CHAPTER 708: 708

Every waking breath in the world, every heartbeat, every step, every life continuing the cycle was already a form of worship. Mortals lived upon their domains, under their skies, upon their land, within their boundaries. That alone was enough. That alone sustained the old divinities.

Because of this, Origin Gods never looked down, never leaned close, never intervened in mortal affairs simply because someone prayed hard enough or believed fiercely enough. Devotion meant nothing to them.

But actions, and especially symbolic actions tied to their essence, did.

And a hand-carved statue made by mortal hands, shaped with reverence or even fear was an action that echoed across divine boundaries.

The moment a human carved the likeness of an Origin God, and the moment that same human clutched it as their protection, that statue ceased being a simple object.

It became a conduit. Not of attention as the Origin Gods did not look.

Not of blessing as the Origin Gods did not bless but of alignment.

A mortal choosing to carry the image of a sun, sky, or death deity

invoked the natural influence that already existed in the world.

Their own beliefs and the gods divinity overlaps and that overlap births a small spark of divine influence.

Nothing showy and nothing visible as the statues would still look as it was made. But It’s apperance is enough to turn thralls aside.

Because thralls, creatures of night, recoiled instinctively from realms governed by the Origin beings. Crepuscular was something they avoid and Keles was their mother.

Thus, a mortal possessing such a statue was hidden, protected by a veil of divine resonance.

But that protection came with an unspoken limitations, It must be on their person always.

The Origin Gods would notice a mortal in danger. They would not intervene and they would not extend unseen hands.

If a mortal let go of the statue or forgot it or set it aside even for a moment, the divine resonance faded instantly.

In the eyes of the thralls, they would appear as naked, vulnerable, and appetizing as any other prey.

Back in their rooms, doors shut, windows curtained, hinges barred, the godlings sat in quiet communion. Each wore the same faint, knowing smile as their minds touched one another. Through their telepathic link, images of the villagers’ homes came into focus like ripples settling on a pond.

Some mortals, it turned out, had taken it upon themselves to begin crafting statues small, crude effigies meant to resemble the gods. Yet every household reached the same stumbling block: they couldn’t identify which godling was which. Their carvings were hesitant, half-formed. The intention was there, but the knowledge was missing.

To the godlings, the next step became obvious: they needed to teach these mortals the bare basics of divinity. Not enough to elevate them, nor enough to bind them, merely enough to let them survive.

So the godlings left their temporary quarters and spent a few days roaming the town. At first, the social tension was palpable. Curious eyes followed them, but questions died in the throats of those who wanted to speak. Even the villagers who had started carving their own statues pretended indifference, feigning ignorance whenever a godling passed by.

And then, after two days, something changed. The villagers realized that somehow their homes had not been attacked. Not once. Not even by the stray thralls that normally prowled the outskirts at dusk.

It was subtle at first: strange looks cast at the godlings disguised as human travelers, suspicious glances at the half-finished statues they carried. A thought began to burrow into the minds of the villagers, soft as moss and just as persistent:

Were the gods truly protecting them? and were these newcomers the reason why?

Rumor turned to speculation, and speculation into timid courage. Those who had been too afraid to speak finally approached. Their questions came cautiously at first, whispers, half-apologies but the godlings answered with deliberate simplicity. Enough truth to strengthen the villagers’ resolve. Enough mystery to keep reverence alive.

By the end of the week, the entire tone of the village had shifted. Homes that once displayed nothing now hung small statues beside their doors, tied with twine or ribbon or scraps of cloth. Not every household participated, skepticism still lingered, and doubt was not forbidden but for the first time in generations, there was a unified hope.

A fragile kind of faith had taken root.

It was finally time for the godlings to depart. The villagers were on the right track now slow, hesitant, imperfect, but steadily moving toward the knowledge they would need to survive this disaster. Their homes were safer than they had been in a long time, and if fate was kind, this town would live through the coming darkness.

Night quietly settled over the rooftops as the dozen godlings gathered outside the house assigned to them. From the dimly lit street, they watched the village exhale into rest. Lamps flickered out one by one. Dogs curled against doors. Mothers pulled blankets up to their children’s chins. The fragile peace that came only with exhaustion wrapped itself around the settlement.

Only then did the expressions of the godlings shift.

A cold wind swept through the alleys.

In a blink, they vanished from the street.

Their forms reappeared atop the town’s outer wall, silhouettes watching the horizon. And there, under the pale smear of moonlight, the horde revealed itself: thralls, dozens upon dozens, surging in a hungry tide toward the village.

The godlings looked back at the place they had spent a week within. They remembered the nervous kindness of its people, their trembling questions, their stubborn attempts at carving statues with shaking hands. They remembered hope struggling to be born.

Their human disguises unraveled like shed skin, dissolving into shimmering motes. Their true godlings forms emerged as they prepared to leave.

If they stayed, they knew what would happen. The urge to intervene would overpower them. The rules that governed their existence would crack. The delicate balance between guidance and interference would collapse entirely.

They had already done all they were allowed to, they had taught, nudged, and prepared. The rest was mortal work.

Still... their gazes lingered on the homes without statues, on the doors left bare out of pride, doubt, or fear. A few of the godlings let out soft sighs—soundless currents of regret carried away by the wind.

Their divine forms fractured into spirals of black feathers.

A murder of crows erupted into the night sky, scattering like smoke, wings beating against the darkness as they flew toward the next town in need of guidance.

Behind them, the sleeping village dreamed unaware of the trial racing toward it.

The moment the last feather vanished into the night sky, the village fell utterly silent.

But only for a breath.

Then the first thrall crawled over the wall.

It moved like a starving animal, its limbs bending wrong, its eyes bright with hunger. It dropped to the ground without a sound, head turning slowly toward the nearest house. Somewhere in the village, a dog lifted its head growling low, uneasy.

More thralls spilled over the wall behind the first.

Dozens.

Then hundreds.

They hit the earth in waves, each landing with a soft thud that was swallowed by the stillness of sleeping homes.

At first, the horde approached cautiously, as they always did sniffing the air, drawn by the warmth of human life. But then something strange happened.

The first thrall reached the door of a house.

A house with a statue tied beside its entrance.

A crude, misshapen carving. A godling whose name the family still wasn’t sure of. A face too round, or too sharp, or carved with a trembling hand.

The thrall reached for the door’s hing and recoiled with a snarl, its fingers blistering on contact. It staggered back, hissing, shaking its arm as if stung.

A faint shimmer pulsed across the statue. Imperfect divine likeness or not, the mortals had believed in what they made. That was enough.

The thrall circled the house. Every window. Every wall. Its hunger scratched at the barrier like claws on stone, but the invisible line created by the statue would not break.

The thrall screamed a thin, feral note that made others turn toward it.

And then the pattern became clear.

House after house, protected.

Even the crudest statue emitted a soft, flickering shield. Some glowed bright as lanterns. Others barely flickered at all. But all of them worked.

If the godlings had seen it, they might have smiled.

The villagers who had doubted, who had hesitated, who had taken their time—they were asleep in safety now.

But not every home bore a statue.

And the thralls found them.

It began with the house on the eastern side of the village of an older couple, too stubborn or too proud to adopt any new customs. Their door shuddered once, twice, then burst inward. The scream that followed was short, sudden, and cut off by wet teeth.