Slathir did not feel like a God.

  A cracked and ruined land burned beneath him. Forests were reduced to piles of ash, the rivers were stained red with blood, and there was fire. Fire engulfed the land and rained from the skies. Where once was green, now was only the blackened stench of death, and the bodies and bones of the fallen.

  The Kingdom of Talradius, as it had once been called, now lay like a smoking carcass across the land, left to rot and fester. Cities were torn asunder, broken beneath rock and stone, or drowned under flooding rivers. Villages were left with barely a hint of their presence, just red clouds and fleeting dreams. Memories yet remained when this land had lived and thrived, before it was brought to its knees and executed by the powers beyond the mortal mind.

  And yet Slathir did not feel like a God.

  It was a silly thought. Gazing down at the blasted lands and destruction he had reeked with his own hands, what else could he be? What other beings on Andwelm could achieve a measure of this power? And what was he, if not a God? They were the first-born sons and daughters of Creation herself. They were the mother and father that had conceived the world, and they were the children she had cradled. He was a god, a mighty being of Andwelm, worshipped and revered by thousands.

  And yet he did not feel like a God.

  His sons fell upon the land beneath him, as near to divinity as any other immortal beings. They were crafted and born from his hands, entrusted with powers possessed only by gods, and yet they were only divine in the eyes of mortals. To them, they may have become named Gods, and yet they were not gods. Was that the difference? What was he missing?

  Six figures rained destruction and death on the land below. Six where there should have been seven. He felt a sharp pain run through his heart; the wound still fresh. In time, he would numb himself to the pain, maybe even heal. And yet he knew his sons would never heal, never forgive. Not even if all responsible, all related to those responsible, and the thousands around them for good measure had every bone in their body shattered and their souls condemned to the Realm of the Dead. In that way, they were too mortal.

  How could a God feel this way?

  He knew how his kin spoke of him. The God of Demons may be his deific designation, but many took to calling him the Lonely One. A very apt term. The first of his kind and forever aloof from their company. He who gave so much, too much, they whispered, of himself to his family. Enough that it had weakened him, giving parts away, making him more like them.

  And less like a God.

  And yet, could they not feel?

  In the depths of their souls, could they not feel the loss? A part of him was missing now, forever beyond his reach. Some of his kin were abrasive, yes, even callous, but what they weren’t was heartless. His own beating heart told him that truth, and he had seen it in them, too. Perhaps they were plagued by the same doubt he was, the same questions that scoured his mind. Was he so different?

  At that, he let out a single, humourless laugh.

  To call them callous now was to dismiss the macabre scene he had left behind him. The blood of an entire race of men was on his and his family’s hands, whether they were dead, dying, or would die in years to come. They had ensured a people’s extinction, for the actions of only a few. And even now, he could not find it in himself to mourn them, and maybe he never would.

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  Yes, as a God, he was beyond such things. That must be it.

  He had almost finished deceiving himself when his hand brushed his cheek and felt a cut on his skin. And impossible wound that he slowly bled from, merely a papercut to a mortal, probably not even worth bandaging.

  Such things were impossible for a God, whether he felt like one or not.

  Or maybe…they were not.

  Creation had a hand in everything, even those creations crafted by the hands of her children. Sometimes he felt they were all deluding themselves with inflated grandeur over their own constructs, and ignoring where that power truly came from, and to whom they owed their divinity. It all came back to Creation’s hands. And he had given onto Andwelm a way to wound a god. A way to resist a god. A way to kill a god.

  He had not made them infallible. Yet they called themselves Gods.

  Why? That line of questioning led down a dark path that even he feared to tread along. And he’d seen what happened to those who did.

  A blink of light caught his eye. The Sun’s beams were breaking through the red cloud bank, illuminating the parts of the land that had been cast into absolute darkness, hidden even from the light of the moons. The souls of the dead were scattered across the land, and it was not long before they began their advance to the next plane.

  How long until they notice?

  No doubt they already had.

  He could see her Light even now, in places where it should never have gone. A flash in a ruined city, growing brighter and brighter till it ripped itself from the ground and burst through the clouds and out of sight. He cared not for it.

  “Galumtir shall be overflowing today.”

  A presence brushed against his mind. “You always were a fan of understatements. I have my work cut out for me.” A female voice responded.

  He tilted his head as her face came into view. A figure coloured with faint indigo hair trailing off into nothingness and a soft, youthful face he had often found so beautiful. He bowed his head to the Goddess of Spirits. “I apologise, Steraf. I did not consider the burden I had placed upon you.”

  She sniffed, hovering in place beside him. Their lower bodies were like mist in the air. “It’s not the worst day I’ve had, but a forewarning would not have gone unwelcome.” She paused. “Many have already begun deliberating on your actions.”

  “As they should be. Why are you not with them?”

  She turned to him. “Because I wanted to ask you for myself, before coming to any conclusions. Why did you do it, Slathir?”

  He did not answer immediately, instead returning his gaze to the blackened earth beneath them, his mind filled with innumerable lamentations and questions. Eventually, one of them left his mouth.

  “What do you think makes us Gods, Steraf?”

  It did not take her long to answer. “Is it not the manner of our birth? Or rather, the nature of our being?”

  He gestured to the spanning world beneath them, “They were born and created from the same being as us. Our nature makes us a race more powerful than any other, but is it that power that makes one a God?”

  “Then, is it their perception of us? Their worship of us as higher powers?”

  He nodded, having considered that answer. And finding it a flawed one.

  “My sons and I have ensured the destruction of an entire race of Humans. If that were to happen to all mortal creatures and beings, each soul brought down to the hands of Teratheer and the Dead, there would be none left to worship us. None left to perceive us. Do we, then, stop being Gods?”

  “I…” Her voice petered out.

  He sighed, and for the second time, a tear ran down his cheek. Lifting it onto his finger, he gazed with interest at the speck of liquid. How curious it was that he rarely saw it.

  “They killed my son, Steraf.” The words felt raw as they left his mouth, like reality had finally finished its course and crashed down upon him like boulders onto the earth. The hurt in his chest exploded, clawing at his innards.

  A small gasp, “I’m… Slathir I…”

  She drew him close and embraced him. It was a feeling of warmth he was unused to, and he savoured the brief closure it brought him. Still, he gazed longingly into the distance, mind unable to pull away from the unwanted thoughts that tore at it.

  So he kept asking himself the same question, again and again.

  Why were some things beyond the control of a God?