Arion, cradled in the sanctuary of his mother's arms, could not fathom the enormity of what had just passed. To his innocent eyes, it was only a flicker of light, a whisper of power—but in truth, Lord Sued had paid a terrible price.
More than half his remaining years were spent in an instant, burned away like incense before a cold and indifferent altar. It was a sacrifice so immense, so absolute, that even the eldest of the old gods might have recoiled from its cost.
To cast a god and the multitude of his followers into the void was no mere feat of strength—it demanded a price that could never be regained. It was not simply power Lord Sued had given up, but his own future. Hope. Time. All spent for the sake of one fragile, unproven child.
The name "Arivan" was now erased. Wiped clean from the annals of the living. Priests who once raised temples in his name, lords who had sworn oaths in his shadow, kings who carved his symbol into the stones of their cities—all gone. Not slain, but unmade. A hollow silence remained, the echo of their absence louder than their prayers had ever been.
Such magic was rare—rarer still among mortals. Few could even dream of such power. Fewer still could wield it. And though Lord Sued had always dreamed—dreamed of ascending beyond man, of carving his name into the stars—he knew now that dream was over. Perhaps in centuries, in millennia, he might have reached the heights of the divine. But no longer. That path was gone.
Many who witnessed what he had done would call him a fool. To give everything—years, potential, the promise of ascension—for a child whose fate was as uncertain as a candle in the wind. Arion was young. Unproven. Who could say if he would grow strong enough to bear the weight of that sacrifice? Or if he would even live long enough to try?
Worse still, the creatures of the void—formless, ancient, and hungry—would scent him now. They would know his name. A soul like his, spared when it should have been consumed, would blaze like a torch in their dark domain. They would come for him. Always.
And yet, Lord Sued had done it. Without hesitation. Without regret.
He had severed the false god's tether to the mortal realm and cast Arivan and all his adherents into the abyss. Never again would men kneel at that altar. Never again would Arivan's name be spoken in worship.
Or so he believed.
For all things remain true… until someone believes again.
Arion was still trembling from what he had witnessed. A priest—a man once cloaked in faith—had come to his birthday, only to reveal himself as something unholy. Twisted. Corrupted. A vessel of darkness.
He had wished, in the quietest corner of his soul, to celebrate his birthday like a child should. But after today… no more.
Above, the heavens themselves had trembled. A shape—vast and incomprehensible—had faded slowly from the skies. Those who glimpsed it fell, their minds broken or their hearts stilled. Some never rose again. Others woke screaming and never stopped.
Arion felt it too—a pressure, immense and unseen, pressing against the very marrow of his soul. And then, pain—sharp and precise, like a dagger driven through something deeper than flesh. He gasped. The world swam and blurred.
But his mother… Lady Ariana glowed.
A soft radiance, like moonlight on fresh snow, spread from her skin. She held him close, and her light shielded him. Her warmth cut through the darkness like a blade. Those near her endured. Those far from her… did not. Their souls were lost. Snatched by the void like petals in a storm.
The survivors would never forget.
The highborn would whisper of the day the heavens cracked and pacts with ancient powers came due. Of gods not from the firmament, but from the spaces between.
The common folk would speak of demons and miracles. In the villages, mothers would warn their children to never trust a man in robes, and old men would speak in hushed tones about the day the heavens split asunder. The name Arion would become a whispered prayer—or a curse.
And what was once familiar would never feel safe again.
But for now, Arion was alive. He did not understand the danger, nor the sacrifice. He did not know what had been given up to keep him breathing. He knew only that he was warm, and his mother held him. That was the whole of his world.
Yet even in that innocence, he could not unsee the dead.
Once kind faces, now frozen in terror. Their mouths open in silent screams, eyes wide, staring into some final abyss. Arion shivered. A nameless fear coiled in his chest.
Lady Ariana felt it. Her voice, soft as the first snowfall, spun a fragile thread of peace, a quiet rebellion against the void's cold claim. In her arms, he was safe—if only for a moment—from the price paid in years and blood to keep his light alive.
Yet even as sleep claimed him, a distant storm stirred beneath the surface of the world—unseen, unyielding—a reminder that no sacrifice, no shield, could erase what had been set in motion. The child's fate was only beginning to unfold.
For now, he was simply Arion. And that was all the world would allow.