The God in the grave

Two Months Later

Zephyros stood over his sister's grave. It wasn't cold last time. The thought flickered through him, brittle as winter's first ice. Now the air gnawed at his lungs, each breath a ragged gasp. He'd dug the pit himself, though the trinkets inside—gilded lockets, jeweled daggers, all glowing faintly with stolen magic—meant nothing. A hollow tribute. Her body had never been recovered.

From his coat pocket, he withdrew the wooden owl. Its carvings had dulled, the eyes stripped of their gleam. Yet as he gripped it, the familiar tremor began—a scream only he could hear, reverberating from the cursed blade Amof strapped to his back. The sound slithered through the castle ruins, twisting with the wind.