The Gift of Death

Zareth stood at the foot of the Shrine of Death, feeling the cold wind swirl around him like invisible hands, wrapping him in its chill. Despite the heaviness of the moment—the weight of Death's voice still ringing in his ears—Zareth found himself grinning. He'd spent his whole life being ignored, pushed aside by the other gods. Yet here, in the place no one visited, in the domain of the forgotten, he had been chosen.

He stared at the worn stones of the shrine, a sense of satisfaction bubbling in his chest. "Well, guess I finally made a friend," he muttered to himself. "And who'd have thought it'd be Death?"

The shadows seemed to shift slightly, as if the air itself responded to his voice. Zareth rubbed his arms against the cold. "So, what now?" he called into the stillness. "Do I just… wait for more instructions? Should I, I don't know, knock or something?"

The wind howled through the trees in response. Zareth chuckled, a little nervously. "Right, no knocking. Got it. Guess I should probably get used to the silence, huh?"

Just as he turned to leave, his body tensed. The shadows around the shrine began to move, coiling around his legs like tendrils of smoke. He gasped as the air thickened, a presence far larger than he could comprehend pressing down on him.

A voice—cold, distant, yet strangely familiar—spoke from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Zareth," the voice whispered. "Your journey begins now. You are bound by the Divine Accord. You wield my power. Serve me, and you will understand the depth of your new existence."

Zareth blinked, feeling the strange pressure loosen slightly. "Serve you? What does that even—"

Before he could finish, the ground rumbled beneath him. Shadows swirled violently, and from the darkness, a scroll of ancient parchment materialized, floating before Zareth. The scroll unfurled on its own, revealing symbols he didn't understand, written in ink that seemed to shift like shadows. At the bottom of the scroll was a blank space—waiting for him to sign.

Death's voice echoed again, colder this time. "This is your Divine Oath. Through this, our Accord is sealed. With your blood, you shall bind yourself to my power, and I will grant you my essence."

Zareth stared at the parchment, his heart pounding. He had seen other disciples swear their oaths—had witnessed the glow of divine light fill their bodies as they connected with their gods. But this? There was no warmth here, no comforting glow. Only cold, endless darkness.

The air thickened as Death's presence loomed closer. "Sign it."

Zareth gulped, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. This was it—his chance. After years of being ignored, of being cast aside by the world, this was his moment to be something more. He hesitated for only a moment, then reached into his coat, pulling out a small dagger.

Without flinching, he dragged the blade across his palm. Blood welled up, dark red in the twilight. He clenched his fist, letting the blood drip onto the scroll.

As soon as his blood touched the parchment, the symbols flared to life, glowing with a sinister light. The scroll absorbed the blood, and the parchment curled up once more before vanishing into the shadows. Zareth felt a surge of power rush through him, like ice flooding his veins, but it didn't hurt. It felt empowering.

The shadows coiled around him, sinking into his skin, and he could feel them swirling inside him. He was connected to Death, bound by the oath he had just taken. His powers, his very existence, were now tied to the Divine Accord.

"This is… amazing!" he exclaimed. He waved his hand experimentally, and the shadows obeyed his command, twisting and swirling in the air like dark ribbons.

He twirled his fingers, watching the shadows mimic his movements. "I've never felt so… alive. Well, I guess that's ironic, given the circumstances."

His voice echoed in the quiet clearing, but Zareth didn't care. For the first time in his life, he had power—real, tangible power—and the world suddenly seemed full of possibilities.

"Right," he said to himself, still grinning. "Now what can I do with this?"

Zareth had always been fascinated by the Divine Contracts that tied mortals to gods. Every disciple had to form a Divine Accord, a sacred bond where they swore a Divine Oath in exchange for a share of their god's essence. He had seen others take their oaths before, their bodies glowing with divine light as they uttered their promises to gods like Kovos or Gaela. He never imagined he'd be making one with Death.

In those moments, the disciples pledged themselves to their god's domain, receiving part of their essence as a gift. With that essence, they could wield divine powers—some controlling flames, others summoning life itself. But now, Death's Essence flowed within him, and he had his own oath to uphold.

Zareth spent the next few hours experimenting with his abilities. He found that he could summon shadows to cloak himself, becoming almost invisible in the darkness. He could send them out in tendrils to bind and manipulate objects, lifting stones and small branches with ease. He even managed to summon a wisp of cold energy, watching as frost crept along the ground where he directed it.

"This is incredible," he whispered to himself. "I mean, I was hoping for something like strength, or maybe some fire powers, but this? Controlling shadows? Way better!"

He felt light despite the nature of his powers, and for once, he didn't feel weighed down by the rejection he'd faced from others. He didn't care that he wasn't a disciple of Kovos, or that Elyra had passed him over. He didn't need their validation anymore.

But in the back of his mind, he knew this wasn't going to be that simple. Death had chosen him for a reason, and while he might be enjoying his new powers now, there was always a catch. That voice had spoken of the Divine Accord—an agreement. Zareth had been given power, but what would it ask in return?

As if on cue, the wind shifted again, the cold deepening. Zareth's smile faltered.

"Zareth," the voice whispered once more. This time, it was more commanding, more direct. "Your first task awaits. To wield my power, you must prove your worth."

Zareth gulped, feeling the weight of the voice settle over him again. "I figured this was coming. Okay, what do I have to do?"

The shadows at his feet twisted and shifted, forming the faint outline of a figure—a tall, gaunt man, dressed in ragged black robes. His face was obscured, but Zareth felt the presence of Death itself in the figure.

"There is a soul that defies its fate," the figure said, its voice a low, icy whisper. "Go to the village. There, you will find one who refuses to pass. It is your task to bring them to me."

Zareth's heart pounded. "Wait, you mean… I have to…?"

"You must usher their soul to its proper place," Death replied. "You are my disciple now. You will be my hand in this world. Go, and do not fail me."

Before Zareth could protest, the figure vanished, leaving him alone in the clearing. The shadows around him receded, and the air grew still once more.

Zareth stood in stunned silence, his mind racing. He had just been asked to claim a soul—to take someone's life. His chest tightened at the thought. Could he really do that?

But as he stared at the quiet, forgotten shrine of Death, something inside him hardened. He had always been overlooked, pushed aside, and ignored. No one had ever believed in him—until now. Death had chosen him, given him power.

For once, he had purpose.

Zareth exhaled slowly, feeling the cold air fill his lungs. "I guess I don't have a choice."