Asher faced the being, his own power churning within him like a tempest leashed on a chain. The golden eye regarded him with no love or mercy—only expectation.
"What are you going to do with it?"
The question rang out, echoing through his very existence. It was not a question. It was acceptance.
Power was what he had always desired. He had fought, bled, and lost everything to reach this position. And yet, here, he could feel the burden of the choice more than ever before.
He had witnessed what unrestrained power was capable of. The gods, the devourers, the void—all of them had been reduced to servitude by it. Was he not the same?
His fists curled.
"I will use it." The words had slipped from his lips, cold, unyielding. "To shatter this cycle. To destroy those who believe they are above the law. So no one else will have to endure as I have."
The figure leaned its head, as if balancing.
"And why do you stand above the gods you hate?"
Asher's breath stopped.
For an instant, the throne room blazed. He envisioned himself—not what he was, but what he might be. A conqueror. A tyrant. A god of vengeance and destruction. He envisioned himself with the ability to remake the world, to bend all to his will.
It was addictive.
It was frightening.
Is this my destiny?
He breathed a slow sigh.
"No," he told her, his voice deeper. "I am not they. I don't wish to rule. I don't wish to control." He raised his gaze to the entity's. "I wish to end this war. And if that means burning the gods to the ground, then so be it."
The silence hung in the air. Then the entity smiled.
"A bold statement." It stirred from its throne, and Asher beheld it in its true form for the first time—a churning mass of shadow and light, neither mortal nor divine. Something more.
"Very well," it said. "Then show me."
The room dissolved.
Asher was plummeting once again, but this time, he had a destination.
The final war hung over the horizon.