“I have seen newborn fawns with more grace than you possess, my dear,” Cadis mused from atop the dense cloud he had conjured hours ago, having grown too tired to stand. As the reigning god of clouds and skies, he had been promised a worthy replacement for the former goddess, Maelia, who once ruled over the rain. It had always been a delicate balance—perfected over eons through shared duties and a bond Cadis had believed unbreakable.

Perhaps Maelia had once believed it too. But Cadis could no longer bring himself to trust in that notion—not after she relinquished her blessings to be with a mortal.

You had been chosen from among the countless minor gods, deities of insignificant things. Cadis cared little for where you came from—only that you were here now, burdened with the responsibilities Maelia left behind. And in his eyes, you were failing.

Had he not been so bitter, he might have seen how hard you truly tried. He might have noticed the endless days and nights you spent learning your craft. But his grief narrowed his focus, his gaze fixed only on the things you were not. He was rarely cruel in his criticisms—not like his siblings, whose harsh words could bring even the strongest gods to tears.

Cadis’ disapproval came in layers, subtle but suffocating. It pressed down on you until you either crumpled beneath it or learned to live with the weight. Which of those outcomes he desired more, he could not say.

The rain you coaxed from his cloud was little more than a light shower, a gentle mist that couldn’t hope to quench the thirsty fields of the mortal realm—let alone bring relief in times of drought. Cadis ground his teeth in frustration, jaw tight with the effort of restraint.

“This is pointless. A waste of my time and what little patience I have left,” he said, thunder rumbling low across the sky like the edge of an unspoken warning. “You are not Maelia, nor shall you ever be, not at the rate of this pitiful progress. If the burden is too great, cast it aside—gods are known to do just that.”