“Before mountains learned silence,

  before rivers learned patience,

  before men learned fear…

  there were gods.

  Four who ruled the sky,

  four who ruled the earth,

  four who ruled the breath between.

  They did not conquer.

  They did not command.

  They existed — and existence obeyed.

  Flow moved because Huyin willed it.

  Strength endured because Grasan hungered.

  Balance held because Maeraphis watched.

  Fate continued because Itomei listened.

  And so long as the Four remained,

  the world could not break.

  But even heaven is not beyond disagreement.

  They spoke.

  They argued.

  They divided.

  The sky trembled.

  The earth remembered.

  And then—

  they were gone.

  No storm followed.

  No fire fell.

  No voice declared why.

  For the reason the gods turned upon one another…

  was lost to time.”

  The old man’s voice faded into the desert wind.

  Sand whispered beneath their feet as they walked.

  Hakobi stretched before them — a land of amber light and ancient stillness. Dunes rolled endlessly beneath the sun like sleeping giants, broken only by weathered pillars of stone and distant cliffs carved smooth by centuries of wind. Herds of long-legged beasts crossed the horizon in patient silence while flying creatures traced slow circles overhead, as if guarding the sky itself.

  At the heart of this golden expanse rose the Shrine of Maeraphis.

  It did not tower like a fortress.

  It endured like a promise.

  Massive columns shaped like carved animal limbs supported its entrance, each etched with perfectly mirrored symbols. Statues of beasts and birds stood along the steps — lions beside falcons, jackals beside hawks — all facing inward, as though guarding something sacred from imbalance.

  In Hakobi, Maeraphis was not merely worshipped.

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  He was trusted.

  For it was said that when the world was first born wild and cruel, it was Maeraphis who taught beasts not to devour without reason, and skies not to storm without warning.

  Beside the old man walked a boy with bright eyes and restless energy.

  “Grandfather,” he asked softly, gripping the elder’s sleeve, “today… they choose one of them again?”

  The old man smiled, the lines of his face gentle beneath the sun.

  “Yes, Rami. Today the world learns which child carries Maeraphis’ last breath.”

  Rami’s chest lifted proudly.

  Ten years old. Barefoot. Linen sash tied neatly. Chin raised.

  He was not afraid.

  Everyone said he would be chosen.

  He had always learned faster than the others. Moved quicker. Understood sooner. Even the shrine tutors whispered when he passed, thinking he could not hear.

  Gifted.

  Blessed.

  Destined.

  His grandmother rested her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Do not fear, child.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Rami said quickly.

  He wasn’t.

  Only his heart was loud.

  Heroes’ hearts were loud.

  Inside, the shrine air was warm and heavy with incense. Light streamed through narrow openings above, falling in slow columns that drifted with dust. The sandstone floor was worn smooth by generations of footsteps.

  Children stood in a line stretching toward the altar.

  Some stared down.

  Some sniffled.

  Some whispered prayers.

  At the front stood the High Priest of Hakobi.

  Still as carved stone.

  Before him rested a block of obsidian.

  Beside it—

  a blade.

  Its edge shone pale as moonlight.

  No one explained its purpose.

  None needed it explained.

  No mother in Hakobi called this cruelty.

  No father called it murder.

  For if one child must fall so that a god may rise, then that fall was not death.

  It was offering.

  This was the Trial of Worth.

  Every fifty years, one avatar of each god was born into the world. Ten years earlier, the most recent child marked by Maeraphis had come into life. Since that day, the shrine watchers had observed every promising child across Hakobi, measuring skill, instinct, discipline, and spirit. Only those whose gifts rose unmistakably above the rest were summoned here.

  For the elders did not choose blindly.

  They chose the exceptional.

  The law carved into Hakobi’s oldest tablets declared:

  A true avatar cannot be slain by mortal steel.

  Therefore—

  Those who die are not chosen.

  Those who live are divine.

  Cruel.

  Just...

  Necessary.

  For generations the tribes had waited for this moment.

  When all four avatars of a god were found, that god could be summoned.

  When a god was summoned, dominion could be claimed.

  And when dominion was claimed, the wars would end.

  Or so the world believed.

  The priest raised one hand.

  The murmurs ceased.

  Silence filled the shrine.

  He pointed.

  A boy stepped forward.

  The blade rose.

  Fell.

  A dull sound.

  The body dropped.

  The priest did not look down.

  He pointed again.

  Another child.

  Another fall.

  Another stillness.

  Rami watched carefully.

  Not frightened.

  Focused.

  So that’s how it works, he thought.

  His grandfather knelt beside him and whispered, “Remember what I told you.”

  Rami nodded.

  He remembered every word.

  The line shortened.

  Steel rose.

  Steel fell.

  Stone drank.

  One child sobbed before stepping forward. Another froze. One tried to turn back but was gently guided forward.

  The blade never rushed.

  Never hesitated.

  It simply obeyed.

  The air thickened with the scent of iron.

  Rami swallowed.

  His heart was loud now.

  Still—

  he did not tremble.

  Because he knew.

  The priest lifted his hand again.

  And pointed.

  At him.

  A murmur rippled through the shrine.

  “That’s the boy.”

  “The talented one.”

  “The prodigy.”

  “It must be him.”

  His grandmother’s eyes filled with shining pride. She clasped her hands, whispering thanks before the verdict had even come.

  His grandfather placed a steady palm between Rami’s shoulders.

  “Go,” he said softly.

  Rami stepped forward.

  Each footstep echoed.

  Warm stone. Bare feet. Silent air.

  He reached the obsidian block.

  Placed his hands upon it.

  It was warm from the sun.

  He smiled faintly.

  This was the moment.

  The moment the gods chose him.

  The priest raised the blade.

  Light slid across its edge.

  For a single instant, Rami wondered if avatars felt pain.

  Then he decided—

  It won’t matter.

  He closed his eyes.

  For one suspended instant, even the air seemed to hold its breath.

  The blade fell.

  A sound.

  Not divine.

  Not miraculous.

  Not impossible.

  Just—

  final.

  The body collapsed beside the stone.

  Blood spread slowly across the black surface.

  Silence filled the shrine.

  Heavy.

  Unmoving.

  Rami’s grandmother did not scream at first.

  She stared.

  As if the world had made a mistake.

  As if reality would correct itself.

  Her hands lifted slightly toward him—

  Then the sound tore from her.

  A shattered cry, raw and breaking, echoing against the pillars.

  She collapsed to her knees.

  His grandfather did not move.

  He stood frozen.

  Eyes wide.

  Breath gone.

  Because the gods had not chosen him.

  Behind them, the children still waiting stared in horror.

  One began to cry.

  Another whispered, “He… he died…”

  The line no longer felt like a line.

  It felt like a grave waiting its turn.

  The priest raised his hand again.

  And pointed for the next child.