Place: The Kingdom of Preservation, Moon
Time: Early Morning
North Frozenlight woke from the nightmare without a sound.
That alone was unusual.
Gods often woke screaming when their dreams turned prophetic. Angels gasped. Saints cried. Even demons thrashed when visions clawed too deeply into their minds.
North did none of that.
His eyes opened slowly, frost-blue irises reflecting the crimson glow spilling through the tall arched windows of his chamber. The red moon hung heavy in the sky, swollen and wounded, its surface scarred by invisible teeth.
The Devourer was still gnawing at it.
North lay still, staring upward, breathing evenly. His body was calm. Perfectly regulated. Divinity ensured that.
But something was wrong.
"…Still," he murmured quietly, his voice hoarse despite divine lungs, "I feel like something is missing."
He lifted his right hand and stared at it.
In the dream, that hand had been soaked in blood not his own. Someone else's. Someone important. Someone whose pain had seeped into him so deeply that even waking could not wash it away.
Yet now, the hand was clean. Pale. Untouched.
The blood vanished like mist beneath sunlight.
"My soul feels… intact," North continued, brow furrowing. "No fracture. No loss of essence."
He closed his fingers slowly.
"…Only a spoonful of memory," he concluded. "Extracted. From an endless ocean."
That realization unsettled him more than pain ever could.
Gods understood loss. Gods understood sacrifice. Gods understood death.
But theft?
That was different.
North exhaled through clenched teeth.
"God of Recognition," he muttered.
The name tasted bitter. Wrong. Like speaking a word that should not exist.
He rose from the bed in one fluid motion. The massive king-sized structure carved from moonstone and reinforced with twelve layers of preservation arrays creaked softly as his weight left it, though the bed itself could have supported a collapsing mountain.
Gods did not need beds.
But North still slept.
Habit, he had learned, was a powerful anchor. One of the few things keeping divinity from eroding identity.
"Mother used to say," he recalled quietly, walking toward the wash basin, "that rituals remind us who we were when we start forgetting who we are becoming."
Gods did not need to brush their teeth.
They did not need to bathe.
They did not need to eat, sleep, or bath.
Their divinity constantly purified them body, soul, and essence alike.
And yet.
Even in this very morning after leaving the bed North brushed his teeth anyway.
He rinsed his mouth. Washed his face. Ran cold water through his silver-white hair.
Not because it was necessary.
Because it was familiar.
"Living as a god," he murmured to his reflection, "was never taught to me."
The mirror reflected a young man no older than his mid-twenties, face sharp and elegant, eyes deep as frozen seas. No scars. No signs of exhaustion.
A perfect vessel.
"My family taught me how to live as a mortal," he continued softly. "As an angel , As a brother and As a son."
His reflection did not answer.
"They never taught me how to live as a god."
North straightened.
"In ancient times," he recalled, adjusting the high-collared frost-blue garments that formed naturally around him, "gods rarely changed their attire and when they did mortals called it a new avatar."
The clothes a god wore were not fashion.
They were personality, crystallized.
They were divine essence, given form.
A truly ascended god possessed a divine form so overwhelming that even angels struggled to look upon it without bleeding from the eyes.
"Next full moon," North whispered, staring again at the red light spilling across the floor, "I will become that."
His fingers curled.
"And I am afraid."
Gods were not supposed to fear.
Yet fear lingered not of death, but of price.
What would it cost this time?
What would he lose next?
He turned and left the chamber.
───────────────────
The grand dining hall was vast enough to host a council of gods, yet this morning, it held only three figures.
A table designed for four.
North's father sat at the head, posture dignified, wings folded neatly behind him. His mother sat beside him, elegant and calm, her silver hair tied back simply.
Two seats remained empty.
One had been empty for over two days.
North took his place without comment, his gaze lingering just a second too long on the vacant chair.
Raka's chair.
No one spoke of it.
They had all learned better.
"I heard from Noxelle," his mother said gently, breaking the silence as servants quietly withdrew. "From next time, let that child join us for dinner."
North blinked. "Yuria?"
"She is destined to help you," his mother replied calmly, as if discussing the weather. "And it is good to know those who will walk beside you."
His father nodded. "Isolation erodes judgment."
North hummed faintly. "Spoken like someone who ruled with a council."
His father smiled. "Spoken like someone who learned from his mistakes."
A pause.
Then, softly: "I have invited Goddess Cedar Puregreen to attend your ascension ceremony."
North's hand tightened slightly around his cup.
"We calculated the positions of stars and planets," his father continued. "Divine sight confirms stability excluding, of course, the Devourer's interference with the moon."
"As expected," North said.
"Still," his mother added, "you should seek guidance from Lady Yuria. She bears the Creator's blessing."
"I will," North agreed.
Silence returned, heavier this time.
Finally, his father spoke again, voice quieter.
"After next Saturday night," he said, "we will no longer interfere with your decisions."
North looked up.
"We cannot belittle our god," his father said with a faint laugh. "So enjoy this meal… as our son."
His mother smiled, though her eyes glistened faintly.
"North," his father continued, meeting his gaze directly, "you know how your mother is. She acts strong, but she cries at night."
North's jaw tightened.
"She cried when Raka was hurt," his father went on. "When he fell into corruption. When you chose to save one and left many."
North lowered his eyes.
"A god cannot choose family over the world," his father said gently. "Everyone is equal."
"I know," North replied.
"I hope," his father finished, "that you will become a great god."
North looked at them at the two beings who had once been gods themselves, who had sacrificed power for parenthood.
He smiled.
"I will be the greatest god," he said, with the sincerity of a child who had just finished a heroic tale. "I will save everyone."
A fantasy.
Yet his parents smiled anyway.
After the meal, North bowed deeply.
"For raising me," he said simply.
As he left the hall, warmth lingered in his chest.
The nightmare's grip loosened.
But fate did not release him.
It only waited.
───────────────────
The grand library doors stood half-open.
North knocked once. Twice.
No answer.
He entered quietly.
Books lay everywhere.
Stacks towered like unstable mountains. Scrolls littered the floor. Ancient tomes glowed faintly, their seals strained by curiosity.
At the center of the chaos lay Yuria.
Buried.
Completely.
"…Lady Yuria?" North called, alarmed.
He rushed forward and gently lifted her from the pile, cradling her like something precious and fragile.
Golden hair spilled like sunlight over snow. Her skin was pale, lips dry, breath shallow.
North placed her gently on the table.
"She overexerted herself," he murmured
He pressed two fingers to her forehead, letting a thread of divine essence flow.
Light bloomed.
"Hm…" she murmured.
Golden eyes fluttered open.
They met his.
Time stopped.
Then thump.
North jerked back, accidentally bumping her forehead.
"Ah!"
She collapsed back into the books.
North froze.
"I apologize," he said quickly. "I thought you were injured."
She stared at him, stunned.
"…You touched me."
His ears reddened slightly.
"Yes."
A pause.
"…With divinity."
"Yes."
"…That is worse or maybe good?"
For the first time that day, North genuinely laughed.
Softly.
And somewhere, unseen, fate smiled.
.....
A young maid nearly tripped over her own hem as she balanced a silver tray piled with documents, tea, and a suspicious number of sealed letters.
Her name was Lume.
She had been assigned to serve Lord North three months ago.
In those three months, she had learned four things.
First — the halls were always cold, even in summer.
Second — Lord North never raised his voice.
Third — when he laughed, something was terribly wrong.
And fourth — curiosity shortened a maid's lifespan.
Right now, she was experiencing all four at once.
Inside the hall, Yuria lay sprawled across the floor like a fallen puppet, books scattered everywhere. Her hair was a mess, her robes twisted, one sleeve half-glowing by residual divinity.
This was bad.
This was very bad.
Lume froze at the doorway, eyes wide.
Should I announce myself?
Should I pretend I saw nothing?
Should I fake sudden blindness?
He lifted the books effortlessly and supported Yuria's body with careful precision, as though handling something fragile.
"She overexerted herself," he murmured.
North turned.
"You are still here."
No one can hear that other then her.
"I-I was ensuring your tea did not cool, my lord," she said, voice trembling.
"Leave."
She bowed and turned instantly.
"And Lume."
Her heart stopped.
"You heard nothing."
She nodded violently. "Saw nothing."
"…Good."
She fled.