The war in the heavens was not declared by trumpet nor by storm — it began in silence.
When Avaron cast aside the Rib of Kings and chose to descend, the upper realms trembled, for no god had ever stepped willingly into the soil of men since the First Sealing. The veils that kept eternity apart from flesh began to wane, and the stars themselves leaned closer, as though curious to witness the folly of their shepherd.
Esera saw the sign before any oracle could name it.
The night had turned pale, and the moon's reflection bent upon itself — two silver halves split by an unseen hand.
"The heavens are breaking," she whispered, as she stood upon the balcony of her jade citadel. Her generals, armored and resolute, looked on in awe, not understanding the weight of what she said.
Below, the city of Valein shimmered with the radiance of its new idols — her name carved in obsidian, her victories sung in the streets — yet she felt no triumph. For every statue built, a soul was forgotten; for every prayer she received, a whisper of the old world faded away.
The council of priests urged her to declare herself divine, to bind her name to the pantheon and rule the faith as she ruled the crown.
But Esera's gaze turned always to the horizon, where the mist of Tienra swayed like a living breath.
Something — or someone — waited there.
---
That night, she summoned her chronicler, a frail scholar named Sothren, whose mind had been half-claimed by prophecy. His ink-stained hands trembled as he opened his tome, for the pages had begun to write themselves.
"My queen," he stammered, "the words come faster than I can read. The Herding God… he is crossing the Soul Fields."
"Then the age has come," Esera said quietly, fastening the relic upon her wrist — a thin band forged from star-metal, engraved with runes that sang when touched by wind. "He descends for us."
Sothren bowed, his voice breaking. "For you, my queen. The heavens do not move for men."
Her eyes hardened, the divine fire within her stirring once more. "Then I shall remind the heavens what man can become."
---
At dawn, the veil split open.
From the east came a radiance that seared the air and turned the river gold. The mist rolled back, and through it walked Avaron — neither man nor god, yet both. His face was veiled by shadow, his eyes ancient as the birth of time itself.
Each step he took brought forth silence; even the wind forgot how to speak.
Behind him, the souls followed once more — his eternal herd, now burdened with flame instead of peace.
Esera rode forth, alone, her armor catching the newborn light. The meeting between them stilled the valley — two figures facing one another at the edge of fate.
"Why do you come?" she asked, voice echoing through the hollow sky. "To reclaim what we have become?"
"I come," Avaron said, his tone deeper than thunder, "to end what never should have begun. The breath of the gods was meant to fade in men, not burn forever."
"And yet it burns still," Esera replied, "because you feared what it might reveal. You speak of mercy, but you built a world upon forgetting. You lead them across your river, strip them of their memory, and call it peace. That is not mercy, Shepherd. That is theft."
Avaron's gaze sharpened. "You would undo the balance. You would drown the world in remembrance — in pain."
"Pain is truth," she said. "And I would rather drown in truth than live in your silence."
The wind rose, swirling around them like a living spirit. The air shimmered with divine resonance — the clash of belief and defiance, two songs at war.
For a moment, the god and the mortal simply stared — two flames recognizing themselves in each other.
Then Avaron lowered his staff. "You carry the shard of divinity I cast into the river long ago," he murmured. "The same light that once guided me. You are the echo of my first doubt."
Esera's breath caught. "Then it was you who gave me this fire?"
"No," Avaron said. "It was you who stole it."
---
The heavens roared. The skies above Valein tore asunder, revealing the great watchers — silent celestial beasts whose wings could shadow kingdoms. The air quivered as the gods awakened from their long sleep, sensing betrayal within their ranks.
Avaron turned his eyes skyward, sorrow deep in his voice. "They have seen me break the oath. They will not forgive."
Esera stepped closer, her voice low but resolute. "Then let them come. If heaven falls upon us, I will raise a throne from its ashes."
He regarded her for a long moment — this mortal queen who carried his own forgotten fire. Then, to the astonishment of every spirit in the field, the Herding God bent his knee.
"The age of remembrance begins," he said. "But know this, Queen of Men — once begun, it cannot be undone. The river will overflow, and even the gods will drown."
"So be it," Esera whispered.
She lifted her sword — forged from the metal of fallen stars — and with a single motion, sliced the air between them. The sound that followed was not of steel, but of creation itself fracturing.
---
From that moment, light bled into darkness.
The Soul Fields burned; the River Mirrowen turned black. The herd scattered across the sky, becoming the constellations of the Lost. And from their ashes rose a new dawn — neither mortal nor divine, but something between.
The chronicles would later call it The First Breaking, the day the Herding God bowed to a mortal, and heaven learned to fear its own reflection.
And high above, upon the broken moon, an unseen voice laughed softly — a sound older than creation, carrying a promise yet to unfold.
> "Let them remember."