The world Skabelse observed did not feel alive to him.
It felt unfinished.
From his vantage beyond the mortal firmament, the lands below unfolded like an imperfect mechanism—threads of cause and effect tangled by emotion, chance, and defiance. Too much movement. Too much noise. Too much will acting where it should not.
His silver hair was slicked back with deliberate precision, though several strands had slipped loose and now hung before his face. Skabelse lifted a hand and pushed them aside, irritation flickering briefly behind his pale, luminous eyes.
Leon.
The name surfaced unbidden, followed by the sensation Skabelse despised most: unpredictability.
The boy had not grown stronger in the way Skabelse anticipated. He had not shattered under grief. He had not turned inward and collapsed beneath the weight of loss. Instead, he had stabilized.
Connections. Bonds. Emotional anchors.
Variables.
Skabelse's lips curved—not in amusement, but in something sharper.
"Then correction is required," he murmured.
The chamber around him was vast and silent, suspended in a realm where light had no source and shadows obeyed no rules. Massive pillars of pale stone rose into nothingness, etched with symbols that represented laws Skabelse himself had authored. Order made manifest.
Before him stood rows of Valkyrie frames—thousands of them—perfectly identical in structure. Tall, armored forms of pale metal and divine material, wings folded, heads bowed. Empty.
Tools awaiting purpose.
Skabelse extended his hand, and space rippled.
Souls emerged.
Dozens of them bloomed into existence above the ranks of Valkyrie frames, each one hovering directly over an empty construct. Faintly luminous, their shapes wavered—unstable, incomplete—like fragments of memory struggling to remain whole. None screamed. None begged. They merely trembled, instinctively recoiling from the will that had summoned them.
Skabelse's gaze moved across them with clinical detachment.
Then he stopped.
One soul drifted differently than the rest—its light flickering with stubborn coherence, its form resisting dissolution just a moment longer than it should have.
Skabelse tilted his head.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not manic.
Sadistic in its restraint.
"Well," he said softly, voice echoing through the chamber, "you are… convenient."
The soul reacted.
Recognition flickered within it—panic sharpening, coherence returning just enough to understand what stood before it. Memories surged briefly along its surface: warmth, fear, unfinished moments.
Skabelse watched with keen interest.
"Oh, don't struggle," he continued calmly. "You were always going to serve something greater than yourself. I'm simply… clarifying that purpose."
The soul resisted then—not violently, but desperately—pulling away as if distance alone might save it. Skabelse's smile deepened by a fraction.
"Control," he said, almost fondly, "is mercy."
He closed his hand.
The soul was dragged forward, its form stretching as it was pressed toward the nearest Valkyrie frame. The construct did not move. Did not resist. It awaited completion with absolute obedience.
As the soul made contact, the chamber filled with a low hum.
Light surged.
The soul was forced inward, threaded through divine circuits and binding sigils, compressed until individuality was no longer optional. Its resistance weakened—not broken, but contained.
The Valkyrie's eyes opened.
Cold.
Empty.
For a fraction of a second—so small even most gods would miss it—the Valkyrie hesitated.
Skabelse's smile vanished.
His hand clenched.
The hesitation ended.
The Valkyrie straightened, wings unfurling with mechanical grace, spear forming in her grasp. She knelt immediately, head bowed.
"Designation," Skabelse commanded.
No emotion entered her voice when she spoke.
"Valkyrie unit acknowledged," she said. "Awaiting directive."
Skabelse stepped closer, studying her with narrowed eyes. He could still feel the faint echo of resistance buried deep within the construct—muted, trapped, but present.
Unacceptable.
He reached out and pressed two fingers against her helm. Symbols flared briefly, reinforcing the bindings.
"There," he said coolly. "That should suffice."
He turned away, gaze shifting back toward the mortal world.
Leon sat among his loved ones.
Healing.
Understanding.
Growing in ways Skabelse had not authorized.
The god's jaw tightened.
Skabelse's fingers tightened, then slowly relaxed.
"No," he said.
The Valkyrie froze mid-motion.
"Status?"
"Stand by," Skabelse replied. His voice was smooth again, measured, controlled. "All units. Await further command."
At once, the chamber responded.
Every Valkyrie straightened in perfect unison, wings folding neatly against their backs. Spears dissolved into light. Heads bowed. Thousands of creations returned to stillness, suspended in flawless obedience.
"Order," Skabelse murmured, slicking his hair back once more as if sealing the decision into place. "Must be precise."
He turned his gaze away from the constructs, back toward the mortal world.
"There is time yet."
Morning came quietly to the village.
Leon rose with the sun, as he had every day since the attack. He helped rebuild what had been broken, trained when his body allowed it, and spent what moments he could with those still breathing beside him. To an outside eye, life continued—scarred, slower, but moving forward.
No thunder split the sky.
No divine wrath descended.
Only the steady rhythm of days passing, and a man walking them one step at a time—unaware that above him, judgment waited in perfect silence.
Leon felt the quiet more than he heard it.
It settled into his bones as he moved through the village, a stillness that followed him even amid hammer strikes and murmured conversations. People smiled when they saw him. Some nodded. Others thanked him softly, as if afraid to speak too loudly in a world that had already taken so much.
He returned the gestures automatically, his expression calm, his posture steady. The Mark of War rested beneath his skin like a coiled ember, contained. Obedient.
Inside, his thoughts churned.
He helped rebuild a collapsed fence with Ivan, worked beside Carla repairing a cracked support beam, and spent the afternoon sitting with Rebecca and the others as they shared a simple meal. Laughter came easily to them now—tentative, fragile, but real.
Leon listened more than he spoke.
He watched the way Carla's hands moved when she talked, how Efil leaned closer when the conversation softened, how Lynnette's gaze lingered on the horizon whenever the village fell too quiet. He memorized these moments without realizing he was doing it, as though his mind understood something his heart had not yet fully accepted.
That these connections were not distractions.
They were anchors.
Later, as evening crept in and the lanterns were lit one by one, Leon found himself alone near the training ground. He stood still, eyes closed, and let his senses expand—not forcefully, not through strain, but gently.
The Death Mark responded.
Time did not stop. It slowed.
Not in the world itself, but in his perception of it. He felt the lingering echo of footsteps that had passed moments before. The fading warmth of hands that had brushed against his. The quiet certainty of paths not yet taken.
Life was motion.
Death was direction.
Leon exhaled, the realization settling into him like a truth he had always known but never named.
Angelica had understood this.
She had lived not by power, but by presence—by tending wounds before they festered, by offering smiles where despair threatened to root. Pestilence was not rot alone. It was balance. Care. The quiet maintenance of life so it could continue forward.
And famine…
Leon's jaw tightened.
Famine was not hunger.
It was need.
He opened his eyes, looking back toward the village where light spilled from windows and voices drifted softly into the evening air.
"I'm still here," he murmured, unsure who the words were for.
The Marks pulsed faintly in response, their colors barely visible beneath his skin—changed, intertwined, alive.
Above him, the sky remained calm.
No signs.
No warnings.
Just a quiet evening, stretched thin between what had been lost and what had not yet arrived.
Leon turned back toward the village, carrying that stillness with him—unaware that far beyond the heavens, silence was being measured, cataloged, and patiently prepared to break.
Night fell softly.
Lanternlight glowed through the windows of Leon's rebuilt home, warm and unassuming. The others slept—Rebecca first, exhaustion finally claiming her; then Efil and Lynnette, curled close together; Carla last, ever watchful even in rest.
Mina was still awake.Her small hands clutched the blanket, and her wide eyes looked up at him with a mix of fear and trust that only a child could carry.
"You're awake," he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "I wasn't sure if you'd sleep through the night."
"I couldn't," Mina admitted softly, curling closer to him. "I… I wanted to help. I want you to take it, Papa. I want you to protect everyone."
Leon's chest tightened at her words. The weight of responsibility, of grief, of every loss they had endured, pressed down on him, but he also felt something steadier: the unshakable trust of a child.
He took a deep breath, placing his hand gently over hers, resting it atop the faint pulse of the Famine Mark beneath her skin. "Alright, Mina," he whispered, "we do this together. I won't hurt you. You just… let me guide it."
She nodded, small and resolute, like a daughter offering her hand in faith. "I trust you," she said simply, her voice barely above a whisper.
Closing his eyes, Leon focused. He did not pull, he did not command. He listened. He felt her heartbeat, her warmth, the rhythm of her life, and allowed the essence of the Mark to flow—not ripped free, but shared. Slowly, deliberately, Famine's energy threaded itself into him, intertwining with the Death, War, and Pestilence Marks already pulsing beneath his skin.
Mina exhaled, relaxing into him, still small and childlike, her eyes slowly closing as she leaned against him. "See? It's okay," she murmured sleepily.
Leon held her tight, feeling the final piece settle into place, the golden hue of Famine merging into the spectrum of his other powers. For the first time, all four Marks aligned in harmony—each one alive, aware, and connected through the bonds he shared with those he loved.
He whispered quietly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, "I've got you… always."
The night was still. Lanterns flickered in the windows of the village, casting long, soft shadows across the dirt paths. Leon walked alone, carrying Mina gently in his arms, her small weight a reminder of both vulnerability and trust. His mind raced, the lessons of the Death and Pestilence Marks echoing in his thoughts. But Famine… that was different. Famine was need, the quiet, essential forces that allowed life to continue. It was delicate. Vital. Dangerous if taken too harshly.
Mina stirred, small hands brushing against his chest. "Papa… it's okay, right? You won't hurt me?" she whispered, eyes wide, innocent, unafraid despite everything that had happened.
Leon paused, holding her close. "I won't hurt you, Mina. Not a single scratch," he promised, his voice rough with the weight of what he knew he had to do.
She nodded solemnly, like a child accepting a serious task for the first time. "I want you to have it," she said softly. "So you can protect everyone… like Angelica."
Her words struck him harder than any blade. The bravery in her small voice, the trust she placed entirely in him… it anchored him.
He sat on the grass outside their home, the night air cool against his arms. He placed Mina gently on his lap and held her hands in his own. "Then I'll do it… but we do it together," he said, closing his eyes to center himself.
The Mark of Famine pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a dormant thread waiting to awaken. Leon extended his focus, not outwardly pulling or forcing, but opening himself to the essence of the Mark. He thought of what Famine truly meant—need, sustenance, the invisible supports of life. And he thought of Mina: small, bright, innocent, and completely reliant on the world he had fought to protect.
"Feel it, Mina," he murmured gently. "I'm not taking it from you. I'm letting it flow into me… like a gift. A bond."
Mina tilted her head, eyes reflecting the faint glow of his arm where the Marks shimmered. "Like… a hug?" she asked, her voice small and hopeful.
Leon smiled despite the tension in his chest. "Yes, like a hug."
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. Instead of yanking, twisting, or pulling the essence from her, he matched his heartbeat to hers. He let his senses slide into sync with her, feeling the quiet rhythms of her body: the flow of blood, the rise and fall of her chest, the subtle tremor of fear and trust alike.
The Mark responded. A faint, earthy gold began to pulse beneath his skin, weaving itself around the crimson of War, the violet of Death, and the green of Pestilence. Leon felt the essence of Famine reach for him—not as a violent intrusion, but as a natural, living thread seeking a place to rest.
Mina's small hands rested on his forearm, steady, almost guiding him. "It's okay, Papa… you can have it," she repeated.
"Not have it,'" Leon whispered back, voice trembling. "We share it. We keep each other safe."
And then it happened.
A soft glow surged along his veins, spreading through his arm. The energy was alive, aware, adjusting to his heartbeat, his breath, his intentions. Famine settled into place—not as a weapon of destruction, but as a mirror of necessity, of care, of sustaining life.
Mina exhaled softly and leaned against him, sleeping lightly now. "See? It wasn't scary," she murmured, her childlike trust shining through.
Leon held her close, feeling the full weight of all four Marks aligned beneath his skin. He felt the flow of life, the necessity of sustenance, the inevitability of death, and the fire of war. And, most importantly, he felt the warmth of connection—the anchor that had allowed him to acquire this last mark without taking from her, without hurting her.
He whispered quietly, more to himself than to her, "I've got you… always. And now, I can protect everyone, just like I promised."
Leon stayed still for a long moment, the weight of the Famine Mark now nestled quietly alongside the others on his arm. Mina's head rested against his chest, her small, steady breathing a reminder of what he had fought for—and what he would continue to fight to protect.
He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her, and let his fingers trace the faint lines of all four Marks. Each throb, each pulse, was no longer just power—it was guidance, a reflection of life, care, need, and the inexorable path of death. Together, they formed a map of existence itself, and for the first time, Leon felt a measure of control he had never known.
But as he exhaled, relief mingling with exhaustion, a faint unease tugged at the edge of his mind. The air in the room felt heavier, though nothing had changed. A chill brushed past him as if the night itself was watching, waiting.
Leon lifted his head slightly, looking down at Mina. "Sleep now, little one," he murmured. "I've got you. Always."
Her eyelids fluttered, a small, contented hum escaping her lips. "I know, Papa," she whispered, before drifting fully into sleep.
Leon leaned back in the chair, cradling her gently. He couldn't ignore the pull in his chest—the knowledge that the moment of peace was fragile. Skabelse would notice the Marks' new alignment eventually. He could feel it even in this quiet night: the threads of fate stirring, the god's attention somewhere beyond, lingering like a shadow.
Still, he allowed himself a breath, letting the connection to Mina—and to all those he loved—anchor him. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes closing as he let his mind wander. Memories of the battles, of Angelica, of the church, of Lou, all flowed through him. And yet, each memory carried the warmth of those who had survived, those who had given him purpose.
Tomorrow, he thought, he would begin testing the full extent of the Famine Mark. But tonight… tonight he would simply hold Mina close, feel the pulse of life around him, and remember that he was not alone. That his strength, his power, his very survival depended on the ties that bound him to this world.
Far above, beyond mortal sight, Skabelse's attention sharpened. He did not move, did not speak, yet his focus pierced the mortal realm like a scalpel. A slight frown creased his brow, silver hair slicked back in irritation.
The boy has aligned the Marks in ways I did not foresee, Skabelse thought. He grows not in isolation, not in fear, but in connection.
His fingers twitched. Somewhere in the distance, countless Valkyries waited in perfect stillness, their frames humming with dormant potential. They were ready to execute his will with absolute obedience—but for now, the boy was untouchable, shielded by bonds Skabelse did not fully comprehend.
Back in the village, Leon shifted again, adjusting Mina in his arms. He gazed at the soft glow of lanterns outside the window, the quiet hum of the village settling into night. A thought brushed through his mind, gentle and insistent:
The Marks are not just power. They are a responsibility. A life.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Leon allowed himself to rest, to truly rest, even as the weight of the coming storms pressed silently at the edges of his consciousness.
He would learn. He would master. And he would protect.
But for now… he simply held his daughter, and let the quiet of the night remind him of why he fought.
Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere in the heavens, Skabelse's gaze lingered, calculating, patient, and utterly unmoved by mortal notions of peace.
And in that calm, suspended moment, the world waited.