Rain.
The kind that didn't fall but bled from the sky. Thick, gray sheets poured endlessly as Raen and Lyra stepped through the warped iron gates of Darnhollow—a forgotten town nestled between cliffs carved by ancient violence and time.
It wasn't just cursed.
It reeked of something older than death.
The town was silent, save for the occasional groan of wood twisting against the wind and the distant screech of crows circling the broken bell tower. Black ichor streaked across the cobblestone like veins, pulsing faintly beneath their boots.
Raen stopped at the center of the square. His eyes scanned the buildings—shops boarded shut with talismans etched in godscript, homes bolted from the outside. The windows were dark, watching.
"This place... it's not abandoned," Lyra whispered, her fingers clutching the spellbound book she found two nights ago. Her other hand rested over her dagger, trembling slightly.
"It wants us here," Raen muttered. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Predatory.
---
They explored cautiously, each building more broken than the last, more intentional. It was as if the town had folded in on itself, burying its own truths.
And then they found the bodies.
Dozens, maybe hundreds, embedded in the town's walls—eyes sewn shut, mouths open in silent screams. The stitching on their skin formed symbols Raen hadn't seen even in the Bleeding Tree's visions. Lyra turned pale, and gagged.
Raen reached out, touching the symbol with a gloved finger.
"Offerings," he said quietly. "To something beneath this town."
He didn't have time to finish. A scream tore through the silence—raw, human, desperate. Lyra didn't hesitate. She bolted toward it, magic flaring behind her eyes.
"Wait—" Raen hissed, following.
They reached the source. A church. Or what used to be one.
---
Inside, the air turned wrong. Heavy. Like stepping into someone else's dying breath.
The pews were gone. Blood coated the floor in winding spirals, and at the altar stood a man—or what passed as one.
Half of his face was beautiful. The other, rotted. Gold threads stitched his skin together like a mockery of life.
He turned.
"I know you," the man said, smiling wide. "Thronebreaker. God-Eater. The little boy who thought devouring divinity made him more than flesh."
Raen didn't blink. "You're godmarked."
"A blessing. A punishment." The man laughed, voice glitching between tones, like two beings speaking through one throat. "I carry the memory of Yl'arith—the Womb of Sight."
Raen narrowed his eyes.
"Then you've seen your own death."
The man's grin didn't fade. "Every version of it. And in none of them... do you win."
Lyra flung a spell—pure black flame, incantations drawn from her forbidden training. It struck the godmarked in the chest. He screamed. Flesh bubbled.
Then he stood straight.
Unharmed.
"You brought a witch," he said, almost kindly. "And she's tasted the Book of Wounds. Curious. It means your past is catching up. Perhaps the Demon God lied."
Raen drew his sword—its black edge pulsed in the lightless air, humming with the names it had stolen.
"I don't need to win," he whispered. "Just need to kill you."
---
The fight was not beautiful. It was ugly—a collision of raw power and madness. The godmarked summoned memories of Yl'arith: illusions so real they bled into flesh. Raen was buried in visions of his past lives, screaming mouths, bleeding skies, and a throne that whispered You are not worthy.
But he moved. Fast. Surgical. Brutal.
He stabbed the godmarked through the eye.
Twisted.
Ripped.
The body didn't fall—it laughed, split into two, and kept coming.
Lyra's face was soaked with sweat, her arms shaking from overcasting forbidden runes. "We need to seal it!" she cried.
"Do it!" Raen shouted, holding the creature down.
The runes exploded. Light and blood. Screaming and silence.
---
When it was over, Raen stood alone in the wreckage, holding Lyra's unconscious body. The godmarked was gone—banished or dead, he wasn't sure. But its memory lingered.
He looked at his sword.
Its edge was duller now. It had consumed something it wasn't supposed to. Raen could feel it. The name of the god it touched didn't settle right.
Then he heard it.
A voice in his head. Not the Demon God's. Not a hallucination.
A new voice. Female. Cold. Mocking.
"You fed me a lie, Raen Valor. And lies do not sharpen steel."
---
They rested in one of the cleaner homes, Lyra barely breathing. Raen sat beside her, eyes locked on the sword across his lap.
"You awake?" he asked softly.
Lyra stirred. "My head… the Book… it's speaking again."
"Then don't listen."
She smiled weakly. "Says you. You've been hearing voices longer than I've known you."
Raen didn't smile. He was still staring at the sword. Still thinking about what the godmarked said.
Maybe the Demon God had lied. Maybe the gods didn't fear him. Maybe they wanted him alive.
So they could watch him fail again.
---
But failure wasn't in Raen Valor's blood.
He would kill every god. Even if it meant burning this world twice.
And if his own soul began to fray—if the weight of the names he devoured broke him—then so be it.
The throne would fall.
Even if he had to drag it down into the dirt himself.
To be continued...