The battlefield was silent.
For the first time since we had stepped foot in this ruined cathedral, there were no whispers.
No chanting.
No cosmic horrors lurking in the air, pressing against my skull.
Nyxar's body was still. Pinned to the earth by Orlan's conjured nail, the last remnants of his divine energy drifting away in golden embers. His form—once ever-shifting, ever-changing—was finally motionless.
Sieg stepped forward first. Assessing. His eyes scanned the ruins, his posture unreadable as always.
Then Orlan.
His skeletal form stood motionless, empty sockets fixed on the god he had just dismantled.
I wasn't sure what he was thinking. Regret? Satisfaction? Nothing at all?
Didn't matter.
Because Naestra let out a breath, hands on her hips, and grinned.
"Skelly," she said, voice dripping with admiration, "you're insane."
I scoffed. Couldn't argue.
Orlan had done everything.
He stripped Nyxar's power. He kept us alive. He stopped the cathedral from collapsing on our heads.
There was no debate—this victory belonged to him.
Orlan remained silent.
His fingers twitched, and the last floating pieces of rubble dropped to the ground, settling into the wreckage.
His voice—calm, measured, as if nothing had happened.
"Shall we move on?"
Naestra blinked. "That's it? That's it? You just killed a god, and you're acting like you just finished writing a letter?"
Orlan turned his hollow gaze toward her.
"A mere footnote, Lady Naestra."
I huffed a small laugh. Of course.
Sieg's voice cut through the silence.
"Look."
He stood over one of Nyxar's severed arms, prying something free from the blackened, lifeless flesh. A bracelet.
It was thin, crafted from a pale, silver-like metal, almost too delicate for something worn by a god. Etchings of swirling patterns danced across its surface, shifting subtly when looked at from different angles, like smoke caught in glass.
And at its center—
A gem.
Green. Pulsing softly, weakly, the last remnants of its power clinging to existence.
Orlan stepped forward, taking it without hesitation. His skeletal fingers turned it over, inspecting it like one might an old manuscript—careful, thorough, knowing.
Then, he chanted.
Magic coiled through the air, drawn toward him like a tide bending to the moon. The stone in the bracelet reacted, its glow flaring for the briefest moment before dimming once more.
Finally, Orlan spoke.
"This artifact belongeth not to a disciple, nor a chosen vessel. This was wielded by Nyxar himself—his most sacred instrument." His voice was calm, measured, laced with an ancient weight. "A relic of divinity, born of his very essence."
I frowned. "And what, exactly, doth it do?" I muttered, mimicking his tone without thinking.
Orlan turned his empty sockets toward me.
"It eradicateth."
The word hung in the air like a sentence waiting to be carried out.
Naestra raised an eyebrow. "Eradicates what?"
Orlan lifted the bracelet slightly, his fingers hovering just above the gem. "Whatsoever the bearer doth desire." His tone did not change. "Be it a wound upon the flesh, a blade 'fore one's throat, a foe's very existence—this artifact may erase it from the mortal coil."
I said nothing.
Naestra, however, let out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head. "God of Desire," she muttered.
I turned to her. "What?"
She gestured toward Nyxar's motionless, nailed-down corpse.
"That's what he was." She exhaled, folding her arms. "That's why he was worshiped across so many realms. People prayed to him because he gave them exactly what they wanted. Riches. Power. Love. Revenge. Whatever they desired, he granted."
I frowned. "Then why hunt him?"
Naestra snorted. "Because it was never real."
I waited.
She continued.
"Nyxar granted desires, yeah. That part was true. And that's why people flocked to him. He didn't need armies or warbands—people willingly gave themselves to him. But once you worshiped him, once you accepted his gift..."
Her voice lowered slightly.
"You could never stop."
I felt the weight of her words before she even explained.
"Not because you didn't want to." She glanced at the bracelet in Orlan's hand.
"Because the moment you stopped worshiping him—he erased you."
The silence that followed was thick.
I looked at the bracelet again.
Its glow was fading.
Weak.
But not dead.
Orlan turned the artifact over one last time, his fingers tightening ever so slightly.
"A relic most perilous," he murmured.
Then, his hand closed around it.
And for the briefest moment—the air itself seemed to flicker.
Orlan's hand remained closed for a moment.
Then—he opened it.
The bracelet was gone.
No explosion. No dramatic shatter. Just a silent dissolution-crumbling into dust, shimmering faintly before vanishing into nothing.
Erased.
Orlan exhaled, his skeletal fingers flexing slightly.
"It shan't be of use to us." His voice was calm, absolute.
Sieg barely glanced up from where he was crouched over Nyxar's corpse, still searching through what remained. His hands moved through the tattered robes, prying at whatever artifacts might still be intact.
"I told you, didn't I?" he muttered.
He found something—a small trinket, maybe, but dismissed it, tossing it aside.
Then, without looking back—
"Absolute power, absolutely corrupt."