Chapter 1: The Last Words of the Oldest God
The heavens had never been silent, not even in the earliest days of creation. Winds of starlight swept across endless voids, celestial fires danced in eternal motion, and the voices of gods echoed like thunder across eternity. Yet in this moment, a stillness fell over the realm, a silence so deep that even time seemed to pause.
The Oldest God lay upon a pedestal carved from the light of dying stars. His body, once radiant with the brilliance of creation, flickered and dimmed. Around him, the other gods gathered — each a monument of power and pride.
The God of Fire, his arms wreathed in flames that never burned, paced with impatient steps.
The God of Shadows leaned from a hovering perch, eyes like ink pooling across the void. Even the God of War, ever restless, gritted his teeth and twitched with barely restrained rage.
The Oldest God lifted his hand, feeble but commanding. "Quiet yourselves," he said, and even the mightiest trembled at his voice. It was not loud, but it carried the weight of millennia, of countless worlds shaped and unmade.
The God of Fire snorted. "You speak as though you are dying," he said, flames flickering with unease. "We have seen no end for you in all our existence. Why do you call us here with such… theatrics?"
The Oldest God's eyes, pale as frozen light, met each of theirs. "Because the hour has come. I do not have long." He coughed, a sound like meteorites grinding against one another. "Hours, perhaps less. Death… approaches me, and soon, I shall be nothing."
A hush fell. Mortals might have called it fear, but the gods called it disbelief. Death among gods was rare. Unthinkable. Yet here, in this moment, it was real.
He breathed deeply, and for a moment, the room felt as if it were holding its breath. Then, softly, he began.
"There will come a Child," he said, his voice carrying across the chamber like the distant tolling of a cosmic bell. "A Child who will walk among humans. Not half-blood, not a fragment of divinity, but fully God. Born of a woman who is purely human. She is unremarkable, simple, unknown to the world. And yet… she is chosen."
The God of Shadows hissed. "A mortal-born god? Impossible. None of us have ever seen such a thing. This… child… you speak of—"
"Will surpass us," the Oldest God finished. His hand trembled slightly, yet his gaze was unshakable. "This Child will rise above all gods, above all power, above all destiny we have ever laid down. And you… you will have no control over them."
The God of War slammed his fist against the floor, sending waves through the very fabric of the heavens. "How dare you!" he roared. "We are eternal! We are the pillars of reality! And you speak of some mortal-born child who will overshadow us?"
The Oldest God's lips curved into a faint, almost sad smile. "You misunderstand me," he said. "This is not a child of pride or ambition. This is not a weapon or a tool. This is a spark that destiny itself has chosen. I did not summon it, and I do not command it. All I can do is speak, and bear witness to what must come."
The God of Fire stepped forward, flames licking his form, eyes wide. "And you would leave us with this knowledge? Alone? To wait for the child who will eclipse us? Do you not see the danger?"
"I see everything," the Oldest God replied, his voice softening. "I see the wars that will come, the envy, the fear, the struggle. But the threads of fate have already been woven. Nothing we do can stop it. Prepare yourselves, for when the Child is born, the world of men and the realm of gods will tremble alike."
A shadow moved in the corners, the God of Shadows leaning closer. "And if we refuse to prepare? If we strike against the prophecy before it comes?"
The Oldest God shook his head slowly. "Even you, with all your cunning, cannot halt what destiny has marked. This is not a battle for us to win or lose. This is… inevitability. Remember my words: the Child will come, and nothing will be untouched by them. Not heaven, not earth, not even the deepest shadow."
The Oldest God's form began to waver, light scattering like grains of sand caught in a storm. He coughed again, the sound fragile, mortal, almost human. Around him, the other gods remained still, their anger and fear fighting with the instinct to move, to act, to change what they could not change.
With a final, quiet breath, the Oldest God's eyes closed. His body dissolved into radiant motes of light that drifted into the void, leaving a silence so complete it seemed to echo. The chamber of the gods was empty of him, yet the weight of his prophecy lingered, thick and palpable.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the God of War growled, "We cannot allow this to happen. We cannot be overshadowed by a mortal-born god."
The God of Shadows smirked, eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Oh, we will see. The Child is not yet born, but when they come… the game begins."
And so, in the halls of eternity, the gods turned from mourning to plotting, pride and envy shaping the path of a future they could not yet touch. Somewhere, in the threads of fate, the seed of what was to come waited — quiet, hidden, and unstoppable.
The prophecy had been spoken. The world would never be the same.