Gods don't count time the way mortals do, years are a blur and decades feel like seconds passing. Even centuries could pass like a held breath if nothing worth noticing occurred.
But this...this...was worth noticing.
The god stood at the edge of the world and watched a house starve.
Not collapse. Not burn. Not fall in a single dramatic moment that poets would later carve into stone.
It starved, Slowly, Quietly, and Respectfully.
House Oaten had once fed three valleys.
Its fields had been modest, its banners unremarkable, its name spoken without awe,.. but its tables… had been full, its storehouses disciplined, its people steady.
No grand armies. No legendary swordsmen. No sorcerers whose names bent the air.
Just grain. Bread. Supply lines that did not fail when winter bit deep, and that had been enough. Until it wasn't.
The god remembered the first blessing he provided the house.
It had not been a dramatic thing. No thunder. No big proclamation. Just a hand laid upon the land and a whisper carried through the soil.
Be steady, the god had said then. And you will endure.
For generations, they had.
House Oaten's lords had never asked for more. Never begged for miracles or demanded favor. They offered what they could—grain during famine years, shelter during border wars, bread to soldiers who would never remember their name.
The god had favored them for that.
As the Years went on other gods took notice.
That was where the trouble began.
The God of Steel had laughed first.
"What glory is there in bread?" he had scoffed. "It does not conquer. It does not inspire."
The Goddess of Coin had smiled thinly.
"But it endures," she had said. "And endurance breeds dependency."
The God of Storms had not spoken at all. He didn't need to say anything, he had simply withdrawn his gentler rains and let the seasons grow sharper.
None of them had struck House Oaten directly... but Gods rarely did.
They only nudged, it was more exciting that way.
Trade routes shifted. A river changed course after a spring flood that should not have been so violent. Neighboring houses, those favored by louder, brighter gods, began receiving contracts House Oaten once held.
None of it was dramatic enough to be called divine interference.
However... All of it was intentional.
The god who watched now, had argued back then.
"They have done nothing wrong," he had said.
The Goddess of Coin had shrugged. "They failed to ask other God of assistance."
An... so... the gods blessing faded, it was not revoked, not stolen, only drowned beneath louder powers.
But... House Oaten adapted. They always did.
They reduced portions before raising prices.
Sold luxuries before necessities.
Let servants go with severance they could not afford.
Lords took smaller meals so others could eat.
The god watched all of it. Watched as a proud house choose survival over pride, again and again, until there was very little left to choose with.
By the time Theo was born into that house... not born that word didn't fit... Placed.
By the time Theo arrived, the god had already decided how to proceed.
The soul had been difficult to find. Not because it was special in the way gods usually cared about, like having a great destiny, or crazy blazing ambition. No... no it was because it… aligned.
A man who had lived a small life. Who had fed himself poorly but fed others well. Who had loved baking not as art, nor as conquest, but as care.
A soul who understood systems without naming them.
A soul who knew hunger and patience in equal measure.
The god had watched Theo die.
The explosion had been… inelegant.
Gods disliked waste.
But the soul had held together. Bruised. Frayed. Still warm.
The god had taken him gently.
Not to a throne. Not to a battlefield. But to a kitchen that no longer remembered what abundance felt like.
"Why him?" another god had asked, distant and curious.
"Because of his patience, he knows how to wait," the god replied.
Then the god turned, to watch Theo walk through the town with Hollis at his side. Watched him see scarcity not as tragedy, but as information.
Watched him learn.
The system was not ready yet.
How could not be. Systems were not rewards. They were responsibilities.
Theo needed context first. Loss. Understanding. The weight of what had been taken from House Oaten, not by fate, but by divine neglect and rivalry.
The god felt no shame in that.
Only resolve.
"When?" murmured the Goddess of Coin, appearing beside him now, curiosity sharpened by interest. "You cannot hide him forever."
"I am not hiding him," the god said calmly. "I am seasoning him."
She laughed. "You always did think like a cook."
The god did not deny it.
"One year," he said. "When he turns ten. When he understands that feeding people is power."
"And if he fails?" she asked lightly.
"Then he will fail honestly," the god replied. "Which is more than most heroes manage."
Below them, unseen, Theo stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Hollis unpack bread bought with effort and restraint.
The god placed a hand against the fabric of the world.
Just once.
Just enough.
Theo's hands itched.
Soon.