The mule is slow,Each step rattles my bones, my body still weak from starvation and whatever cosmic punishment the gods cursed me with. But I press forward.
The road west is barely more than a dirt path, winding through thick forests and jagged hills. The trees loom overhead, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. The air is cold.
Three days to the capital. Too long.
I need strength.
The hunger gnaws at me, deeper than my stomach—an emptiness inside me, where my divinity once burned. The gods stripped me of my power, but not all of it. I can feel something… lingering.
A spark. An ember.
And embers can be fanned into flame.
By the time night falls, I've covered more ground than I expected. The mule is tired, but I push it forward until I find shelter—a crumbling watchtower, half-swallowed by the forest.
I tie the mule near a patch of wild grass, then step inside. The stone walls are slick with moss, the roof partially collapsed, but it will do.
I sit against the wall, closing my eyes. Focus.
I reach inward, searching for the ember of power still buried in me.
At first, there's nothing. Just silence. Emptiness. A hollow shell where my godhood once burned.
But then—a flicker.
I latch onto it. Pull.
A spark ignites in my chest, faint but real. The sensation is familiar yet distant, like grasping at the memory of a dream. This is mine. They didn't take everything.
I push harder, trying to stoke the ember into something more. Power surges for a moment—a whisper of the strength I once commanded.
Then pain.
A searing, white-hot agony rips through me. My vision darkens, my muscles lock. It's like my own body is rejecting me.
I choke back a scream. My fingers dig into the stone floor, blood welling beneath my nails. I was a god. I will not break.
But the pain doesn't stop.
It builds.
Then—shadows move at the tower's entrance.
I snap my eyes open.
Footsteps. Light. Careful. Not bandits. Something else.
I force myself to my feet, my breath ragged. My vision swims, my body weak from whatever just happened, but I grip the crude knife Taron gave me.
A figure steps into the tower.
Slender. Cloaked in dark leather. A hunter's stance.
Their hood obscures most of their face, but I catch the gleam of a dagger in their hand.
"Bad night for camping," the stranger murmurs. Their voice is smooth, unreadable.
I don't answer. They're watching me. Studying. Looking for an opening.
I shift my stance slightly. They notice. Their grip on the dagger tightens.
Then they move.
Fast.
A blur of motion—dagger flashing toward my throat.
I react on instinct. My body may be weak, but my mind is still Asher Valerian, the War God. I pivot, letting the blade slide past my neck, and slam my elbow into their ribs.
They grunt, stumbling back. I press forward, knife aimed at their throat—
But they recover too quickly. Their free hand snaps up, fingers crackling with blue energy.
Magic.
I twist away, barely avoiding the bolt of force that slams into the wall behind me, blasting stone into dust. That wasn't normal sorcery. That was blood magic.
Whoever they are, they aren't just some wandering thief.
I adjust my grip. "You picked the wrong target."
The stranger tilts their head, amusement flickering in their eyes. "Did I?"
Then they vanish.
One moment they're there—the next, gone. No sound, no movement. Just gone.
I whirl around, scanning the shadows. They're fast. Too fast.
A whisper at my ear.
"Try harder."
I twist, slashing out—nothing. Just air. Then—pain.
A sharp sting in my side. I stagger back, my fingers brushing something warm. Blood.
The stranger appears again, a few feet away, their dagger tipped with red. "Not bad," they say. "But you're sloppy."
I grit my teeth. I should have killed them by now. My body is weak, slow. The ember of power inside me flickers, still unsteady. I need more.
I force myself to reach for it again. The ember flares—this time, I don't resist the pain. I let it come, let it burn through me.
And something awakens.
The world sharpens. The shadows around me stretch, bending in unnatural ways. My vision narrows, locking onto the stranger with terrifying clarity.
They move.
I see it before they do.
Their muscles tense, their foot shifts—I know exactly where they'll strike before they even commit to the attack.
They lunge—dagger aimed for my heart.
I step into it.
Their eyes widen in surprise. Too late.
I twist, catching their wrist, and drive my knee into their gut. Hard. The air rushes out of them in a strangled gasp. I wrench their dagger away, flipping it in my grip—
And press it against their throat.
The stranger goes still.
Silence. Only our breathing, ragged and sharp.
For the first time, they hesitate. Their eyes flick to my hands, to the way the shadows around us seem to pulse.
"You're not normal," they whisper.
Neither are you, I think.
But I don't say it. Instead, I tighten my grip. "Who sent you?"
A slow smile spreads across their lips. "No one."
"Liar."
Their pulse beats against the blade, but they don't flinch. "If you were as weak as you look, you'd be dead by now." A pause. "You're interesting."
I press the dagger harder. "Keep talking."
Their smile doesn't fade. "Maybe I will."
The ember inside me burns hotter. I don't understand it yet—but I will.
And whoever this assassin is, they just became my first step toward reclaiming my power.
Il keep y'all posted on the series