The glare of white light stabbed into Rowan’s skull as he groaned awake. Blinking rapidly, he took in his surroundings—polished stone, gleaming steel, symmetry so perfect it felt unnatural. Even the air was sterile, like the whole place had been scrubbed of anything resembling life.

  He shifted, fingers brushing over the smooth tile. Something soft nudged his wrist. A neatly folded white robe. A not-so-subtle suggestion.

  “Oh, piss off,” he muttered, swatting it aside. He wasn’t about to play dress-up for Ellie’s dystopian utopia. His hoodie was still intact, dusted with fine debris, and he took a petty sort of satisfaction in brushing it off.

  “Damn.” His voice shattered the silence like a stain on fresh linen. He took a slow, careful breath. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” He sat up, rolling his shoulders. “Damn.”

  “Prisoner! Stand!”

  The command rang through the air—clear, crisp, and absolute, each syllable a perfect musical note.

  Rowan turned toward the source. A woman stepped forward—if she could even be called that. Her form flickered, shifting between fluidity and sharp precision, as though made entirely of light trapped in glass. But she wasn’t light. She wasn’t even alive. She was an idea given shape, a construct held together by Ellie’s will.

  A chrome rod gleamed in her grip, held with the casual authority of someone who expected compliance. The way it caught the light made it look suspiciously like a weapon.

  Rowan sat up, rubbing at his temples. His head ached, but otherwise, he felt… fine. Which was suspicious in itself. Ellie never gave without expecting something in return.

  A sharp heat pricked at his senses, drawing his attention. The construct loomed over him, its form flickering like light trapped in glass.

  The chrome rod in its grip twitched, and Rowan had no doubts about its purpose. “Prisoner! Stand!”

  He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.” He rolled onto his feet, swaying slightly.

  He wasn’t restrained. No shackles. No visible wounds. Nothing but the sterile weight of Ellie’s judgment pressing in from all sides. He stretched his fingers, flexed his arms—everything still worked. Small mercies.

  His eyes flicked to the construct’s weapon, then to the door behind it—seamless, silent. No visible handle. Of course, there wouldn’t be an easy way out. Not here. Not with Ellie.

  “Figures,” he muttered.

  The construct didn’t react, simply turning on its heel and gesturing for him to follow.

  He hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair. It had been twenty-six years since he and Ellie had last stood face-to-face. She was the one who found the cave, the one who deciphered the symbols. The one who brought them all to the precipice of godhood.

  And the one who left him behind.

  He didn’t want ascension. He wanted her. That was the mistake.

  “Prisoner! Move!”

  Rowan sighed and followed, smudging his fingers along the perfectly polished wall as he passed. Might as well leave a little mess behind.

  The sentinel’s rod flicked out, striking Rowan’s throat like a brand of pure sunfire. Agony surged through him—not just his body but his very essence, thread by thread, unraveling like a frayed rope. For a brief, hellish eternity, he wasn’t a person. He wasn’t anything. Just pain.

  And then, just as suddenly, it was over.

  Rowan collapsed, gasping, his hands clawing at the floor. His chest heaved. His fingers twitched. Had he been screaming? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was the burn lingering in his throat and the sharp, electric aftershocks rattling through his bones.

  The construct loomed over him, its voice as unwavering as before. “Prisoner! Stand!”

  Rowan swallowed, wincing at the rawness in his throat. His breath shuddered out. For a second, he just sat there, fingers curling against the smooth tile.

  He should stay quiet. Just long enough to catch his breath.

  But silence felt too much like surrender.

  “You ever heard of a warning shot?” His voice barely held together, rough and uneven. “No? Just straight to the righteous smiting? Figures.”

  He staggered to his feet, careful not to fall again. He’d rather die than face that pain a second time.

  “Follow,” the construct commanded.

  Rowan’s gaze darted for an opening, but the hallway beyond the cell was a polished stretch of nothing. No doors, no shadows to disappear into. Just one long, gleaming path to whatever Ellie had planned next.

  His shoes squeaked against the tile as he stepped forward. He trailed a hand along the wall as he walked, leaving behind faint, greasy fingerprints. A quiet, petty rebellion.

  “I don’t suppose we’re on our way for donuts and coffee?” Rowan asked, his voice lighter than he felt.

  The construct turned toward him, and if a being of light could glare, it did. “Silence.”

  The word burned across his skin, a warning far gentler than before—but before he could push his luck, the sentinel at his side shifted one step closer, cutting off his space with smooth, calculated efficiency.

  Not a threat. Not a reaction. Just enforcement.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Rowan exhaled sharply through his nose. Right. No point poking something that didn’t care if it was poked. He gritted his teeth and kept walking.

  The construct touched the seamless door, and the metal melted away without a sound.

  Rowan tensed. That wasn’t magic channeled—it was pure authority. The kind of control that bent reality itself without so much as a flicker of effort.

  Yeah. No shackles. No guards. No need. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t built with an exit in mind.

  He stepped through the threshold.

  The chamber beyond stretched high, its vaulted ceiling bathed in golden light from stained glass windows. Images of balanced scales, scrolls, and a gavel framed the upper walls—judgment itself carved into architecture.

  The construct guiding him came to a halt. Another, nearly identical to the first, stood beside an imposing judge’s bench and spoke in that same cold, musical tone.

  “All rise for our Lady, the Beacon of Light.”

  Rowan rolled his eyes. Of course, she’d make an entrance.

  A door at the back of the chamber opened, and Ellie strode in.

  For half a second, he forgot himself.

  Silver hair. The same sharp eyes. The same upright posture, like she carried the weight of the world and refused to let it bow her spine.

  She looked like Ellie. She didn’t feel like Ellie.

  “Present the prisoner,” she ordered.

  Rowan’s jaw clenched. Right. That’s who she was now.

  Rowan’s gaze flicked upward, taking in the towering stained glass windows. Sunlight slanted through the golden panes, splashing the floor with images of scales, scrolls, and swords—all of them glowing, burning with righteousness. Judgment, immortalized in glass.

  The air here felt thick with it. With her.

  He exhaled, dragging his focus back to Ellie. She always saw the world in absolutes. Right or wrong. Order or chaos. The hammer or the nail. And gods help whoever landed on the wrong side of her scale.

  His lips curled into a smirk. “Ellie, can we stop with the theatrics?”

  Reality collapsed.

  No sound, no breath, no body—just fire, white-hot and infinite, unmaking him thread by thread. He didn’t know if he was screaming. Didn’t know if he still had a throat to scream with.

  And then, suddenly, he did.

  The pain vanished like a pulled ripcord, leaving him gasping in its wake.

  Ellie’s eyes glowed white as she stared down at him. “Rowan Carter, God of Mischief, you are brought here before me on charges of chaos. How do you plead?”

  Rowan’s mouth felt dry, and his voice came out hoarse. “Guilty of what, exactly? Not kissing the ring?”

  He saw the flicker of movement from the construct next to him but was spared when Ellie raised a hand.

  “Disrespect justice again, and you will be charged with contempt and sentenced to a year of cleansing,” Ellie said. “I’m giving you this warning because, even though you are immortal, your mind might break after suffering pain for that long. That said, I will not tolerate disrespect.”

  Rowan’s glare sharpened. “Oh, you’ll tolerate plenty when it suits you. You and Marcus tolerated me just fine when you needed an extra warm body to make your ascension work.”

  Ellie’s expression didn’t change, but the glow behind her eyes flickered. “We chose you because you were… necessary.”

  Rowan let out a short laugh. “No, you chose me because I was safe. Because I wouldn’t challenge you. Because Marcus needed a god of chaos that wouldn’t cause too much trouble.”

  “You misunderstand—”

  “Do I?” Rowan stepped forward, ignoring the construct tensing at his side. “You and Marcus got everything you wanted. Power. A cause. A tidy little system where you could control everything from your perfect ivory tower.” His voice lowered. “The one mistake you made was leaving me behind.”

  Ellie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t deny it.

  “I’ve watched you for twenty-five years,” she said instead. “You’ve spent most of it hiding.”

  Rowan’s smirk faded. “Hiding from you.”

  Ellie said nothing.

  Rowan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You think I wasted my power? If I so much as nudge fortune, the universe shoves back. Move a nail? Get hit by a truck. Help a kid? Wake up here.” His voice sharpened. “That’s not power, Ellie. That’s a loaded deck. And I know exactly who stacked it.”

  “And yet, you used it.” Ellie’s expression was unreadable. “You chose to use it for that girl.”

  “And look where that got me.” Rowan’s fists clenched. “Now I’m here. With you.”

  “Breaking the laws of order, even to save an innocent life, is not acceptable.”

  Rowan curled his fingers in frustration. “So, the only power I have is one I shouldn’t use?”

  Ellie’s eyes were glowing more brightly. Heat emanated from her in waves. “That’s not your only power.”

  Rowan glared back. “And why aren’t you on Earth using your power? Why aren’t you using your power for good?”

  “I can’t.” The glow in her eyes dimmed. She almost looked mortal again. A flicker of what might have been regret crossed her expression. “None of the other gods can be on Earth without a host, and doing so would rob the host of free will and their life. That would not be just.”

  Rowan frowned. “You are imprisoned here?”

  “It is not a prison,” Ellie said. Her voice was once again hard and certain. “This is a place of perfect order. I could leave, but the cost would be one that I’m unwilling to pay.”

  “Sounds an awfully lot like a prison, and despite your eagerness to judge me, it doesn’t sound like you are doing any good back on Earth.”

  Ellie’s eyes flared again. “I grant power to my disciples and act through them. You must feel it when they do. You must see the good they do.”

  Rowan frowned. “Why would I feel or see what your disciples do?”

  “Don’t play me for a fool. Every time somebody uses chaos magic, I know it. I can see through their eyes while the magic still lingers. And you—you can’t tell me you don’t feel it when chaos spreads.” She shook her head. “I thought you were better. I gave you a chance, and you let it run unchecked.”

  Rowan felt stunned. He wasn’t a real god, not like Ellie. Regardless of what she said, he had no control over who called upon chaos. He had never seen through anybody else’s eyes, neither with order nor chaos magic. Had he felt it, though? Maybe those feelings in his gut weren’t just the kitchen scraps from Taco Barn’s dumpster.

  “I can’t stop anything,” Rowan whispered.

  The gavel struck like a hammer to the fabric of reality. The air rippled with the force of it, and Rowan felt something inside him twist—as if a door had just locked behind him, sealing his fate.

  Ellie’s voice rang through the chamber, cold and final. “I find you guilty of breaking the natural order and willingly channeling chaos magic.” She leaned forward slightly, and for the first time, there was something almost human in her expression. Almost regret. Almost pity.

  It didn’t last.

  “You will spend eternity in the Hall of Mirrors, trapped with nothing but your own reflection,” she continued. “There will be no escape. No distractions. No trick of luck to free you. Only you, staring back at yourself, until you break.”

  The words settled over him like a shroud. His stomach twisted. He could almost see it already—a corridor of endless glass, every angle reflecting him back at himself. Every move mirrored a thousand times over. No air, no sound, no end. Just him.

  He wouldn’t die. That was the worst part. There would be no release. Just thoughts looping back on themselves, over and over, until his mind unraveled at the seams.

  Rowan swallowed against the sudden, sharp press of claustrophobia in his chest. His voice came out rough. “You always had a thing for the dramatic.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Sentence confirmed.”