Gate

The path to the manor forked somewhere behind him, but Evodil didn't take it. Snow crunched beneath his boots, rhythmic and soft, like he was stepping through memory instead of terrain. The wind moved lazily, dragging itself across the ridges like it was reluctant to be there at all. He said nothing at first. Not because there was no one to speak to, but because even his tendrils had gone quiet.

His coat dragged a thin line behind him in the snow, black against white like a scar across something clean. The sky above was pale and cloudless, painted in that color between dawn and nothing. One of his shadows carried a coffee mug beside him. Steam curled from it, slow and hesitant, as if unsure whether it belonged in this world.

Evodil stopped near a rock outcrop, kicked at a small mound of ice, then sat on it like it was a throne that had been waiting centuries just for him to get bored enough to use it. He didn't sigh. Didn't smile. Just sat still, hands resting on his knees, the tendril holding his coffee lowering it slightly within reach. He didn't touch it.

"Not lost," he muttered after a minute, glancing at the ridgeline ahead. "Just directionally challenged. By choice."

The snow said nothing. Rude.

He looked down at his boots, then up at the nothing sky again. "God of chaos, ladies and gentlemen," he announced, raising a hand and twirling a single finger in a lazy circle. "Tamer of shadows, butcher of logic, current victim of winter hiking."

He flicked a small chunk of frozen dirt off the edge with his boot. It bounced once, then vanished into the void below. He waited for a sound. None came.

"Oh good. Even gravity's taking the day off."

Evodil looked around, eyes trailing over the ridges and valleys like he was expecting something interesting to materialize if he stared hard enough. White, white, white, white… rock… oh, wait—nope. Just more white. A whole canvas of cold nothing. Fantastic.

Why the hell had he come out here? There was no reason. He could've been anywhere else. Annoying someone, preferably. That was the usual routine. Stir the pot, mock the silence, throw existential dread at Noah and see what sticks. But no. He was here, surrounded by frozen static. Alone.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, more like resignation. Because deep down, he knew. He always knew. There was no point to it. Not really. He wasn't looking for answers. He wasn't even running. He was just... drifting.

Because that's all he was good for, wasn't it?

He leaned back, elbows resting on the frozen stone like a man taking a break from meaning itself. The god of chaos, hate, and shadows—reduced to background noise in his own legend.

He'd grown to accept it. People didn't worship him. They blamed him. Used him as a placeholder for guilt they didn't want to carry. For consequences they didn't want to own. They didn't even need to know his name.

He was the excuse. The scapegoat. The unseen fallback for failure.

And he laughed. Just once. Quiet, empty.

"Yeah," he muttered. "That tracks."

He picked up a fistful of snow, packed it into a loose ball, and threw it off the cliff. No real direction, just a lazy arc into the air. Then another. Then another. Each one disappeared without a sound. After a while, the snow around him had thinned, uneven patches of dirt and frost breaking the monotony where he'd mined the ground for ammunition. He didn't stop. Not until his arm got tired and his mind wandered someplace colder.

Everything since he walked out of that lab under the crater—it had all felt familiar. Not in a nostalgic way. More like that creeping edge of déjà vu that settles in your bones and refuses to shake. Like he'd already done this once, maybe twice. Maybe forever.

But here, in these mountains? This place didn't fit. He didn't recognize it. Didn't feel the rhythm of it. And that—somehow—made it feel more real than anything else. Here, he wasn't reacting. Wasn't performing. Just sitting in cold silence with no scripts, no audience, and no ghosts clawing at the back of his eyes.

For once, he felt truly free. And with that freedom came something far worse: boredom.

So his mind wandered where it always did when left unattended—his powers, and his brothers.

James. Firebrand of a war god. Could control temperature like it owed him taxes, wielded combat and law like they were one concept, which—for him—they might as well be. Skilled as hell with that oversized hammer, could probably kill a city with a downward swing. Of course, he had that berserk mode issue. Rage made divine. Always just one scream away from turning the courtroom into a crater.

Then there was Noah. The nerd. Quiet. Patient. Dangerous in ways none of them could quantify. He'd outgrow them someday, Evodil was sure of it. Given time, he'd be omniscient. The worst part? He'd still be smug about it. Thank every god left that the bastard couldn't interact with atoms directly yet. If he could? The youngest of them all would already be the strongest. And that bow. Evodil still didn't get why a damn archer had to be that scary.

And then there was himself.

Powerful? Sure. On paper. Summon a black hole? Yeah. And then pass out like a jackass ten seconds later. Weakness? Oh, just light. Actual, literal light. Fantastic.

His old blade—useless now—didn't even have magic. No fire, no frost, no godsong. It just came back after being broken. A sad, pitiful little trick, like a knife that says, "please hit me again."

He huffed through his nose. No laughter, not really. Just something close.

He laid back in the snow, arms stretched out, the cold soaking through his coat like it had a personal vendetta. No more snowballs. No more words. Just stillness, and breath, and that low hum of existence trying to forget it had responsibilities.

He wasn't even thinking anymore. Just existing. Letting the silence eat around the edges of his mind like slow frostbite.

Then, almost without meaning to, he lifted his hands and reached up to his face. His fingers slipped under the blindfold, tugged it free with a soft pull. He summoned a shard of pure black glass from the air—smooth, cold, flawless—and held it above him.

His eyes stared back.

Black holes. Swirling, empty, dotted with pale specks of white like stars pretending to matter. No light. No life. Just pull. Just gravity.

Not like James'—warm and sharp, the kind of eyes that could get a presidential candidate to confess her sins on live TV. Not like Noah's either—whatever his eyes were supposed to be. Cold? Reflective? Overrated? At this point, Evodil didn't know and didn't care.

He kept staring at his reflection, waiting for it to blink first. It didn't. Of course not.

What was he supposed to do now? Stay here and rot? Play snow corpse until one of the others got bored enough to look for him? Or drag himself back to the manor, back to the noise and questions and James yelling and Noah giving advice no one asked for?

Even chaos, he thought, just wants a little peace sometimes.

Slowly, but surely—and with all the enthusiasm of a corpse asked to dance—Evodil stood up. The snow stuck to the back of his coat as he moved, clinging like regret. The blindfold, no longer in his hand, reformed on his face on its own, melting into his skin like it had never left. Better that way. No need to remind the world what his eyes looked like. No need to invite that kind of disgust.

His smirk slid back into place the moment he was upright. Automatic. Polished. The practiced curl of someone who knew what role he had to play. He was the god of chaos, after all. The monster in the corner. The walking contradiction. And what's chaos without a little theatrical cruelty? Without the fun?

He didn't feel like smiling. Not really. But the expression clung to him like the blindfold—habit stitched into his face.

He sighed, the breath leaving him more like fog than air, and started walking back down the mountain, boots pressing into the same snow he'd disturbed earlier. He didn't look back. Didn't want to. Whatever waited below would be better than the stillness up here.

Or so he thought.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty.

The terrain didn't change.

The rocks were the same. The snow piles were identical. The twisted stump he'd kicked on the way up was back in place, just as mangled. And the boulder—the one he sat on like a bored king—stood in front of him again. Waiting.

He stopped. Blinked once. Looked around.

Same wind. Same cold. Same fucking spot.

He hadn't gone anywhere.

He blinked again, slower this time. The thought crept up on him, unwanted but persistent.

"Going insane," he muttered aloud. "Nice. Maybe I finally leveled up. Get a new passive or something."

No laugh followed the joke. At least, not from him.

Something else laughed.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just present. Like the air had found a voice and didn't appreciate being ignored.

His body tensed, and then the terrain shifted—not gradually, not naturally, just... blinked into a new state. The snow beneath his boots flattened into a rough road, iced over and lined with skeletal trees clawing at the sky. The air smelled wrong now—like melted rubber and metal.

A car sat nearby, wrecked and half-buried in a drift of snow. Its frame was twisted around a dead tree, glass scattered like salt across the road. The scene buzzed with stillness. No motion. No crows. No wind. Just the hush of something unfinished.

Evodil didn't move. His breath hung in the air like it didn't want to leave.

Then came the second laugh. Closer. Right behind him.

He turned sharply, shadows coiling around his arms in defense—

—and he was back on the mountain.

Same wind. Same cold.

But not the same alone.

Someone stood a few meters in front of him now, half-shrouded by the snowfall. Their body was wrapped in black, the scarf around their neck fluttering softly despite the still air. Horns curved upward, not jagged but precise, symmetrical. Something shone beneath the scarf, faintly pulsing.

Evodil couldn't see their face. Didn't need to. Every instinct he had screamed familiarity, and none of it made sense.

Evodil rubbed the side of his head with one gloved hand, shadows twitching slightly along his forearm.

"Schizo arc," he muttered, a weak half-laugh slipping out, half-sigh, as if even he wasn't sure whether to find it funny or call for help.

The figure clapped.

A slow, deliberate sound. Not sarcastic. Not cruel. Just... acknowledging.

Then it took a single step back, boots barely crunching the snow, and spoke in a low, measured voice—quiet, but not uncertain.

"I used to come here often," it said. "Calmed me down. Before things got bad."

Evodil tensed instantly, fingers curling slightly, and the tendrils around his shoulders began to hiss—not loudly, but like breath leaking through closed teeth.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, standing straighter now.

No response.

The figure didn't even flinch.

Didn't shift, didn't blink—didn't answer.

Evodil took a step forward, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing. The figure reacted instantly, hopping back with an unnatural smoothness—as if the ground itself let it move faster just to avoid him.

"I said," Evodil repeated, sharper now, "who the hell are you?"

Still no answer.

Great. So it wasn't going to go smoothly. Honestly, fine. He was getting bored anyway.

He raised a hand, fingers twitching in the air—calling for the familiar weight of the Crypt Blade.

Nothing happened.

No weight. No hum. No shift in air pressure. Just... emptiness.

His fingers tightened, the shadows around him stirring, confused.

"What—"

Then he looked up.

The figure was holding it.

Not his blade, but undeniably the blade—twisted slightly, larger, the handle darker, the edge broader. Its surface was etched with glowing runes, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat beneath the metal.

Evodil's breath caught.

He stepped back.

It wasn't thrill that hit him. Not curiosity. Not anger.

It was fear.

Actual, sinking, primal fear. And he hated how quiet it was.

The figure finally spoke, voice low, not exactly threatening—but not kind either. It wasn't taunting, not really. More like concern dressed in mockery, or maybe pity that had lost its edge. Whatever it was, it didn't sit right with Evodil. It wasn't the usual flavor of conflict. It felt... personal.

"You talk like you matter," the figure said, stepping forward slightly, the runes on the blade pulsing once in rhythm with its words. "But you don't. You never did. Powerless, really. For all your noise."

Evodil's eyes narrowed, his body still tense but no longer ready to attack. Just listen. Watch.

The figure tilted its head slightly. "Everything you care about? Fragile. Easier to break than you are to pretend. You're not hated, Evodil. You're convenient. A nice excuse to carry around when someone needs a name to blame."

The words hit harder than he expected.

And he didn't like that.

His temper sparked. No flair, no dramatic charge—just pure, fast fury. He stepped forward and swung a punch straight at the figure's head, a blur of motion, shadow-infused and sharp.

But he never connected.

The blade—that blade—was already there, flat side raised in front of his fist. It stopped him dead with a dull, metallic thunk, jarring up his arm and making the bones in his hand scream.

He staggered slightly, pain blooming through his knuckles, more shock than injury.

The figure smiled. Calm. Crooked. Disappointingly familiar.

"Careful," it said. "You might hurt yourself trying to hit the truth."

Without hesitation, Evodil threw his other fist forward, raw frustration surging through him—no planning, no theatrics, just a clean strike meant to hit something for once.

But the figure was gone.

Not dodged. Not deflected. Just—gone. Like it had never been there in the first place.

"What the fuck is going on—" he snapped, half to himself, shadows twisting in a sudden whirlwind around his arms, lashing at the air like snakes that didn't know what to bite.

Before the thought could even finish forming, a boot slammed into his back from behind, hard and deliberate, dropping him straight to his knees with a crunch of ice and bone-deep pain. The snow didn't cushion anything.

Evodil spun, tendrils flaring out, fury burning now—but froze when he saw the figure standing over him.

The blade—its version of Crypt Blade—was back, angled downward, the sharp edge hovering just a breath above his forehead.

Close enough to feel it hum.

Close enough to split him in half.

Evodil's lip curled, pain forgotten for the moment.

"Well," he muttered, "this is embarrassing."

The figure tilted its head slightly.

"I've had worse first impressions."

Neither of them laughed.

The blade didn't stop.

It kept pressing forward, steady, patient—like the figure had all the time in the world to carve a god open and see what fell out. Evodil was forced lower, spine scraping ice, shadows flaring around him like a dying fire trying to ignite again. He grit his teeth, trying to roll, twist, vanish, anything—but none of it worked.

He couldn't escape.

Couldn't even understand why he couldn't escape.

Then the blade pierced through his skull.

There was no pain. Just a cold weight—metal sliding into something that wasn't quite bone, something deeper. His body didn't collapse. His heart didn't stop. He just felt it, inside his head like a second thought too loud to ignore.

The figure stared down at him, still silent.

Evodil stared back, eyes wide behind the blindfold that no longer mattered.

Then the world started to crack.

Antlers bloomed from the figure's head, branching slowly, twisting unnaturally into the air. Behind it, trees erupted, black and leafless, stretching upward into a sky that didn't exist. Then he was in a car. His hands on a steering wheel. Blood on the glass.

Then a black room. Absolute. Not dark. Not void. Just black.

Then the figure wasn't the figure anymore.

It was the boy James found—older now, missing an arm, mouth stitched shut with glowing thread.

Then a woman with white hair, standing under a light that pulsed with guilt.

Then a small child in red overalls, eyes wide, reaching for him.

Each image flickered, replaced before he could understand it. Before he could feel anything. Too fast. Too sharp. Too wrong. A storm of people, places, pieces—

He couldn't read it. Couldn't process it. It was happening to him, not with him.

What was going on?

He saw an angel, halo fractured, wings twitching like broken metal. Then a robot, tall and white with veins of blue light running through its limbs, face empty yet knowing. Then Noah—more tired than usual, more worn down, his shoulders slumped like the weight of the world had finally ground him into the dust he once studied.

Then James, his eyes no longer bright orange, but dark red, sun eclipsed into blood, lips curled into something caught between rage and resignation.

Then the blade was gone.

Evodil gasped, the sound ragged and too real. He stumbled to his feet, body shaking, breath unsteady. The black remained—thick, absolute, infinite. There was no snow now. No mountain. No figure. Just a distant shape glowing faintly ahead, like a dying star.

He had nothing left. No purpose. No sense. No plan.

So he ran.

Ran like something was behind him. Like he was trying to outpace the truth clawing at his spine. Every step echoed without sound. The darkness shifted, always behind, always watching.

Then—he reached it.

There, sprawled before him in a frozen tableau, was himself.

His own body, impaled brutally from the back by a jagged boulder, the sharp edge having torn straight through his chest and out his open mouth. His blindfold was gone. His eyes—dim, cracked, lifeless.

He reached out, hand trembling, and touched the corpse.

And the world screamed.

A screech tore through the black, layered, distorted—too loud, too violent, too much. It wasn't one scream. It was thousands. Millions. Screaming all at once through a throat that didn't exist.

He stumbled back, clutching his head. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. The noise crushed every thought, every defense, every inch of calm he had left.

Then he looked up.

A massive eye stared down at him from the dark. Then another. Then another. Too many. Far too many. All unblinking. All aware.

He collapsed.

The manor sat carved into the mountain's side like it had always been there, older than the stone itself, built from blackened stone and pale wood that never rotted. Snow dusted the tiled rooftops, collecting unevenly where time had let the structure sag. The windows—tall, narrow, and stained with old divine sigils—never reflected the world around them, only darkness, no matter how bright the sky outside. Thin trails of shadow curled from the chimneys even without fire, rising lazily into the air like breath from something long asleep.

The path leading to the manor wound down the mountain like a scar, lined with withered trees too stubborn to die, their branches twisted into silent prayers. Lanterns made of shattered crystal hung from crooked poles, flickering with pale flame that never gave off warmth. The snow around the area refused to fully settle—always slightly disturbed, as if something kept walking in circles when no one was looking.

Inside, the manor was dim but alive. The wooden floors creaked like they were speaking in their own language. Bookshelves taller than most buildings lined the halls, each filled with volumes written in languages no human could speak, and maybe not even the gods. The walls bore paintings that shifted when not directly looked at—landscapes melting into cities, portraits frowning where they once smiled.

The fireplace in the living room crackled gently, casting a low amber glow across velvet furniture warped slightly from use. Shadows danced on the walls, never quite matching the flames. The scent of bitter coffee clung to the air like a memory that didn't belong to anyone in particular.

Evodil lay on the couch, coat half undone, one boot still on. His head throbbed dully. His limbs were stiff. He didn't remember coming back here. He didn't even remember standing up.

Just the cold.

And the eyes.

Evodil stood up, one hand bracing the arm of the couch as his vision swam and his stomach twisted. He nearly vomited, swallowing it down with a grimace that tightened every muscle in his face. His head felt like it had been split and sewn back together wrong. He clutched it for a moment, trying to grasp at something—anything—but there was nothing. Just static, flickers of shapes he couldn't place, and the echo of a scream that might've come from him.

He stumbled out of the living room, bare footsteps heavy on the wood, and made his way down the hallway. The manor was too quiet now, unnervingly still. The shadows here didn't dance. They watched.

Then he saw it.

A single mug, resting dead center on the hallway floor.

He stopped.

Stepped toward it slowly, cautiously, like it might vanish if he got too close. But it didn't.

It was real.

He knelt slightly and peered inside—still warm. Steam barely visible in the air. Half-drunk, left like an offering, or a warning.

Evodil stared at it for a long, quiet moment.

"Did Noah spike my coffee with something strong enough to fry my divine brain?" he muttered, voice dry.

He stood up straight, eyes still half-lidded.

"Yeah. That'd just be it."