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I wipe the mess away with my sleeve, already searching for the next threat. The explosion has cleared a circle around us, the divine creatures thrown back or temporarily destroyed.

But it’s only a respite, not a victory.

Around us, more rifts open. Within the walls we’ve built.

Through those rifts, more horrors line up to enter our world in an endless queue of divine vengeance.

And we’re weakening.

I can feel that truth through our connection. The strain of maintaining such power is costing all of us. Rafe’s wind has become a fraction of its normal strength. Agnar’s earth barriers crumble under renewed assault, no longer rising as solidly as before. Bastian’s flames dim as exhaustion sets in, the wall of fire he creates to block a charging horde of multi-legged abominations barely charring their chitinous hides.

Even Lark’s fire, usually so vibrant and uncontainable, begins to waver against the onslaught.

My own magic is increasingly difficult to control. Where before water answered my call with eager precision, now it responds sluggishly, requiring more effort for diminishing returns.

The wound in my shoulder throbs with each heartbeat. Blood soaks my sleeve and drips from my fingertips, loosening my grip on the weapons I form.

Is this Rivlan’s attack on us?

Doesn’t fucking matter who’s responsible at this point.

We’re losing ground with each passing second. The circle of cleared space around us grows smaller as divine beasts press in from all sides.

My vision blurs at the edges, fatigue and blood loss taking their toll. I force myself to focus, to keep fighting even as my body screams for rest.

We will not die today. Not on my watch.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

The three Gods of Time convene in a chamber filled with whispers and currents. Their ancient forms flicker like half-remembered dreams, casting shadows that stretch beyond the very fabric of existence.

In front of them, the water in the small pool swirls, humming with energy. Each ripple tells a story, past, present, and future. The fabric of fate woven in currents of water and light.

Below, a woman stands next to a man, their hands clasped and lifted to the sky.

Chronoth peers into the water, his fingers skimming the surface. Shadows pass over his angular features as he contemplates the events of both mortals and deities as though he’s seeking patterns in the disarray.

Leaning against the smooth stone wall, Chronir vibrates with impatient energy. He grips a shard of ancient stone and rolls it between his fingers, each motion cracking the very air around him. “This is new.”

Chronoth calls forth images of the realm, maddening and heartbreaking visions of chaos where mortal lives intertwine and bend under divine weight. “Only the mortals. The gods are the same as they always were.”

“There was a time when they were not gods.” Chronira glances back toward the pool, a determined light gleaming in her eyes. “They are shaped by their stories, not just their powers.”

Chronoth’s brow furrows, an old worry passing over his features. “The gods know their own pasts.”

Calm and unwavering, Chronira observes the tension between her fellow gods with a mix of wisdom and warning. She stands at a distance, watching the water as images swirl and shift in frenzied patterns. The thread in front of her is stacked with possibilities.

Man and woman defiantly upright.

Man and woman dead.

Man and woman kneeling, heads bowed.

Man and woman fighting.

A little girl crying.

An island on fire.