The storm came quickly.
Clouds bloated and black crept across the dead hills, and a bitter wind swept through the shattered woods. Aeon and Guts sought shelter in what remained of an ancient chapel—a stone husk nestled into the cliffs, its roof broken open like a split skull. Rain began to fall, slow and cold, sizzling on ash.
Inside, the air was heavy with rot and incense. Broken pews lined the walls. The altar was cracked, but not abandoned.
Symbols adorned every surface — not the old symbols of kings or gods, but something stranger. Circles of flame intertwined with chains. Burning eyes. Winged children drawn in blood and soot.
And beneath the altar, dozens of candles flickered. Someone had been here recently.
"Smells like cult," Guts muttered, hand resting on his sword hilt.
Aeon said nothing.
Because he recognized the words scrawled above the altar.
Not in language.
In thought.
They were phrases he had whispered long ago, in the darkness after his wrath. Moments of grief twisted into scripture.
"Let the world burn if it forgets her."
"Pain is proof that I loved."
"If fire is the cost, then let it be eternal."
He had never spoken them aloud.
And yet, someone had.
A soft sound echoed from the corner.
A girl — thin, barefoot, branded — peeked from behind a broken pillar. Her eyes were too old for her face. In her hands she clutched a charcoal drawing: a woman wrapped in fire, holding a child of light.
"Don't hurt him," she whispered.
Aeon turned. "Who?"
She pointed at him.
"You. They said you'd come back."
Before either man could respond, voices rose from a stairwell behind the altar.
A group emerged — robed figures, ash-smeared, eyes wild with reverence. Men and women, broken in body but fierce in spirit. Some wore symbols of old churches. Others bore brands, half-burned.
The leader stepped forward — a woman with a ruined eye and voice like dried paper.
"You've returned," she said. "The Fire That Grieves. The Judge Eternal."
Guts growled. "You people don't listen, do you?"
"We listen," the woman said. "We remember. When the world turned to rot, he burned it clean. And we were spared in that fire. We were made in it."
Aeon didn't speak.
Not yet.
They led him deeper into the cathedral. Murals lined the walls — crude depictions of cities engulfed in flame, kings crushed beneath a faceless god's feet. In one mural, Aeon saw a figure resembling himself, cradling a burning child.
A quote was carved below it:
"She died to cleanse his sorrow. We rise to carry her flame."
His daughter.
Drawn as an idol.
A sacrifice.
"They call themselves the Ashborn," Guts muttered. "Cute."
"They say your grief burned the sky," one of the younger men said, "and that the gods screamed when you judged them. You freed us."
Aeon finally looked at them.
"No," he said softly. "I failed you."
The silence cracked.
"You burned the tyrants," one follower said.
"I burned everyone," Aeon said. "Even those who begged to be spared. I lost myself."
"You became the only god who cried," the girl whispered.
Then the elder stepped forward.
A man with chains tattooed across his throat, his hands trembling.
"We have prepared this place for your return," he rasped. "The altar awaits. Take your flame. Show us the end."
But his voice… shifted.
Deeper. Rougher.
Wrong.
His eyes rolled back. His arms twitched.
From his throat came a second voice.
"The fire was beautiful, wasn't it? You gave them meaning. And now they've given it back to you."
The Shadow.
It possessed the elder's body — not fully, but enough to twist his words into gospel.
Aeon stepped forward.
"You will not use them."
"They were always mine," the Shadow hissed. "They wanted a god. I gave them the version you refused to be."
One of the cultists lunged.
Not at Aeon — but at Guts, blade raised.
Guts met him with the flat of his blade, knocking him into a pillar.
"Enough of this madness!" he roared.
The girl screamed.
More cultists moved, confused, torn between worship and fear.
Aeon raised a hand.
Not in anger.
But in clarity.
Light flared — not hot, but steady. A flame without smoke. It moved like wind and music, and passed through the cultists.
They fell — not dead. Not harmed.
Changed.
Some wept.
Some fled.
Others simply dropped their weapons and stared at their hands like they'd never seen them before.
Only the elder remained standing.
Aeon approached.
"You don't belong here," he said to the Shadow. "Not in him."
The Shadow laughed. "But I belong in you."
With a sweep of his hand, Aeon cast the presence out
The elder collapsed.
Later, standing outside the cathedral ruins, Guts spit into the dirt.
"You going to burn every cult that worships you?"
Aeon looked up at the clouds.
"No," he said. "But I'll make sure they understand what they worship isn't godhood."
Guts adjusted his blade.
"They don't see grief. They see fire."
Aeon nodded once. "Then maybe it's time I showed them what grief really is."