Previously, the Void's Little King reforged the twins into Dominion and Mercy—gods of control and consequence. Now his gaze drifts toward another world … one that dares to crown lies as heaven.
⸻
— The Silence After Creation —
I had given Dominion and Mercy their stage.
Their world screamed beautifully for a while—cities kneeling, seas folding like silk under the weight of divine will.
Then came the calm, the dull rhythm that always follows new creation.
Silence again.
Silence … and boredom.
My throne of black gold murmured beneath me like a heart unwilling to die. The veins of molten light ran slower now, pulsing in long, lazy intervals. I traced them with a finger, feeling eternity breathe too evenly.
"They're doing fine without me," I said to no one.
"That's the problem."
So I reached for the worlds.
Screens unfurled before me—millions of them, fluttering like the wings of an enormous bird made of glass.
Each world glittered, begged for attention, whispered its tragedies. None of them stirred me.
Then I saw it: a world that shone too bright.
Gold upon gold, towers of radiance that hurt the eyes even of a god.
Mortals prayed upward, their words rising as ribbons of light. And above them, beings sat on thrones of polished dawn, drinking belief like wine.
A realm of gods built on worship.
A heaven that thought itself holy.
"How precious," I murmured, leaning forward. "They made a cage from faith and called it paradise."
I stood. The void reacted like rippling cloth; my throne dimmed as if grateful for a rest.
I drew a circle in the air, and light bled outward—an open doorway of endless noon.
"Let's visit," I whispered. "Let's see what false divinity tastes like."
⸻
— Descent Through Light —
Entering that world was like stepping into the mouth of the sun.
Air turned thick with incense and promise. Choirs echoed without singers. Every cloud glittered with fragments of prayers. I could smell devotion—sweet, cloying, heavy with desperation.
I dimmed myself, shrinking until my form fit their aesthetic of perfection: golden eyes, luminous skin, a robe spun from soft light. My galaxy hair paled to strands of silver.
They loved symmetry here; I obliged them.
Below, the mortal world stretched in concentric cities, each level devoted to a higher god. The topmost ring floated above the rest—a fortress of white marble and molten halos. There, a council convened, radiant and loud.
I walked straight into it.
⸻
— The Council of Radiance —
Twelve of them sat around a circular table carved from condensed sunlight.
Each bore a title mortals whispered with fear or reverence: The Bearer of Fate, The Heart-Sower, The Judge of Days, The Mother of Light.
They looked up as I entered, and their perfect faces faltered for a heartbeat.
They did not know me, and that was the first crack in their illusion.
A woman with hair like liquid silver—The Voice of Prayer—spoke first.
"Another ascendant?" she asked, smiling the way predators smile at cubs. "The stream has been generous."
I inclined my head.
"Generous indeed."
"Name yourself," demanded the one they called The Judge of Days. His crown was a disk of burning runes that floated above his skull.
"Names are expensive," I replied lightly. "Would you accept a secret instead?"
They laughed, or tried to. The sound was brittle.
"I like him," murmured the Heart-Sower, lounging back in his chair. "Let him stay. The mortals below adore novelty. A new god means more offerings."
At that, every eye brightened. Offerings.
Their hunger pulsed through the chamber like heat. I saw, with the kind of sight that exists beyond sight, the threads connecting them to the mortal cities below—rivers of faithlight flowing upward through crystal conduits. Each breath they took drained someone's prayer.
They were not creators. They were consumers.
Symbiotes on the body of belief.
And still they called themselves divine.
"You built your power on borrowed worship," I said softly, tracing the air. "Does it never tire you—to eat and never be full?"
The Judge frowned. "Blasphemy is an odd first word for a newborn."
"Blasphemy," I repeated, tasting the word. "You think I'm one of you."
I smiled. The sound of it made their halos dim.
⸻
— The Feast of Faith —
They summoned servants—winged beings made of reflected gold, faces blank as polished masks. Each carried a chalice filled with shimmering liquid: condensed prayer.
"This," said the Voice of Prayer, raising hers, "is the nectar of faith. Drink, and the mortals remember you with warmth. Refuse, and they forget."
She sipped delicately. The others followed, their throats glowing with swallowed light.
I lifted my cup. Inside swirled thousands of voices begging, praising, pleading. Each drop was a soul's small hope melted down to sustenance.
I drank.
For them, a single mouthful was enough to sustain centuries.
For me, it vanished before it touched my tongue.
The table trembled.
Cups cracked.
Faithlight burst upward like a fountain, pouring from the chalices, the walls, the conduits in the floor. The gods froze, staring as the streams bent toward me—billions of threads of devotion rushing into my body, feeding a hunger I did not know I possessed.
Their paradise dimmed.
"What are you?" whispered the Mother of Light.
I looked around at the gilded hall, at the false heaven flickering as its lifeblood fled.
"Thirsty," I said simply.
Panic broke their perfect composure. Some tried to pull the conduits closed, others fled through light-doors that shattered the moment they touched them. The Judge raised his hand to strike me with divine law—letters of fire forming midair—yet every word burned out before it reached sound.
"Language fails you," I told him gently. "You built it on belief, and I just drank it dry."
He staggered. His crown fell and melted on the floor, pooling into dull metal.
I didn't move. I didn't need to. Their world was unraveling by proximity.
But destruction alone was dull.
"No," I said after a moment. "Let's make this interesting."
⸻
— The Game —
I snapped my fingers.
The world stilled.
Every false god froze mid-motion; light halted mid-flare. Only their eyes moved, wide and terrified. I stepped between them, brushing my fingers along their halos, feeling the fragile architecture of their power.
"You've taken so much from mortals," I said. "Let's see how you fare when you must earn it."
With another snap, the golden hall dissolved into darkness.
When the light returned, they were standing among the mortals below—robes tattered, halos gone, faces unremarkable. Crowds bustled past them without a glance.
Their connection to the faith-rivers was gone.
Their voices no longer echoed when they prayed.
I watched from above, unseen, as realization struck.
The Judge tried to summon fire; only smoke came.
The Mother of Light clutched her chest, gasping at the pain of a mortal heartbeat.
The Heart-Sower fell to his knees in the mud, whispering, "They don't know me."
"Of course not," I said from the sky. "I erased the memories. Now, win them back. Prove your divinity to those who once worshipped you."
I let the words echo through their atmosphere like thunder.
"Whoever is remembered again may keep existence. The rest …" I paused, smiling. "…will become interesting dust."
Below, panic turned to pleading, pleading to argument, argument to despair.
A few mortals looked up, hearing my voice without understanding it, and for an instant they felt something vast staring down—a child's curiosity large enough to eclipse their sun.
That was enough to begin their new faith.
⸻
— The Watcher Above Heaven —
I floated above the golden city as it dulled to bronze. Its towers dimmed, its rivers turned to ordinary light. The echoes of worship that had once filled every corner dwindled to silence.
The false gods scattered across their world, each trying in vain to spark belief.
The Judge preached in the marketplace, voice hoarse. No one listened.
The Mother of Light healed a beggar's wounds and waited for gratitude that never came.
The Voice of Prayer stood on a rooftop, calling to a sky that no longer answered.
I listened to all of them.
Their desperation was music.
But one among them—the silver-haired woman, Voice of Prayer—stopped begging first. She looked up toward where she could not see me and whispered, "You're still here."
Clever.
"Yes," I answered aloud, letting my voice thread through the wind.
She turned slowly, her mortal eyes straining against the brightness above. "You wanted to see us fall."
"I wanted to see if you could rise without stealing," I corrected.
"Will you destroy us when we fail?"
"No." I smiled. "You'll destroy yourselves trying to be remembered."
Her breath caught. "Then you're worse than us."
"Probably," I said, and the clouds closed over her head like a door.
— The Crumbling Sky —
I drifted upward through the quiet, letting their heaven peel apart layer by layer.
Every hymn they'd ever sung turned brittle and broke mid-note. The marble beneath my feet cracked into dust that glowed as it fell, scattering across the mortal realm like dying stars.
This place had always been fake light painted over real darkness. Now, without worship to power it, the darkness came crawling back.
I found the throne room again—the great hall where they had once feasted on belief. Empty now. No choir, no scent of incense, only the echo of what they used to be.
Twelve empty thrones.
I ran a hand along the table's surface. Where prayer once flowed like honey, there was only cold stone.
"You built eternity out of applause," I murmured. "But applause always ends."
In the far corner, the Mother of Light staggered in, barefoot, face streaked with soot.
She still glowed faintly—the afterimage of power refusing to die.
"Please," she whispered, bowing until her knees struck stone. "If you are truly beyond us… give me back the voices. I can guide them better this time."
I looked down at her, curious rather than cruel.
"Better?"
"Yes. We were careless. Hungry. We can change."
"You can't," I said gently. "You were born from their need to believe. Without it, there's nothing left to change."
Her lips trembled. "Then what are you?"
I crouched so our eyes met. The reflection of my double pupils filled hers like a mirrored storm.
"I'm what's left after gods run out of prayers."
I touched her forehead with two fingers. Her light folded inward, collapsing into a single golden tear that hovered between us.
"I'll keep this," I said. "A reminder that faith tastes better when it spoils."
She faded, leaving only the tear. I set it on the table. It rolled once, then stilled, shining softly in the ruin.
⸻
— The Lessons of Dust —
Outside, the mortal world adjusted.
Where temples once towered, markets bloomed.
Where worship once echoed, laughter returned.
They built monuments not to heaven, but to each other.
Somewhere, a child looked at the sunset and smiled—no prayer attached, no debt owed.
That tiny gesture burned brighter than all the faithlight I had swallowed.
"Interesting," I said. "They grow faster without gods."
The throne behind me pulsed, echoing my amusement. Its veins of black-gold light responded, recording the data of collapse, feeding the Void new patterns.
Maybe, I thought, that was the point. Maybe creation only improved when it stopped trying to worship.
Still… watching was not enough.
⸻
— The Reflection in the Void —
I returned to my domain.
The doorway of noon sealed behind me, shrinking until only a thread of light remained before snapping into darkness.
My throne welcomed me like an old heartbeat.
World-screens shifted to show the aftermath: false gods scattered, mortals rebuilding, belief rerouting itself into new shapes—philosophy, art, stubborn hope.
Dominion and Mercy still ruled their world, unaware that their creator had just ended another pantheon's existence with a thought.
"Two worlds playing different songs," I mused. "Both mine."
I reached into the air, drawing a small sphere of condensed light—the remains of that golden tear.
Inside it swirled the last echo of the Mother of Light's essence. It whispered faintly: remember me.
I smiled. "I will. Until I find something louder."
With a flick, I crushed it. The Void absorbed the sound like a sigh.
⸻
— The Aftertaste of Faith —
Boredom returned, but not the same kind. It came flavored with curiosity—what other worlds lied to themselves this beautifully?
I stretched, the motion setting galaxies rippling across my hair.
The throne dimmed, satisfied, almost expectant.
"You liked that one, didn't you?" I asked it. "Shall we hunt for another performance?"
The golden veins brightened in answer.
Screens swirled again—oceans of realities flickering past until one caught the throne's attention and stopped.
A planet of endless plains, scarred and smoking. Banners torn by wind. Millions of mortals locked in war so constant that peace had become a myth.
Swords and prayers clashed in equal measure.
"A war world," I said, leaning forward. "Good. Something raw."
I watched for a long moment as armies moved like insects, each convinced it fought for righteousness. Each certain some god stood behind its cause.
"They kill in my name without knowing it," I whispered. "Let's see what they do when I show up to watch."
The thought pleased me.
⸻
— Closing the Chapter —
Before leaving, I glanced once more at the empty heaven I'd unmade.
From this distance it looked peaceful—a glittering ruin adrift in the dark, quiet now that the lies were gone.
"They were never gods," I said softly. "They were echoes pretending to sing."
The Void's Little King smiled.
He raised his hand. The ruined heaven folded in on itself like paper, compressed to a single golden point, and vanished into his palm.
He stepped through a new rift of black-and-gold light, heading toward the world of war and smoke, where mortals screamed prayers to deaf skies.
Behind him, the Void pulsed once—hungry, eager, alive.