The city did not welcome me.
It recognized me.
The gates were broken before I touched them. Not by time, not by war — but by repentance. They bent inward, as if the city itself had once tried to flee from whatever it held inside. Stone wept blood that had dried centuries ago, and the statues that lined the path all had their faces carved away.
None dared see.
And none wished to be seen.
I passed beneath an arch inscribed in a tongue I did not speak, but understood:
> "Here dwell those who waited too long to ascend."
They were not gods.
They were not men.
They were something in between.
---
I found the city alive.
But not with life.
The buildings breathed. Slowly. In pain. Their walls pulsed like lungs refusing to die. Windows blinked like eyes trying to forget what they had witnessed. The air stank of undone prayer — rituals performed without faith, only habit.
And yet, something moved here.
Not people.
Lesser Divinities. Forgotten by heaven. Abandoned by hell. Clinging to relevance in a world that no longer remembered their names.
They had once almost become gods.
And failed.
---
I saw them.
One sat on a throne of moss, feeding crows from her empty eye sockets.
One crawled through the mud, licking cracked mirrors, whispering to the past.
One floated above a shattered fountain, surrounded by children who had no mouths.
Each one turned as I passed.
They knew what I carried.
And they hated it.
> "You wear the hunger," one hissed.
> "The Scythe is not yours," said another.
> "You dream of thrones," sang the third. "But thrones dream of you first."
I said nothing.
Because they were not wrong.
---
In the heart of the city stood a tower made of ash — constantly crumbling, yet never falling. At its base: a chapel without faith. Its doors were open, but its altar was split. A single figure knelt before it, draped in robes of living ink that writhed like thoughts trying to escape a dying mind.
She spoke before I could.
> "The last who entered here took a name not theirs. You carry it now."
I stepped closer. The Scythe on my back whispered in protest, but obeyed.
> "What is your name?" I asked her.
She did not rise.
> "Once, I was Varashé. Now, I am only Witness."
> "To what?"
She looked up.
> "To those who failed to become."
Behind her, inscribed on the chapel's shattered ceiling, were thousands of names — scratched over each other in endless, spiraling failure. All the names that tried to replace gods and failed.
I saw a space among them.
And I saw mine — already forming, though I had not yet given it.
---
"You are being watched," said Varashé. "Not by men. Not by gods. But by those who came before choosing was possible."
I froze.
> "The Primordials?"
> "No. They do not watch. They remember. The ones who watch are closer than breath. And more cruel."
---
I left the chapel with the air thicker on my shoulders.
And the Scythe heavier.
For the first time, I felt not just its weight.
But its expectation.
It wasn't just a weapon.
It was a throne in disguise.
---
As I crossed the edge of the city, a child stood in the middle of the path. Eyes stitched shut. Skin covered in scripture that crawled.
> "You are not a god," she said. "But one has already begun to form inside you."
She smiled. Then dissolved into moths of ash.
And the bells of the city began to toll.
Not in celebration.
But in warning.
---
Somewhere beyond the mountains of teeth and the Sea of Mirrors, temples were awakening.
Religions would begin to fight.
And some would already call my name divine.
---
If a god is born from belief — does that make the believers divine murderers?