"What they can't fully control... they put under a steel collar.
Then they give it a little power,
just enough to make it think it rules."
That's how the gods work.
They don't conquer—they chain.
The divine law forbids them from walking freely in the mortal realm,
so they did the next best thing—
they created ambassadors,
vessels of divinity bound by will and oath.
Controlled dolls.
Mortals painted in borrowed power.
They call them "Chosen."
The gods call them property.
Each domain has its master,
and each master bows to the hand that feeds them.
Power beyond imagination,
too tempting for mortals to reject—
and too corrupting for them to survive.
Every generation, a new "chosen" rises,
and another one dies forgotten,
their names erased, their ashes sanctified.
Seven domains.
Seven thrones of control.
The God of Weeping Stars sits highest,
his light searing truth and mercy alike.
And below them all—
the Forgotten God,
the anomaly.
The one whose power bends no law,
answers to no will,
and devours even the memory of his worshippers.
His domain is silent, eerie,
as though every prayer there
was swallowed by something that no longer exists.
The gods—
so radiant,
so "holy" in their ways—
appoint their slaves,
call them saints,
and send them to sniff out rebellion.
Every uprising needs a scapegoat, after all.
Every rebellion needs to burn
so faith may seem stronger.
Benevolent, aren't they?