Chapter 4 – The Body Decays
They did not stop until dawn.
The desert gave way to crumbling stone, the bones of a city half-swallowed by sand. Pillars jutted from the dunes like broken ribs, inscriptions devoured by wind. Here, even the sun seemed afraid to rise fully.
Elian stumbled, breath ragged. "We can't—keep going—"
The god halted only when Elian's knees hit the sand. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rasp of the wind, and the faint, rhythmic hum that seemed to follow wherever the god walked.
Then the god crouched beside him.
"You are fragile," he said, not unkindly. "I forget that."
Elian gave a weak laugh. "You could try being less immortal about it."
Something flickered across the god's expression—something human. He reached out, brushed sand from Elian's hair, and the touch left a faint warmth that lingered even after his hand fell away. "There," he said softly. "Better."
Elian looked up. The god's pupils were rimmed with light now, the glow uneven, as though fire burned beneath cracked glass. "You're changing," Elian said. "You look—"
"Wrong?"
"No. Dying."
The god's lips curved faintly. "Decay is not death. It is remembrance made flesh. My form was bound to this body when they sealed me; to walk the world again means to bear its rot."
He rose, swaying slightly, and for the first time Elian saw how unsteady he was. The god's hands trembled. Beneath the skin, black veins pulsed with dull light, crawling up his arms like ink in water.
Elian stood. "You're hurt."
"Not hurt," the god murmured. "Hungry."
Before Elian could speak, the god turned away. His bare feet sank into the sand, and where they touched, the earth smoked faintly. He moved toward the ruins ahead—a collapsed temple whose marble doors still bore faint glyphs of wings and fire.
Inside, the air was cool and still. Moonlight filtered through holes in the ceiling, catching dust motes that drifted like pale embers. A broken statue lay in the center—its face eroded, its arms raised as if in supplication. Around it, faded murals depicted a god crowned in flame kneeling beside his creations.
Elian traced the symbols with his fingers. "This was one of yours?"
The god's voice echoed softly. "One of the first places I walked among them. Before they learned to pray out of fear."
Elian turned—and froze.
The god was on his knees, head bowed, breath coming ragged. Black ichor seeped from his mouth, streaking his chin before sinking into the floor and vanishing like smoke. His body flickered between radiance and shadow, light bleeding from his skin in uneven bursts.
Elian rushed forward. "What can I do?"
The god's hand shot out, gripping Elian's wrist with bruising strength. His eyes blazed gold. "Do not touch me. It will take what remains of you."
But Elian didn't move away. "Then tell me how to stop it."
The god's grip loosened. His voice broke, low and hoarse. "They bound my power to the relics scattered when I fell. Without them, I am trapped between divinity and flesh. The vessel decays because the divinity within it cannot rest."
Elian's heart hammered. "How many relics?"
"Seven." A bitter smile ghosted across the god's lips. "One for each liar who chained me."
He released Elian and leaned back against the statue, eyes half-lidded. "I need them back before this form rots away entirely."
Elian swallowed. "And if it does?"
"Then I will rot with it," he said simply. "And the world will keep its silence."
Silence stretched between them. Elian knelt beside him, close enough to see the faint shimmer that rose from the god's skin—a haze of heat, light, and something alive. The god looked at him, and for an instant, Elian thought the light in his eyes dimmed not from pain but from something like tenderness.
"You should rest," Elian said.
"I do not sleep."
"Then pretend you can."
For a long time, neither moved. The god's breathing slowed, though his chest still glowed faintly beneath the torn cloth he wore. Elian found himself watching that light—the rise and fall of it—like one watches the sea, hypnotized.
He did not realize he'd leaned closer until the god spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
"You fear me."
Elian startled. "I—should I not?"
The god's hand rose, fingertips brushing the side of Elian's throat. The touch was featherlight, but it made every nerve sing. "Fear is the first prayer ever uttered," he murmured. "And the last."
Elian swallowed hard. "What does that make this?"
The god's gaze lingered on him—a mixture of curiosity, hunger, and sorrow. "A mistake."
He drew his hand back, and the air between them cooled instantly. Outside, thunder rolled across the horizon. The false dawn of the Council's light began to spread again, chasing the last remnants of night.
Elian stood, shaken. "They're still searching."
"They always are," the god said quietly. "They will send their saints next."
"Saints?"
"Bodies that glow," the god said. "Empty things filled with pieces of me."
Elian's stomach turned. "You mean—"
"They took my light," the god whispered. "And made it their holiness."
---
Far away, in the Hall of Illumination, the Silent Seraph stood before a mirror of liquid gold. From its surface, a dozen figures stepped forth—perfect, radiant, smiling without eyes.
"Find the vessel," the First Radiant commanded.
"And bring him the faith he forgot."
The saints bowed as one and dissolved into beams of light.
---
Back in the ruins, the god's glow dimmed to embers. He pressed a hand to his chest, expression unreadable. "It begins," he murmured.
Elian looked toward him. "What does?"
"The hunt."
Then, softer—almost to himself—
"And the decay of gods."