The wind carried a chill as Valen stepped through the crumbling gate of the village again, the sky above gray and brooding. Rain had not yet fallen, but the scent of it hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint smoke that clung to the old wooden huts. He moved slowly, boots scraping the mud-worn path, his thoughts a storm heavier than the sky above.
Behind him, the others waited at the edge of the village, still unwelcome. They had made camp outside the walls days ago, and though the villagers hadn't driven them away again, they hadn't offered anything more than silence either.
Valen's steps halted in front of the same old house, the one tucked at the edge of the fields, half-swallowed by vines and time. The old chief's home.
He raised a fist, hesitated, then knocked.
The door creaked open moments later.
The old man's face appeared, more worn than Valen remembered, shadowed with suspicion. "Back again, soldier?" he rasped.
"I have questions," Valen said, voice quieter than he expected. "About the gods. About the war. About what's really happening."
The chief stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and opened the door wider.
"Come in. But you won't like the answers."
The hearth was lit but dim. Smoke from the fire clung to the ceiling beams. Dried herbs hung in bundles, their scent mixing with old ash and earth. The chief moved slowly, pouring a thin tea into two clay cups. He set one in front of Valen with trembling hands.
"You look worse than before," the old man said, sitting across from him. "Eyes like broken glass. You've seen something no boy should see."
"I've lost people," Valen said, gripping the cup without drinking. "Friends. Mentors. Almost myself."
"War has a way of stripping the soul bare."
Valen leaned forward. "You said the gods have returned their gaze to the world. That's why the kingdoms are burning. Why everyone is killing each other. I want to understand. What drew them back? Why now?"
The chief stared into the fire. "You want the truth?"
"I need it."
The old man nodded slowly, the lines of his face deepening. "Then listen."
"The gods," he began, "were not always distant. Long ago, they walked among us,.beings of immense power, and ambition. Each ruled over aspects of life and death, war and peace, creation and decay. But their presence... it was never balanced. Kingdoms rose and fell depending on which god they pleased. Blood was spilled in their name, temples built and razed, all to court their favor."
Valen swallowed. "So what changed?"
"Mortals changed," the chief replied. "There came an age when humanity grew tired of being pawns in their divine games. The world turned away from the gods. Shrines were abandoned. Prayers stopped. And without that worship… the gods faded from sight. Still watching, perhaps, but no longer meddling."
"But they came back," Valen said. "Why?"
The old man's eyes burned with quiet fury. "Because we brought them back. Slowly. Quietly. Kingdoms began to whisper of divine favor once more. A drought here, a plague there, and someone somewhere lit a candle and prayed. And the gods listened. Or maybe… they never stopped."
He reached up and pulled down a leather-bound book from a shelf, ancient, stained, its cover worn thin. "There are signs, you see. Prophecies. Omens. The Red Eclipse. The storm of ash. And the most damning of all, when the first kingdom began offering blood sacrifices again."
Valen's face twisted. "That's madness."
"Madness that works," the old man said grimly. "One of the eastern empires, Qarnath,.offered their prisoners to a forgotten war deity, and they began winning battles that should've been lost. Others took notice. Other gods stirred. Now every major kingdom seeks the favor of a different divine power. And how do you win the gods' favor?"
Valen whispered, "War."
"Blood. Power. Devotion," the chief said. "The kingdoms have become temples of violence, each seeking to outmatch the others not just with steel, but with sacrifice. The gods don't demand peace. They demand passion. Strength. Victory."
Valen sat back, his cup untouched. "So we're fighting because our kings want the gods on their side?"
"No," said the chief, voice low and grim. "We're fighting because the gods are real, and they've made their offers. Power in exchange for blood. Glory for obedience. And the kings, who would not want that?"
He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Your country isn't the only one bleeding, boy. All the kingdoms now fight not just for land, but for divine favor. And that favor… it is a terrible thing."
Silence stretched between them. The fire cracked. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once and went silent.
Valen spoke finally, voice brittle. "Why doesn't your village fight? Why hide out here, starving?"
The chief looked away. "Because we remember. We remember what it was like when gods ruled us directly. When cities were razed at their whim. When children were born cursed or marked by flame. We want no part in their games."
"And that's why your people hate us," Valen murmured. "Because we bring the war with us. We bring the gods."
The chief didn't answer.
But he didn't need to.
When Valen stepped out of the house, the sky had darkened further, and the first drops of rain began to fall again, slow and cold. The wind howled like something ancient and hungry.
Rhen waited by the gate, arms crossed, brows furrowed. "What did he say?"
Valen didn't look at him. He looked up at the sky.
"They're not angry because of what we did," he said quietly. "They're amused."
Rhen frowned. "What?"
"The gods didn't come to punish us," Valen said. "They came to watch us destroy ourselves. And maybe… to help."
He walked past Rhen into the rain.
Somewhere deep in the forest, thunder rolled.
And the gods listened.