Page 25 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor's Destiny
A man passed by me, close enough that I could smell the sickly-sweet perfume clinging to his skin. He did not notice me at first—his gloved hand gestured as he spoke to his companion, laughter slipped easily from his lips. But something, some instinct long buried in mortal blood, must have warned him. He turned his head slightly, his eyes caught the dim light—and met mine.
He faltered. His step hesitated, and the words died on his tongue.
His gaze swept over me, taking in the worn leathers of my breeches—clothing I had found in a crate—the absence of finery, and the way I stood, not like them but like something else. Something older. Something dangerous. His lip curled ever so slightly in distaste, though whether it was for my appearance or the unease I inspired, I did not know.
I bared my teeth, just enough. A silent warning. A reminder.
He looked away first. Muttered something under his breath to his companion and walked on, stiff-backed and pointedly unaffected. But I had seen the truth flicker in his gaze—recognition, not of me, but of something long forgotten.
These men were civilized, adorned, caged. Their hands were soft, their bodies untouched by war, their strength rotted beneath layers of silk and propriety.
I had walked among kings and warriors. I had stood in halls of power where men spoke not in flowery pleasantries, but in the language of conquest. These men? These men had traded steel for etiquette, battle cries for empty words.
Had war itself been tamed, along with the beasts who once fought them? Or did men no longer fight with their own hands, relying instead on unseen weapons and distant slaughter?
I thought of the sword I had once wielded, the weight of it, the blood it had spilled. I thought of my people, the warriors who had stood at my side, their bodies bearing the stories of every battle they had survived.
A part of me sneered at these men, these preening peacocks, this age of delicate things.
But another part of me—the part that had led armies, that had felt the fire of survival in his veins—felt only grief.
The world had changed.
And perhaps... men had changed with it.
I was about to turn back to my hidden chamber when my blood began to hum in a way it had only ever done when Vaelora was close. She wasn't here, but her scent lingered in the air. Oblivious to the stares and cries of outrage, I moved forward through the masses of people scuttling out of my way.
With absolute certainty, I knew that Vaelora was nearby. That the time to reclaim her was now.
I was unprepared for the rain outside, falling as if the gods were weeping. Good, let them weep, because I was back. I would reclaim Vaelora and Orasis. I would obliterate this world of false splendor. The rain felt good as it plastered and washed my skin, as if it took pleasure in seeing me reborn.
My steps never faltered, not even when my eyes roamed the twisted streets before me that curved in unnatural patterns, hemmed in by towering stone structures unlike any I had ever known. They loomed with strange uniformity, their smooth facades lined with rows of glass, reflecting the city's dim glow like the unblinking eyes of a beast. Some rose higher than temples, standing without columns, without evidence that hardened hands of laborers once carved them from stone.
Men and women walked these streets, their bodies wrapped in thick layers of fabric, many hiding themselves beneath contraptions of stretched cloth and wooden ribs. Black canopies bobbed above them, rippling in the wind—unnatural, yet clearly meant to shield them from the rain. I had seen warriors carry shields into battle, their surfaces hardened by flame and hammer, meant to deflect spears and blades. But these? These flimsy covers seemed to serve only to keep the sky from touching them.
Cowards.
I strode past them, my bare feet slapped against the slick stone of the streets. Their gazes slid toward me and away just as quickly, their expressions flickered between confusionand discomfort. I was something they did not understand. Something they could not name. A man out of place, out of time.
Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminated the strange cityscape for a brief, blinding moment. The horse-drawn carriages rolling through the streets rattled against the stone, their wheels thinner, lighter than the ones I had once known. Hooves clattered, a sound almost familiar, but then—a deeper rumble, a monstrous growl from something unseen.
I turned sharply as a machine unlike anything I had ever witnessed rolled past—no horses, no beasts to pull it, only a great iron carriage with a flickering light inside. I stopped, staring as it moved on its own, an unnatural chariot, forged by men who no longer bent the world to their gods but to their own creation.
But I had no time to linger.
She was close.
I could feel Vaelora's presence pulsing through me, pulling me forward. Her essence whispered through my blood; it was an ache more potent than hunger, more demanding than thirst. She was near, and I had been without her for far too long.
I moved faster, ignoring the way mortals recoiled from my presence. Let them stare. Let them wonder. They did not matter.
Only she did.
Only Vaelora.
This was it.
The day I willingly walked into Thomas' trap.
