The ash never stopped falling.
It drifted from the red sky in slow, soundless sheets, coating the broken land in gray and black until the world felt half-buried, suffocating beneath its own remains.
Riel felt as though he had been awake for days and seconds all at once, his thoughts blurring at the edges while his awareness stayed painfully sharp. Every heartbeat felt delayed, stretched thin, while the ache in his bones refused to fade. Hunger gnawed at him, yet his stomach felt heavy, packed with stone. Exhaustion hollowed him out, but sleep remained impossibly distant.
Sacrifice.
The word surfaced unbidden, pulled from memory.
High Ardent Lysara's voice echoed faintly in his mind—calm, merciless.
Rituals demand an answer. And answers demand a price.
Riel swallowed.
He did not know how long he had before it returned. The Crawling Star—no, that crawling star, the name a thin shield against madness—had already passed once. He could still feel where its presence had scraped against his thoughts, peeling at him, testing the edges of his mind.
It would come back.
That certainty sat heavy in his gut, cold and absolute.
He kept drawing.
The circle was crude compared to the polished sigils of the Ritual Hall—uneven lines, imperfect curves—but his hand did not waver. Each stroke was deliberate, driven by intent rather than precision. Blood and ash marked the boundary, a fragile declaration of will in a place that devoured such things.
As he worked, he prayed.
Not to one god.
Not to one name.
He prayed to all of them.
To the distant, silent gods who ruled the heavens.
To the demigods who walked beneath them.
To any being that might listen.
"I offer this," he whispered, his voice raw. "The titan's body—and all it holds within."
The ash thickened around him, swirling faintly.
He forced his breathing to steady, anchoring himself to the words Lysara had burned into him long ago.
Doubt kills faith faster than corruption.
His hands stung. His heart hammered. Fear clawed at his spine—but he did not let it take hold.
"I ask for protection," he continued. "For help."
The ground beneath him trembled.
The titan's corpse responded.
Shadow pooled beneath the giant's body, the black mass thickening and spreading, its edges writhing as though half-alive. A low pressure rolled through the air, heavy enough to make Riel's ears ring. Slowly, the titan's body began to dissolve, its massive form melting down and merging with the darkness below.
Then—stillness.
Phwmp.
The sky shifted.
Something vast moved above the ash clouds, bending the red haze around it. Light bled through in fractured, molten streaks as the Crawling Star descended once more.
Riel froze.
It was worse up close.
Its body resembled molten glass stretched impossibly thin, glowing veins of radiant ichor pulsing beneath its surface. Tendrils of light dragged behind it, trailing across the sky like burning threads. Where it passed, the air bent, thoughts warping under the sheer pressure of its presence.
It did not see with eyes.
It felt.
Riel felt its attention brush against him—testing, sniffing, peeling.
His muscles locked. His breath hitched painfully in his chest. Fear unlike anything he had ever known flooded him, ancient and instinctive. His vision darkened at the edges as his body stiffened, flesh threatening to turn to stone beneath its gaze.
He was going to die.
Just before the Crawling Star reached him—
The shadow moved.
The pool where the corpse had been surged upward violently, erupting into a mass of black spikes and tendrils that wrapped around the Crawling Star with terrifying speed. The creature shrieked—not in sound, but in crushing pressure—as it writhed, struggling like an insect caught in a giant's grasp.
Riel watched, frozen, as the impossible unfolded.
The shadows pierced it.
Spikes drove through its radiant body, cracking its molten surface as brilliant ichor poured free, streaming downward in glowing rivulets. The light dimmed as the shadows drank deeply, swallowing every drop.
The Crawling Star thrashed once more—
Then went still.
The shadows collapsed inward, dragging both ichor and the Crawling Star into the pool. Within seconds, the ground lay empty once more, as though nothing had ever been there.
Except—
A thin spear of shadow lashed outward.
It struck Riel directly in the forehead.
Pain exploded through his skull.
He screamed, collapsing backward as darkness tore through him—through his thoughts, his senses, his very sense of self. The world spun violently, his vision fracturing as something passed into him.
Then—silence.
When Riel finally came to, the ash was still falling.
He lay gasping within the ritual circle, his entire body slick with sweat, his head pounding violently. Slowly, shakily, he pushed himself upright.
Something was different.
He could feel it.
The shadows around him felt closer—responsive, almost eager. They shifted subtly as he moved, brushing against his awareness like familiar hands.
As he looked down, his breath caught.
The ritual circle had changed.
The blood-and-ash sigil was no longer crude. The lines had sharpened, twisting into a symbol he had never drawn yet somehow recognized—a crescent fang curved like a blade, wrapped in layered shadow.
The mark of the Night's Silent Fang.
Riel's chest tightened.
He knew the name.
Everyone did.
The demigods were not myths. They were history made immortal.
Fourteen seats in total. No more. No less.
Each god held only two demigods beneath them—fixed, absolute. Mortals who had ascended long ago: heroes, tyrants, saints, monsters, each elevated through feats no one alive truly understood anymore.
The Herald of the Roaring Sky, who ruled lightning beneath the Crimson Maw of Cinder.
Sunlight's Grace, bound to the Infinite Dawn.
The Night's Silent Fang, servant of the Eternal Ocean of Silver.
Once mortals.
All of them had been.
But ascension was not talent alone. A seat had to be empty—and a demigod had not fallen in eons. Not one.
No matter how gifted a mortal was, the ceiling remained absolute.
Riel pressed trembling fingers to his forehead, feeling faint warmth beneath his skin—a lingering echo of shadow.
This was a blessing. A blessing of shadow. The Night's Silent Fang—a personification of darkness and silence—had touched him.
There was no time to dwell on it.
Above him, the red sky churned silently, ash drifting endlessly downward, and his heart pounded hard enough to shake his chest.
He needed to leave this place.