The gods died seven years ago.
No trumpet sounded in the skies. No black sun blotted the earth. One morning, the priests found their temples cold, their prayers empty, and the sacred flames extinguished without smoke. The world shuddered quietly, as if holding its breath, and then—the cracks began to show.
Monsters, things from the ragged edges of nightmares, crawled from forgotten places. The seas birthed leviathans, forests grew dark and whispered with teeth, and the sky itself wept ash on days when it should have rained. Cities fell. Kingdoms burned. And amid the ruin, some humans began to dream.
In their sleep, they faced trials—visions so vivid they left scars on waking flesh and fear buried deep in bone. Those who survived awoke... changed. Touched by the death of divinity, they wielded powers that should have belonged only to the gods—or perhaps, to whatever had slain them.
Kieran had not yet dreamed.
But the day his shadow moved without him and the wind whispered his name, he knew: the trial was coming. And with it, the truth no one else dared speak:
The gods had not abandoned the world.
They had been hunted.
And now, it was humanity's turn.
From the shadows, something watched.
Not a god. Not yet.
But the world stirred in response—as if recognizing a name it had long forgotten.
Above, the stars aligned. Below, the dead wind whispered.
The Trial had waited.
Now it opened its eyes.