The Cradle of the Gods loomed before them — a cathedral so vast it seemed to hold up the sky itself.
Seven symbols hung suspended above its highest spires, each one a burning sigil representing a god: a silver crescent, a golden sunburst, a spiral of flame, a crown of thorns, a glimmering wave, a war-scarred blade, and a thousand-pointed star. They turned slowly in perfect silence, their light spilling across marble courtyards below.
A wide avenue led toward the gates, lined with statues of heroes long gone — saints, warriors, dreamers, monsters. Their stone faces watched every passerby, expressions worn by time yet still alive with divine memory.
Faint hymns drifted through the air, voices with no singers, echoing like whispers from some faraway heaven.
It was said the gods still breathed through this place. Riel believed it. He could feel their gaze — heavy, radiant, like starlight pressing against his skin. The nerves clawed at him, even after the revelations of the past nights. He was just a Hand, after all. But he would prove he belonged here.
He peered through the carriage window. Dark beings swooped above — twisted silhouettes, wings stretched too far.
Even here, at the holiest place on the continent, they lingered.
Pests.
Their malformed limbs and twitching bodies sickened him.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Kaelith turned, grin bright as ever. "The Cradle of the Gods — heart of the mortal faiths. They say the walls were carved by angels from the First Sphere."
Riel smiled politely. "It's… something."
Kaelith laughed. "You're as enthusiastic as ever, Riel." He clapped him on the shoulder, almost brotherly. "Ha, it's too quiet. Feels like the whole place is watching you."
"I think it is."
"Then don't blink." Kaelith's grin widened. "They say the statues get bored when no one looks at them."
The Cradle's main hall was vast and cold, its walls carved with murals of emotionless faces gazing down from the marble. The gods stared as if expecting reverence — or obedience — from those who had come to claim their favor.
Hands and Disciples filled the space, their robes whispering against stone. Not everyone brought a Hand; many carried themselves with the pride of the Chosen — those touched by more than one patron deity. Their confidence shimmered like heat, an unspoken declaration: I need no one.
Riel stood apart, half in light, half in shadow, watching the divine children boast and barter like merchants of glory. The vastness of the place pressed against him — all that ambition, all that faith.
He thought briefly of Edris, the Moon's blood-soaked disciple, then of Elaine and her gentle resolve. The thought steadied him.
Kaelith, ever radiant, was already charming a cluster of new arrivals, his easy grin widening with every introduction. Even here, among gods' favorites, he shone.
Riel stayed quiet — until a sharp voice broke his silence.
"You there! The Hand."
He turned. A girl with wild curls and ink-stained fingertips squinted at him, holding a vial of blue liquid that pulsed like something alive. "Can you hold this? If it spills, we're both in trouble."
He blinked. "What—?"
Before he could finish, she thrust it into his hands. "Don't drop it." Then she sprinted off, robes flapping, shouting at a scholar with hair far too neat for comfort.
Riel looked down. The vial shimmered, its contents swirling like a sleeping eye beneath glass. "What the hell is this place?" he muttered.
Moments later, the girl returned, slightly breathless but beaming. "Sorry about that! Myra Lenne — child of the Wild and amateur alchemist. That potion would've turned you into a walking, talking tree. Branches everywhere." She mimed the transformation, her voice way too casual for such a horrifying image.
Riel stared at her, torn between disbelief and concern for her sanity. Myra only grinned wider before darting off again, clutching the vial protectively.
A soft chuckle came from behind him. "Welcome to the Cradle," Kaelith said, amusement coloring his tone. "You'll fit right in."
Riel sighed but couldn't help smiling. For all the madness, for all the noise, he felt something stir — not quite belonging, but close. A new mountain to climb, even if it meant standing in Kaelith's shadow.
That night, the Cradle transformed. Thousands of floating orbs rose into the air, glowing softly — miniature stars that bathed the marble courtyards in silver light. From below, it looked as though the gods had wept their tears upon the earth.
Kaelith stood on a high balcony, the wind tugging at his robes, his gaze fixed on the heavens. "You ever wonder," he said quietly, "what it'll feel like? To awaken your soul? To see what shape it takes?"
Riel joined him, eyes following the drifting lights. "I've thought about it," he said simply.
Kaelith's lips curved — not quite a smile, but something close. "I think yours would be calm," he said. "Like shadows painted by the moon… or a sea beneath starlight."
Before Riel could respond, a faint light flickered across Kaelith's chest.
It grew — silver and gold intertwining, forming a perfect eclipse that shimmered with quiet majesty. For an instant, the air felt charged, divine.
"This," Kaelith murmured, his voice low and reverent, "is my soul. The sun and moon converged — light bound to light."
Riel stared. For a heartbeat, awe filled him — but behind it, something else stirred. As the eclipse burned bright, he caught a glimpse of a fleeting shadow passing through Kaelith's form — something vast and ancient, like a whisper of divine horror.
Then it was gone.
Kaelith turned to him, still smiling, unaware of what had just passed.
Riel said nothing. Just stared at the lights above pondering their future.
He returned to his humble quarters — a narrow room, a coarse bed, the air heavy with dust and cold breath. The Cradle offered no luxury to Hands. Their worth was measured only by how long they could survive.
He sat at the edge of his bed, fingers curling against the blanket.
He could still feel it — the monster's grin beneath the veil of sleep, that slithering whisper that mocked his weakness.
He wanted to return.
To hear it scream.
To make it bleed.
Riel closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again, the forest was waiting.
The trees were black veins against a dying sky, their leaves whispering in an alien tongue. Mist crawled across the ground like a living thing. The smell — damp soil, rot, and something metallic — flooded his lungs.
He picked up the crooked branch again, his fingers wrapping around it like it was made for him.
The nightmare stirred.
The same hulking silhouette rose from the mist, its movements uneven, jagged — wounded from their last encounter. A hollow rasp escaped its many throats.
It remembered him too.
Riel didn't wait. He charged.
The beast lunged, but slower than before — a wound gaping across its chest, ichor leaking in thick black streams. Its claws raked through the air where he'd stood moments ago. He ducked low, rolling beneath its swing, the crooked branch humming faintly in his grip — his will bleeding into it.
He struck once, twice — the wood cracking against the monster's leg, and something inside it snapped.
A sound like cracking glass filled the forest.
The creature convulsed — its form breaking down, skin splitting open as new limbs erupted from its flesh. Branch-like arms sprouted from its ribs, twitching violently. Eyes began bursting across its body, each one wide and terrified, darting in all directions. Its mouth — or what remained of it — split too far, leaking darkness.
Riel didn't flinch. Nothing could scare him now, not when he was so close.
This was just another obstacle in his way.
He thrust the branch forward, driving it into the beast's chest — again and again — until it howled, black ichor splattering across his face and hands. Its many voices screamed, overlapping in terror, in agony, in rage.
"You're not real," Riel hissed, breath shaking. "You're nothing."
Light flared from the point of impact — faint at first, then blinding. The creature writhed, clawing at its own body as if to tear the light out, until finally, with one last roar, it collapsed into ash and silence.
The forest trembled.
Then it was gone — swallowed by stillness.
Riel stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck. His hands were shaking, but not from fear. The crooked branch was glowing faintly, silver lines pulsing along its grain — runes forming where his grip had been.
The branch morphed, sharpening, condensing. A dagger took shape — a misericorde, identical to the one he had forged to slay the blight.
He stared at it, dazed.
Then, for the first time in sixteen years, he smiled — a real, unguarded smile.
Sixteen years of torment. Sixteen years of dying in that creature's jaws.
Tonight, it ended.
And as he woke, the silver light followed him — flickering faintly in his eyes.