40. A New God Approaches
Chapter forty
A New God Approaches
Ambrose
The pain should have killed me. Instead, it became something more.
I feel the dagger—Vaer'kryn is its name, the Blade of Shattered Hours. A weapon not forged by mortal hands, but birthed from the molten core of time itself, a tool meant to cut between worlds and sever destinies. It has buried itself into my heart. It has become my heart.
I gasp as it pulses once, twice—sending shockwaves through my flesh, warping bone, twisting sinew into something that no longer belongs to simple existence.
Vengeance.
It is a beautiful, terrible thing.
It can keep a man breathing long after hope has rotted away.
It gnaws at the bones of your soul, hollowing you out from the inside, until there's nothing left but raw, blinding purpose.
Until you are no longer a man, but a force—a storm with skin stretched thin across its fury.
I open my eyes.
She stands before me—my oldest sister—smirking over the rim of a delicate porcelain teacup like we are simply sharing a quiet morning. "Awake, my god," she says, her voice rich with amusement. "Took you long enough."
I drag in a breath. The air tastes different now—denser, electric. I can feel every thread of possibility, every sharp edge of choice splintering around me like glass.
"It worked," I rasp, marveling at the sound of my own voice, deeper, layered with something not entirely mortal. I press a hand to the dagger jutting from my chest, feeling its rhythm thrumming in tandem with my own.
"Breathe deep, little brother," she says, stepping closer. "We've done it. Now... let me crown you properly."
She reaches up, fingers tracing ancient sigils into the air.
They burn blue and silver and black. "You are no longer just Ambrose," she states, a wicked grin curving her mouth.
"You are Verlin, God of Vengeance. A god not born of the Primordials, but standing just beneath them—an echo of their ruinous will. "
I look down at myself—still humanoid, but...
changed. My veins glow faintly beneath my skin like silver rivers.
My fingertips bear claw-like black marks, as if the essence of finality has stained me.
The soles of my feet leave faint impressions of shadow with every step, smoldering lightly before fading.
And Vaer'kryn—the dagger—still juts from my sternum like a reminder, a crown, and a brand.
A wound that will never close. A promise that will never be broken.
My sister smiles, watching the new god take shape before her. "Well, little brother," she says, sipping her tea casually, "she remembered him. They're together now. What shall we do?"
I smile, feeling the raw, blistering hunger ripple through my new form. They thought it was over. They had no idea what they have birthed.
"Many things, sister," I say, my voice a velvet blade. "Many, many things."
I turn, the desert wind howling around me, and feel the first rumble of darkness stir beneath my feet. "But we can start," I say, "by planning a sweeter revenge."