CHAPTER 707: 707

The godlings sat in a ring, silent. Small, razor-sharp knives formed in their palms as they began to carve. The rhythmic scrape of wood echoed quietly through the dim light.

By the time they finished, the town had fully woken. Doors creaked open. Lanterns flickered. People stepped out with cautious, fearful eyes, still uncertain of what the new day held.

Only then did the disguised druids rise.

Clutching their freshly carved wooden statues the effigies of "gods" they staggered toward the town gates. Their faces twisted with feigned exhaustion, fear, and grief, playing their part to perfection.

And together, they shouted:

"Help! Please, help us! We survived the night!"

The soldiers on the wall stiffened at the sight of the screaming figures stumbling toward the gate. Their armor was still settling on their shoulders; many had only just taken their posts. None expected survivors, certainly not this many, nor this frantic.

One of the younger soldiers leaned toward his captain, voice barely above a breath. "Inform the town head. Now."

At the same time, the captain’s voice boomed across the ramparts, loud enough to rattle the shutters of nearby homes.

"Open the gates!"

The great wooden doors groaned as they parted. The disguised godlings pushed forward, clutching their carved statues as if they were lifelines. Dirt smeared their faces. Some pretended to limp. Others let their voices crack with well-practiced despair.

As they crossed the threshold into safety, the soldiers rushed to help them.

"How many of you survived?" one soldier asked, placing an arm around a trembling druid who had feigned exhaustion.

"What happened out there?" barked another, already scanning the horizon as though the plague itself might come sprinting after them.

The druids did not answer at first. They only exchanged glances, fearful, broken, human. It was exactly what they intended.

The town head arrived moments later, still tying the sash of authority around his waist, clearly dragged out of bed by the commotion. His face paled as he took in the sight of the "survivors," their statues clutched like the last memories of the dead.

"What... what befell your village?" the town head asked, voice unsteady.

At that prompt, one of the druids stepped forward. He was the best liar among them, chosen specifically for this moment. His voice shook as he spoke, perfectly mimicking the trembling fear of a man who had witnessed horror.

"We... we hid," he said. "Inside the woods. Those who couldn’t run... they..."

His grip tightened around the carved statue, knuckles whitening.

"There was nothing left by morning," another added, wiping at eyes that could not really cry.

The soldiers stiffened. The town head swallowed hard. The air thickened with dread.

The village head’s eyes narrowed, doubt clouding his expression.

"I am glad you survived," he said slowly, "but simply hiding is not enough when it comes to these creatures of the night."

His voice dropped, growing heavier with suspicion. The soldiers around him sensed it as well; they drew subtly closer, hands drifting toward hilts, forming a loose circle around the newcomers.

"How," he asked, gaze sharpening, "did you survive?"

The disguised godlings exchanged glances silent, trembling, rehearsed fear. Finally, one of the women stepped forward. She looked small, fragile in the oversized human clothes she wore. Her hands shook as she lifted the statue she clutched.

A carved figurine of Crepuscular, the Origin God of Sun and Sky.

And another in her other hand Keles, Goddess of Death and Darkness.

The town head’s brows furrowed. The soldiers stiffened. Some gasps came from townsfolk who had gathered at the edges of the square.

Worship of gods, any gods, was an unspoken taboo under the Empire’s rule. Forbidden, ridiculed, erased.

Seeing these icons was like seeing a ghost of a forgotten age.

"We... w-we believe these may have saved us," she whispered, voice quivering.

One of the soldiers barked out a laugh, sharp and scornful "What nonsense are you spouting, woman? You must have lost your mind from fear."

Murmurs rippled through the townspeople. Mockery. Doubt. But most of all, unease.

The godlings did not argue. They didn’t even look offended. Instead, they clutched their statues tighter, knuckles paling, as if those hand-carved idols were the only threads anchoring them to sanity.

The soldier who mocked them shifted uncomfortably. The sight of their desperate grip contrasted too sharply with the dismissive words he’d spoken. The villagers noticed.

The town head exhaled through his nose, his frown deepening. He rubbed his temples, weighing the fragile balance between fear, logic, and the growing desperation of his people.

"Enough," he finally said. "You’ve all endured more than anyone should."

He signaled to a nearby guard. "Find them lodging. Get them washed. Feed them."

Then he looked back at the newcomers, eyes hard but not unkind.

"Rest. Settle yourselves," he said. "Once you’ve eaten and slept... I expect you to tell me exactly how you survived."

His tone carried the weight of both curiosity and uncertainty. Because part of him refused to believe in gods.

The evening air was cool when the village head summoned the "survivors" to his longhouse. Torches flickered along the walls, casting restless shadows across his stern face. A few trusted soldiers stood at attention behind him, silent but clearly ready for trouble.

The godlings still in their fragile, trembling human disguises sat on low stools before him. The carved idols rested on their laps, worn smooth from hours of anxious handling.

The village head folded his hands "I’ve been thinking about what you told me," he began slowly. "About these statues... and divine protection."

His eyes narrowed, no hostility in his action, but out of raw, human confusion. "If what you say is true, then answer me this."

His gaze swept across them, heavy as stone.

"You cannot be the only ones in this lands who still whisper the names of the gods. Hidden worship exists. I know it. So why were you spared when so many others died?" His voice grew strained. "Why not the families in the nearby towns? Why not the devout believers? Why only you?"

A long silence followed.

Finally, the same woman who had spoken earlier brought her statue to her chest.

Her voice trembled.

"Maybe..." she whispered, "maybe the others were not devout enough."

The soldiers shifted, some scoffing under their breath.

"Or..." another godling added softly, eyes lowered, "maybe they never had the chance to hold their statues before death came."

The chief’s jaw tightened not convinced, but listening.

"It is... very lonely," the first godling continued, "when you are hiding in the dark. When the screams outside fade, and you fear you’ll be next. A small statue..." she stroked the wooden idol with a thumb" it becomes the only comfort. Something to cling to. Something to pray to when all hope is lost."

A man behind the chief muttered, "Superstition."

But the godling continued, as if too shaken to stop.

"As the creatures drew closer to our hiding place," she said, "we heard their claws on the walls... their sniffing... their growls. We thought it was the end."

Another godling added, "But they overlooked us. Or recoiled. Like something, someone pushed them away."

Skepticism thickened the air. The soldiers exchanged looks. The chief’s brows drew together even tighter.

He leaned forward, voice low.

"You are asking me to believe that a handful of carved wood saved you from monsters that slaughtered entire towns."

The godlings lowered their eyes, perfectly mimicking shame and fragile hope.

"We ask you to believe nothing, village head," the woman whispered. "Only that... we are alive. And those statues were the only things we held when death came close."

The chief exhaled sharply. Annoyance. Doubt. But also fear. The kind that gnaws on a leader forced to confront truths he isn’t prepared for.

He waved a hand.

"Leave me," he said tiredly. "I’ll think on this."

As the godlings stood and bowed, he added, almost reluctantly:

"And... keep those statues hidden. If the empire learns of this, it will not be my head alone that rolls."

They nodded, clutching their idols as they were escorted out.

Once the door closed, the soldiers murmured.

"Chief... you don’t truly believe them, do you?"

The village head rubbed his face, weary and shaken.

"No," he whispered. Then, after a pause that chilled the room "But I can’t say I don’t want to."

One thing the godlings did not bother clarifying to the village head was the most important truth of all:

Those who met their end truly had no statues with them. Had they held even a crude carving, even one shaped in desperation with shaking hands their fate would have been entirely different.

The godlings knew this. The druids especially knew it.

For though no mortal could claim to fully understand the Origin Gods, the druids at least possessed a deeper comprehension than most. They, unlike humans of the Empire, had never forgotten the ancient truths.

Origin Gods did not seek worship, they did not hunger for prayer. They did not respond to offerings or praise.

They did not need to.