Eryndor' POV
The days after my return were chaotic.
Word spread quickly through Aethermere about what had happened in the central square. The forgotten god had returned. A hundred mortals had openly defied the temples. The high gods themselves had descended and then left without punishing anyone.
People did not know what to think.
Some came to find me, curious about this god who spoke of freedom and choice. They gathered in the abandoned building where Lyra and her followers had set up a meeting place. It was not a proper temple, just an old warehouse with broken windows and a leaking roof. But it was ours, and that mattered more than comfort.
Others stayed away, afraid that associating with me would bring punishment. The temples had not taken action yet, but everyone knew they were watching. Waiting to see what I would do.
I spent most of my time talking to the people who came. They asked questions, and I tried to answer honestly.
"What does freedom mean?" a young woman asked. Her name was Tessa, and she worked in one of the city gardens. "The high gods say we are already free. We can choose what to eat, what to wear, how to spend our leisure time."
"Those are small choices," I said. "They are choices within a cage. Real freedom means choosing your own path. Deciding what work you want to do, where you want to live, what kind of person you want to become. Choices that actually shape your life, not just decorate it."
"But what if I choose wrong?" she asked. "What if I make a mistake that ruins everything?"
"Then you learn from it," I said. "And you make a different choice next time. That is how mortals grow. Through struggle and failure and trying again."
She looked uncertain, but she nodded and thanked me for talking with her.
The forgotten ones were adjusting to being in the mortal world again. It was strange for them after so long in the grey void. Everything was too bright, too loud, too real. They wandered the city, rediscovering what it meant to exist in a place where things actually changed and moved and lived.
Kael found work at the city gates, helping to guard against the wild animals that sometimes came close. It was not the same as being worshipped as the god of the hunt, but it gave him purpose. He came back to the warehouse each evening with stories about the deer he had seen, the tracks he had read, the old skills that were slowly coming back to him.
Nira went to the streams outside the city. She sat by the water for hours, just listening to it flow. Sometimes people saw her there and left small offerings, not knowing who she was but sensing something sacred about her presence.
But not all the forgotten ones adapted well. Some were angry that they had returned only to find they were still not worshipped. They had expected mortals to welcome them as saviors, but most mortals were too afraid or too uncertain to give them that kind of devotion.
Thorn was one of the angry ones. He came to me a week after our return, his face dark with frustration.
"This is not what you promised," he said. "You said we would return to purpose. You said mortals would need us again."
"They do need you," I said. "Just not in the way you expected."
"They do not even know our names. They walk past us like we are nothing."
"Because you have to earn their respect," I said. "You cannot demand worship. You have to show them why you matter."
"I am a god," Thorn said. His voice rose. "I should not have to prove anything to mortals."
"Then you have learned nothing from being forgotten," I said quietly. "The reason you fell to the Forgotten Realm in the first place was because you thought worship was owed to you. But it is not. It is given freely, or it means nothing."
Thorn stared at me for a long moment, then turned and walked away. I watched him go and wondered if I had made a mistake bringing the forgotten ones back with me. Not all of them were ready to be in a world where they had to earn their place instead of demand it.
That night, Lyra found me sitting alone on the roof of the warehouse. The city stretched out below us, lights glowing in windows, streets quiet as people settled into their assigned sleep hours.
"You look troubled," she said, sitting down beside me.
"I am questioning everything I have done," I admitted. "I brought the forgotten ones here thinking I was giving them a second chance. But some of them still think like gods. They still believe mortals exist to serve them."
"And you do not think that anymore?" Lyra asked.
I looked at her. "I am trying not to. But it is difficult to change the way you have thought for thousands of years. I still feel the pull sometimes, the desire to be worshipped, to have mortals look at me with awe and devotion. It feels good to be needed like that."
"There is nothing wrong with wanting to be needed," Lyra said. "As long as you do not confuse being needed with being owned."
Her words settled something in my chest. "You are wiser than I am."
She laughed. "I doubt that. But I have the advantage of being mortal. I know what it feels like to be controlled. You have only known what it feels like to have power over others."
We sat in silence for a while, watching the city. Then Lyra said, "The temples are planning something. I have heard rumors. They are gathering priests from other cities. They are talking about how to deal with you."
"I expected that," I said. "My siblings said they would seal me again if I harmed mortals. The temples will try to prove that I am a danger."
"Are you?" Lyra asked. She was not accusing, just curious.
"I do not know," I said honestly. "I am trying not to be. But I remember what I did before, and I am afraid I might do it again without meaning to. It is easy to think you are helping when you are actually manipulating. It's easy to think you are respecting choice when you are actually pushing people toward the choice you want them to make."
"Then keep questioning yourself," Lyra said. "Keep doubting. It is when you are certain you are right that you become dangerous."
I looked at her and felt something I had not felt in a very long time. Gratitude. Not for worship or devotion, but for honest companionship. For someone who saw my flaws and chose to help me face them instead of pretending they did not exist.
"Thank you," I said.
She smiled. "You are welcome. Now come inside. We have a meeting tonight. More people want to hear what you have to say about freedom."
I followed her down from the roof and into the warehouse. About thirty people had gathered, sitting on old crates and broken furniture. They looked at me with a mixture of hope and fear as I entered.
I stood before them and took a deep breath. "I want to be honest with you," I said. "I do not have all the answers. I am not a perfect god who will guide you flawlessly toward happiness. I am trying to learn how to be better than I was before. And that means I will make mistakes. I will say the wrong things sometimes. I will give bad advice sometimes. I need you to understand that before you decide to follow me."
The crowd was quiet. Then an older man spoke up. "The high gods never admit they might be wrong. They tell us they know what is best and we should trust them completely."
"Yes," I said. "And that is part of the problem. No one should have that much power over another person's life. Not even gods. Especially not gods."
"So what do we do?" the man asked. "How do we live without someone telling us the right path?"
"You figure it out together," I said. "You talk to each other. You share your experiences and your mistakes and your successes. You build communities based on mutual respect instead of divine authority. And when you fail, because you will fail sometimes, you help each other recover and try again."
A young man raised his hand. "But what about the big questions? What about meaning and purpose? The high gods gave us that. They told us our role in the world. Without them, how do we know why we exist?"
"You decide for yourself," I said. "That is the hardest part of freedom. You do not get a ready-made purpose handed to you. You have to discover it or create it. And your purpose might be different from someone else's purpose. That is okay. That is how it should be."
The questions continued for hours. I answered as best I could, always trying to push the responsibility back to them instead of giving them easy answers. It was exhausting. Being a god who admitted uncertainty was much harder than being a god who claimed to know everything.
When the meeting finally ended and people began to leave, Corvin approached me. He looked nervous.
"I need to tell you something," he said. "I have been thinking about leaving Aethermere. About going to one of the other cities to see what life is like there. But I am afraid."
"Afraid of what?" I asked.
"Afraid that I will get there and realize I made a mistake. That I gave up safety for nothing."
"That might happen," I said. "But it might not. The only way to find out is to try."
"And if I fail? If I cannot survive on my own?"
"Then you come back," I said. "Or you go somewhere else. Or you ask for help. Freedom does not mean you have to do everything alone. It just means you get to choose who you ask for help and what kind of help you accept."
Corvin nodded slowly. "Will you be angry if I fail?"
"No," I said. "I will be proud that you tried."
He smiled then, some of the fear leaving his face. "All right. I will think about it."
As he walked away, I felt Mira's presence nearby. She materialized in the shadows, her transparent form barely visible in the dim light.
"You are doing better than I expected," she said.
"Are you here to warn me again?" I asked.
"No. I am here to watch. To see if you can truly change, or if you will fall back into old patterns."
"I am trying to change," I said.
"I know. But trying is not the same as succeeding. The real test will come when things get difficult. When mortals make choices you do not agree with. When they hurt themselves or each other with their freedom. That is when you will find out if you truly believe in what you are preaching, or if you were just saying words."
She faded before I could respond, leaving me alone in the empty warehouse.
I stood there for a long time, thinking about her words. She was right. So far, the choices my followers had made were small ones. Safe ones. But eventually, someone would make a choice that led to real harm. Real suffering. And when that happened, I would have to decide whether to intervene or to let them face the consequences of their freedom.
I was not sure what I would do when that moment came.
And that uncertainty terrified me.