Qlaark stood atop the crumbled lip of a shattered fountain in what was once a square of music and markets. His robes look soot-streaked, mended by hand. Around him, a weary crowd leans against walls, wagon wheels, or each other. He does not shout for attention. He draws it. With every word, his voice rises like a tide—calm at first, but rising, crashing.

  "You ask where the gods were when the Weave collapsed.

  You ask how they could let this happen.

  You look at the shattered spires, the empty shrines, the bones of your neighbors—and you cry:

  Where were they?

  I will not lie to you.

  They were here.

  And they let it happen.

  But not out of cruelty. Not out of cowardice.

  Because the gods are not tyrants.

  They do not chain our hands.

  They do not override our will—even when that will is wicked.

  Even when the ones with the most power choose ruin.

  They let us choose.

  Even our mistakes.

  Even our monsters.

  And that is why we are here—not because the gods abandoned us, but because some among us decided they were gods.

  You think the gods lived in the Weave? They didn’t.

  The Weave was a tool. A system. A structure of levers and runes.

  It wasn’t divine. It was convenient.

  You used it like a crutch.

  Now it is gone. And all that remains… is faith.

  And listen—listen—

  Because faith is not weak.

  Faith is the power to rise without reward.

  To build again without certainty.

  To love without promise.

  That is divine. That is eternal.

  Ranvar is not dead.

  You speak his name every time you give someone a second chance.

  You become his priest when you offer mercy to someone who deserves none.

  The gods are not gone. They are waiting. They are watching.

  But do not confuse divine patience with divine blindness.

  Because I will tell you who is to blame.

  Not the gods.

  Not the ones who refused to intervene.

  But the ones who acted—selfishly, greedily, arrogantly.

  Blame the Thirteen Obelisks.

  Those robed cowards who wrapped their names in numbers and ruled from shadows.

  Who hoarded power, traded secrets, and turned this city into a theater for their paranoia.

  Blame their puppetmaster.

  Sharrzaman.

  Yes, Sharrzaman.

  He who froze time and called it wisdom.

  He who whispered into the ears of leaders, promising peace while plotting control.

  He who called himself savior, but watched us suffer for centuries.

  He who fed off the Weave like a parasite until it collapsed beneath him.

  He is no god.

  He is no prophet.

  He is a liar, a thief of futures.

  So do not ask where the gods were.

  Ask why we trusted men who wished to be gods instead.

  Ask why we bent the knee to silence, to symbols, to secrecy.

  And now—now that the veil has torn—

  Now that the Weave is ash and the Obelisks crumble—

  We can choose again.

  Not who to fear.

  But who to follow.

  I follow mercy.

  I follow second chances.

  I follow a god who lives in acts, not altars.

  And I say this to the city:

  The gods never left us.

  But it’s time we left behind the ones who did."

  A murmur ripples through the crowd. Then a voice cuts through it, sharp and skeptical:

  "Who is Sharrzaman? Wasn't it that doddering old fool Krungus who ruined our city and disappeared?"

  Heads turn. Qlaark's gaze snaps to the speaker—a gaunt man with a bitter twist to his mouth, standing atop a broken cart.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Qlaark does not flinch. He steps forward, fire rising in his chest.

  "Krungus?" he repeats, his voice calm but charged with something undeniable. "You call him a fool—but it was that 'fool' who gave you clean water, teleportation hubs, enchanted medicine, heat in the winter, and safety from storms of flame. It was Krungus who carved the Weave into this city's bones when no one else dared."

  He turns slowly, addressing not just the speaker but the whole crowd now, his voice clear.

  "You lost something because he built something. There would have been nothing to lose if he had never cared for this city the way he did. The palaces, the markets, the levitating bridges, the protective wards—it was Krungus who made them real. Not for his glory. For us."

  Qlaark’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose strength.

  "He disappeared, yes. But not to escape blame. He vanished fighting a battle none of us saw coming. He gave everything for a city that never understood how much it owed him. And I will not let his name be spat on by those who only ever walked the roads he paved."

  He steps back onto the fountain rim. "You may question what happened—but do not confuse a broken world with a broken man. Krungus is not your villain. He is one of the reasons we’re still here at all."

  Another voice rises from the opposite side of the crowd, a woman's voice this time—sharp, weary, and angry.

  "Then where is he now? If he loved us so much, why did he leave us to die when the city fell? Why hasn’t he come back?"

  Gasps and murmurs echo again through the onlookers. Some nod in agreement. Others fold their arms in silence, waiting to hear what Qlaark will say next.

  Qlaark takes a slow breath. When he speaks again, his tone is measured, steady—not defensive, but honest.

  "I do not have an easy answer for you. I wish I did. I do not know what becomes of an ancient wizard when the very magic he lived by falls silent. I do not know what it does to the mind, the spirit, the body."

  He scans the crowd, his eyes filled not with certainty, but faith.

  "But I do know this: Krungus loved this city. And he believed, perhaps too much, that he could carry it on his back forever. Maybe he still fights for us in some way we cannot see. Or maybe... maybe the time has come for us to stop waiting to be saved."

  He raises a hand, palm open.

  "Maybe the gods allowed this—this pain, this emptiness—so that we could remember how to stand. How to build. How to believe, not in what we are given, but in what we choose."

  Qlaark’s voice strengthens again.

  "Do not waste your fury on the ones who tried. Blame those who never cared. Blame the Obelisks, who ruled without love. Blame Sharrzaman, who poisoned the city from the shadows. Blame the architects of control—not the ones who tried to give us freedom."

  He looks out over the gathering again.

  "If Krungus never returns, we owe him this: to prove that his faith in us was not misplaced. That we are still a city worth saving—even by our own hands."

  A loud, mocking laugh cuts through the moment like a blade. It echoes across the square with theatrical clarity, silencing the murmurs. All heads turn toward the source.

  Galloquin stands near the back of the crowd, his feathered arms crossed, leaning against a splintered column like he owns the ruin. He is a tall, sleek chickenfolk—white-plumed and proud, his comb neatly oiled, his eyes sharp with amusement. His golden rings catch the light from beneath his wing-feathers, and his smile gleams with condescension.

  "Adorable," he drawls. "Truly. That was cute, little preacher. Earnest. Like watching a child give a eulogy for a puppet."

  He steps forward, his voice growing louder, smoother, more venomous with each word.

  "While you chant and whimper and pray to impotent gods, real power is already rebuilding. Sharrzaman is working. While you weep for your vanished wizard, he is laying stones. Raising towers. Forming a future."

  He gestures to the crowd. "You think divinity will put food in your mouths? Patch your walls? Save your children? No. There is only one power left in this city that can protect you. And that power doesn’t wait for miracles. It acts."

  He pauses, letting the silence build.

  "Join us," he says, with the cold confidence of someone offering a final deal. "Or be swept aside."

  A wave of boos erupts from one corner. Others remain silent. But a few—too many—nod slowly, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something darker: temptation."

  Then, in a display that wouldn’t have shocked anyone back when the Weave still pulsed through every stone and soul—but now feels like a slap to reality—Galloquin vanishes in a puff of oily smoke and a loud, echoing squawk.

  Gasps ripple through the crowd. Some step back. Others stare in stunned silence. The smoke lingers briefly in the air, tinged with sulfur and something strangely floral, before drifting away on the wind.

  Qlaark steps forward quickly, reclaiming the air that had been stolen by Galloquin’s spectacle.

  "Don’t be fooled," he calls out, his voice harder now, less sermon and more shield. "That wasn’t divine. That wasn’t righteous. That was a parlor trick. A puff of smoke. Black magic, twisted and veiled."

  He turns slowly, trying to re-gather the scattered threads of the crowd’s attention.

  "Yes, other magics exist beyond the Weave. Ancient, wild, untamed. But do not mistake them for salvation. And do not mistake him for a savior. Sharrzaman offers no future—only control. His peace comes with a collar."

  The people are still listening—but fewer now. Faces turn away, feet shuffle. Some are already walking.

  Qlaark’s voice softens, edges tinged with something weary and deeply human.

  "We can still try," he says. "Even if it feels like the City doesn’t want to save itself. Even if it follows the loudest voice, the sharpest lie. We can still try."

  He pauses, scanning what remains of the crowd. His eyes flicker with something unspoken.

  "But I can’t carry all of you. Not alone. Not forever."

  He steps down from the fountain. The smoke is gone. The square is quieter. And for the first time, Qlaark looks like a man of faith beginning to understand what it means to be abandoned.

  Unseen by the preacher or the crowd, a figure watches from beneath the sagging awning of a collapsed shopfront. Bahumbus—still, silent, his metal-threaded gloves folded behind his back—had listened to every word.

  The sermon. The mockery. The puff of vanishing feathers. And finally, that look on Qlaark's face. That quiet breaking.

  It stirred something in him. Not just anger. Not just guilt.

  Resolve.

  He muttered to no one, "Fine. Plan C, then."

  He turned and slipped away from the square, already sketching schematics in his mind. A backup plan to a backup plan. Something he never thought he'd need. Something he hoped he'd never have to build.

  But if Sharrzaman was rebuilding in plain sight, then Bahumbus would do what he always did best.

  He'd build in secret.

  As he walked, boots crunching on shattered tile and glass, an old rhyme floated up from the back of his mind—one his brother used to sing when they were younger, when Sharrzaman would get out of hand in their arguments or experiments. A taunt in verse. A truth wrapped in mockery.

  "Sharrzaman the Thoughtful, cloak full of lies— Smiles like a priest, but he's got demon eyes. Speaks of fate, but steals your time— Builds a cage and calls it divine."

  Bahumbus exhaled through his nose. The rhyme made him smirk, then frown.

  He hadn't thought of it in centuries. But maybe it was time to remember everything. Even the things they used to laugh about.