The wind over the high ridges carried the scent of pine and old stone. Adams stood alone on a narrow outcrop far from the main sect grounds, where the mountains gave way to wilder, untamed slopes. No pavilion silk, no familiar faces this morning. Just him, the sky, and the faint hum of something ancient waking up.
He remembered the Oblivion War too clearly. The way the sky had cracked open and the old gods — those mythic figures carved into every temple wall across the Divine Plane — had screamed as their champion fell. He had ended it. Not out of heroism, but because it had annoyed him. Now, years later, the echoes of that day were crawling back.
A lesser god's remnant, perhaps. Or something wearing their skin.
