children are playing… but you—oh, you are quite intriguing."

  Wait.

  Children?

  "Yes… Ishtar and Zen are but two of many."

  Right. Cosmic family reunion. Just missing the divine potato salad and a knife fight over who inherits the stars.

  She laughs again. Lower. Lusher. All curves and claws.

  "No. You may not. As for pleasure, darling… all you have to do is ask. I’ll gladly oblige."

  …And now I see it. Yep. Definitely related to Ishtar.

  I cough—mentally, if that’s a thing.

  Let’s steer this ship away from perv harbor before someone drops anchor.

  "Oh yes. I’m well aware."

  "And what?"

  "Come now. What they do on their assigned worlds is none of my concern. As long as they follow the rules, all’s fair in love and war. Emphasis on love."

  Right. Of course. Divine corporate policy: Don’t ask. Don’t care. Don’t file reports.

  Let’s review.

  I’ve died—twice.

  Been drafted into some divine office sitcom.

  And now I’m being flirted with by the interdimensional CEO of a multiversal pyramid scheme.

  "You are a peculiar little mortal," she purrs.

  And here I thought I was just a beet farmer with a knack for fixing engines and keeping my trauma buried under sarcasm.

  But it clicks now. The gods? They’re not overseers. Not saviors.

  They’re middle managers. They’re legacy hires. Nepotism wrapped in celestial robes.

  You ever met a working-class guy who shook hands with the divine execs upstairs? Neither have I. Now I know why.

  Still. I shrug—pointless, but therapeutic.

  Stick around. Might get a few laughs watching me struggle.

  She exhales, and her presence pulls away—like the tide retreating after brushing against the shore, taking warmth and certainty with it.

  "Now… sadly, I must leave you. I have a universe to maintain."

  Her voice softens. Whispered leaves on the edge of fall.

  "But do be a gentleman. Say nothing of our little conversation… to my children."

  "Such a dear. I look forward to your future endeavors. Good luck, mortal… you’re going to need it."

  And just like that—she’s gone.

  No fireworks. No portal. Just…

  absence.

  Like someone pulled the stars off the ceiling and turned off the universe’s sound system.