In the realm beyond mortal comprehension—where light bent and space had no meaning—the surviving gods gathered.
A field of golden wheat swayed softly despite the absence of wind, and the God of Harvest stood within it, his bare feet brushing against the divine stalks.
His expression, once warm and generous, now bore an edge of unease. He turned toward a shifting swirl of air that slowly took shape into a man clad in robes made of stormclouds.
The God of Wind, Zephyr, nodded in silent greeting.
"We're not going to survive this, are we?"
The God of Harvest asked.
Zephyr didn't answer at first. Instead, his eyes moved to the empty sky.
"Only five left… out of the twelve."
"Lucia's acting strangely. Arkenas isn't keen on doing anything new either, and the God of War is marshalling his forces for what he calls a final stand."
The Harvest God clenched his fist.
"If he falls, if even he can't stop Kyle—what happens then? What do we do?"
