He stood before the throne, just inches away. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and sat. The moment his skin touched the throne, every ounce of magic wrenched free—too sudden to fight. A chill slammed through him. His vision blurred. And then, everything went dark.

  But not for long.

  Instead, he found himself standing in the middle of a battlefield. The sky roared above, torn apart by streaks of wild magic. Spells and shattered weapons flew overhead, the air thick with smoke and shouting. Before he could think, his body moved—fast, purposeful, like it had done this a thousand times. He ducked beneath a bolt of blue fire, then stepped over the charred body of a fallen fighter he never hesitated. Eyes swept the chaos, scanning for weaknesses. A young man ran up to him, panic in his eyes. “Sylas! How do we deal with them?” River’s thoughts stumbled. Sylas? He didn’t have time to answer; his lips were already moving. The voice that came out was not his own. It was deep and sure, worn with experience and laced with command.

  “Bring Phytar with you. Flank them on the right. I’ll cover your backs. Keep yourselves hidden.” The young man gave a sharp nod and vanished into the haze, not a flicker of essence lingering behind. River’s heart pounded. That had been his voice—but not his. The words had poured out like instinct, but they weren’t from him. He looked down at his hands. Older. Strength coiled beneath his skin. Magic curled around his fingers without effort, the power dense and alive. Was he reliving Sylas’s memories? He glanced toward the line of fighters forming across the field. As the chaos slowed, his mind catching up. Something clicked. Phytar. Another ascended. The goddess of the harvest. And if Sylas was here, leading a battle with gods at his side… Then River wasn’t just seeing the past.

  He was walking through the memory of a god.

  His body moved again, pushing himself closer to the edge of the hill he stood on. The sheer magnitude of the battle was beyond comprehension. Spells carved through mountain ridges. Lightning left deep holes smoldering in the ground. Jets of water screamed across the battlefield, trailing sonic booms in their wake.

  Everything shattered. The world crumbled like broken glass — the memory too heavy to hold. Before he could catch his breath, a new scene snapped into place: he was seated in a massive hall. It looked eerily similar to the chamber where the Elders met, but grander. Older. Twelve figures sat around a wide stone table, faces hard and weathered. These were warriors—survivors—and yet… their eyes were like his. White, with flecks of dancing color. Essence in motion. Primordials. A massive map was spread across the table, its surface etched with numbers, movement paths, and lines of battle. It was a War Council — tense and raw. Then one of them stood. A towering man with broad shoulders and a deep scar running down his neck. When he slammed his fist on the table, the entire room shook — even the air itself seemed to recoil. “Goddammit,” he growled, voice like thunder, “why did the gods create such monsters?” River’s body reacted before he had time to process the words. His mouth opened, and once again, the voice that emerged wasn’t his — yet every word rang with clarity. “Calm down, Thranox. They are not monsters. They are afraid. Just like any creature backed into a corner. As the repressed rise… the powerful lash out. It’s the way of the world” Then River spoke. “Power based on corruption and sacrifice must be stopped at all costs. The more it devours, the hungrier it gets.” So that’s what the runes earlier had been for. Thranox. River blinked.

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  Wasn’t that the name of the God of War?

  But that meant... Had there been gods before the ones worshipped today? Once more, the world crumbled around him. River staggered as reality peeled away, the war room dissolving into mist, and found himself standing outside a small village. The sky above was dark and churning, thunderclouds rolling like smoke caught in a cage. A heavy stillness hung in the air.

  Then the ground cracked open with a thunderous roar. Jagged fissures split the earth at his feet, spilling heat and stench into the air—the choking rot of corrupted dungeon cores. From the depths, they came. Shadows—but not like before. These ones pulsed with essence, moved with intention. Predatory. Sentient. Worse in every way.

  They moved with purpose. Sentient. Hungry. A scourge on the world. And then, from within that chaos, someone climbed out. He looked... normal. To anyone else, he might have passed unnoticed. But not to River. Even the shadows recoiled around him. Not to Sylas, whose memories River was now reliving. This man was wrong. There was something twisted about him—his essence coiled and snarling, thick with death and destruction. Power rolled off of him in suffocating waves. And then the man turned.

  He looked straight at River. Or maybe at Sylas through him.

  And smiled. Wide. Hollow. A smile that never touched his eyes. And just like that—he was gone. Snuffed out like a flame in the wind. River gasped, and his knees nearly buckled. He was back — back in the temple, breath ragged, heart pounding. The stone throne beneath him was cold. Too cold. His mind reeled with the weight of what he’d just seen.

  What had he just seen?

  His essence still felt weak, but the fatigue no longer cut as deep. He wiggled his fingers and toes, testing whether everything seemed real. Blinking, he collected his thoughts and moved. Looking up, River saw the elders still standing nearby— their expressions sharp, focused, as if they had been watching the entire time.

  It was Myra who broke the silence.

  “Don’t tell us,” she said softly. “It was meant for you.”

  River nodded. Even if he’d wanted to explain what he had just seen… he wasn’t sure he could. Visions of gods at war. A world torn apart by powers long buried. The gods they worshipped today — Sylas, Phytar, Thranox — had fought against older ones. A purge. A rebellion. And somewhere in all of it… the shadows.

  Created by the gods? Or perhaps… or by one god? An ancient, forgotten being whose essence now corrupted the land? He didn’t know. Not yet.

  But he’d find out.

  He stood slowly, his limbs trembling with exhaustion. The throne had drained him more than he’d realized. Then he remembered—he wasn’t alone anymore. He had Calira. A phoenix.

  Fire. Healing. Rebirth. Reaching across the bond, he opened himself to her, and instantly, she responded. Warmth rushed into him like sunlight breaking through clouds. Her essence flowed into his body, steady and sure, melting the chill that had settled in his bones. His breath evened out. His strength returned. But he cut the bond gently, not wanting her to overextend herself.

  “I’m okay,” he whispered, mostly to her.

  And for the first time in what felt like forever, he truly meant it. The last few days had been long.