The waterfall roared under the moonlight, but the camp was silent. One by one, Jax's women went inside the damp cave to sleep, exhausted from days of travel. He, however, stayed outside. As a demigod, sleep didn't bind him. He just sat there, back against a rock, eyes fixed on the stream.
His fingers played with a golden spark of faith. So little… barely a thread of energy floating between his hands. He had spent five years trying to develop something with it, and all he could manage were simple shapes: blades of light, ephemeral wings to glide, platforms to boost himself. Useful tricks, but unworthy of a god.
"This is what a mortal would do," he thought bitterly. "But I don't want to fight like a mortal… I want to fight like that celestial."
The memory still burned: that divine presence, the way reality itself bent to his gestures. It wasn't throwing a lightning bolt or wielding a spear—it was imposing his will as law. And Jax wanted that.
