Dead–Gods Don't Share

Earlier That Day

"Today is the day," said Becky Silverstone, her silver hair catching the pale morning light filtering through the broken stained glass windows of their sanctuary. The ruined cathedral had been their home for fifteen years—crumbling stone walls that still held echoes of ancient prayers, though the gods they now worshipped were far older than any that had been honored here before.

She was a beautiful woman of thirty-five who hadn't chosen this path. Born into a family of cradlewalkers, she'd inherited their ancient faith along with her distinctive hair color and the weight of prophecies that had been passed down for generations. Now she led the twelve remaining believers who still held fast to the promise of Ramaphosa's reincarnation.

"Have you confirmed the timing?" asked Matthias, one of her most trusted followers. His face bore the ritual scars that marked him as a true believer—thin lines of silver threading across his dark skin like a map of devotion earned through years of faithful service. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, a sacrifice made during the failed awakening attempt three years ago.

"Yes, our contact has sent word. School Central has graduates today—ten of them, departing at precisely 1 PM." Becky's voice carried the absolute certainty that had kept her followers loyal through decades of disappointment. "We'll intercept them at the Hollow of Memphis before they reach the outer settlements."

She tried to project confidence for the others, but she could see doubt creeping into their faces. They'd waited so long—twenty-three years of preparation, of hiding in ruins, of watching their numbers dwindle from hundreds to barely a dozen as hope faded and faith cracked under the weight of unfulfilled prophecies. But Becky Silverstone's conviction had never wavered, not since the day her dying father had whispered the final verse of the Crimson Prophecy into her eight-year-old ear.

"Eliab, Beliab," she called to twin brothers standing near the altar where golden candlesticks still caught the light. They were her youngest followers, barely twenty-two, with identical ritual tattoos spiraling up their arms. "Travel to the East of Mendea now. Retrieve the essence you hid. We meet at the Circle of Stones tomorrow."

"Miss Silverstone," Eliab said, his voice careful, respectful. "Will it really happen this time? The alignment, the blood offering—will our king truly return?"

The question hung in the air like incense. They'd performed variations of this ritual four times before, each attempt ending in failure and death. Good people had died believing in her prophecies.

"I've felt him stirring," Becky said, pressing her palm to her chest where a golden pendant rested against her heart. The pendant grew warm sometimes, especially at night when the stars aligned just so. "In my dreams, in my visions. The fire calls to me stronger now than it ever has. This time is different."

"How do you know?" Beliab asked, the doubt clear in his voice despite his attempt to hide it.

Becky closed her silver eyes and let the ancient words flow through her: "When the walls grow high and the young are harvested, when the stars form the Crown of Fire in the eastern sky, when the blood of the innocent flows freely—then shall the Sleeping King awaken, and his children shall sing songs of flame."

She opened her eyes and looked at each of them in turn. "The stars formed the Crown two nights ago. The blood flows today. Our lord rises at sunset, or we die in the attempt."

The finality in her voice silenced any remaining questions. They dispersed to their tasks—gathering weapons, preparing the ritual site, saying prayers to gods that might or might not still hear them.

**Now**

"For decades, we have waited," Becky Silverstone said, her voice carrying across the wasteland. "For decades, we have prepared. Today, our lord returns."

Matthias approached with a ceremonial dagger, its blade inscribed with the same writhing symbols as the stones. "This won't hurt for long," he said almost gently, and made a shallow cut across James's palm.

His blood dripped into a golden bowl placed at the base of the stone, each drop hissing as it hit the metal.

Becky began chanting in that strange, ancient language. The words seemed to vibrate in the air, making James's bones ache and his vision blur. The other cradlewalkers joined in, their voices weaving together in harmonies that belonged to no human throat.

"What is dead may never die," Becky intoned, switching to Common so James could understand. "I call upon you, King of Fire, Lord of Destruction. The stars are aligned, the blood is offered. Return to us, Ramaphosa."

The golden vessel began to glow with an inner light that hurt to look at directly.

This is really happening, James thought as he watched something vast and terrible begin to stir in the spaces between worlds. They're trying to bring back something ancient, why me?.

The air itself seemed to thicken, becoming heavy with ancient power. James felt something responding to the chants—something that had been sleeping for centuries, waiting for this moment. The golden bowl erupted in flame.

From the fire, something began to emerge. It was shadow and light, fury and hunger, more concept than form. James could feel its attention turn toward him, and he knew with absolute certainty that he was about to become something else entirely.

"I should have told them," he whispered, thinking of his roommates back at School Central. Of Derrick's easy grin, of Clinton's optimism, of Ernesto's mysterious changes and the way he'd been acting lately. "I should have warned them about Miss—"

But it was too late for warnings now. The entity reached for him with tendrils of liquid fire, and James Morrison—student, friend, dreamer—felt his consciousness being swept away by a tide of ancient fury.

The last thing he heard before the transformation began was the leader's voice, filled with religious ecstasy: "Welcome back, Lord Ramaphosa. Your kingdom awaits."

And then James was gone, replaced by something that had been waiting centuries for this moment. The god of fire had returned to Vezia and he was hungry for more than just one vessel.

Standing in James's body, Ramaphosa flexed his new fingers and smiled. The cradlewalkers prostrated themselves before him, their centuries of preparation finally bearing fruit.

But the ancient god's attention was already turning elsewhere—toward the walls of Mendea, toward School Central, toward a blue-haired boy who carried a piece of his essence.

The reunion would be glorious.