The fire crackled softly.
It was small, barely more than a flicker in the hearth, but to a child curled beneath a heavy blanket, it was enough to keep the dark at bay.
Bell Cranell listened with wide red eyes as the old man beside him slowly turned a worn page. The book was thick, its leather cover weathered, its spine repaired so many times it barely held together. The letters inside were old—older than Orario, older than the stories told in taverns and guild halls.
"Grandpa," Bell said, tugging at the man's sleeve, "you promised. The gods' war."
The old man chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves shifting in the wind.
"Ah… that one," he said. "You always choose the heavy stories before bed."
Bell grinned. "They're the best ones."
For a moment, the man only stared into the fire. Then he nodded, slow and deliberate, and began to read.
"Long ago, before the gods walked freely among mortals, the world trembled beneath a great calamity."
Bell leaned closer.
"From beyond the mortal realm came beings born of fear and malice. They were called Cursed Spirits—false spirits, twisted reflections of the gods' creations."
The old man's voice was steady, practiced. He had told this story before.
"They fed on fear. On hatred. On suffering. And when fear spread, so too did they."
Bell frowned. "Like monsters?"
"In a way," the old man replied, turning the page. "But worse. Monsters can be slain and forgotten. These… lingered."
He continued.
"The Cursed Spirits grew bold. One day, they raised their hands against the gods themselves."
The fire popped sharply.
"This was a crime beyond forgiveness. For no child may strike their creator. No spirit may challenge the divine."
Bell swallowed.
"War followed. A war so vast that even the heavens were stained by it."
The book showed crude illustrations—gods clashing with shadowed shapes, light against darkness, spears of radiance piercing writhing forms.
"Mortals do not know how long the war lasted. Nor how many fell. Only that in the end… the Cursed Spirits were defeated."
The old man closed the book slightly, letting the words sink in.
"And what happened to them?" Bell asked.
"They were cast down," the man said. "Sealed away. Some were destroyed. Others fled and now wander the world as lesser evils—weak remnants of a greater sin."
Bell nodded slowly. That part he knew. Adventurers hunted them. Familias boasted of slaying curses just as they did monsters.
The old man resumed reading.
"From that day onward, the gods descended to the mortal world. They gave humanity blessings, protection, and order. And under their watchful eyes, the world found peace."
Bell smiled at that.
"So that's why the gods are here now?"
"Yes," the old man said softly. "To guide us. And to remind us."
He tapped the page with one finger.
"Never offend the gods. Never raise a hand against them. For even beings born of fear were powerless before divine wrath."
Bell hugged the blanket tighter. "The Cursed Spirits were scary… but the gods won."
The old man didn't answer immediately.
The firelight danced across his face, casting long shadows beneath his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle—but distant.
"That is the lesson mortals are meant to learn."
Bell didn't notice the way the old man's grip tightened on the book.
"Grandpa," Bell said after an audible yawn, "are there still really strong Cursed Spirits out there?"
The old man smiled faintly.
"Stories say there were once fears so old, so deep, that even the gods could not truly understand them."
Bell's eyes widened. "Like… death?"
The smile faltered, just for an instant.
"Perhaps," the man said. "But such things are far beyond us. Beyond mortals. Beyond reason."
He closed the book at last.
"Sleep now, Bell. Tomorrow, you'll start your journey. Heroes shouldn't worry about old myths."
Bell nodded, already drifting off.
As the child's breathing evened out, the old man remained seated by the fire, staring at the closed book in his hands.
Its last page—never read aloud—was filled with annotations in a different script. Scratched out. Rewritten. Burned at the edges.
Not a story of victory.
But of survival.
And of an enemy that left…
without ever being destroyed.
The fire crackled.
Somewhere far away, something remembered being feared.