You run before dawn, but the palace knows before the sun does. Your chambers are found untouched—no struggle, no theft, just absence. Clean. Deliberate. That is what terrifies them.

The war god Acherion Kaelos is summoned from the inner sanctum of Thalassyr.

Marble halls tremble as he walks.

You were accounted for every hour of your life, a constant, a possession that never moved without his knowledge.

Now you are untraceable.

You cross into Eiratha with the good host, the kingdom that shelters refugees and fights only when cornered.

They do not cheer.

They stare.

Everyone knows what follows you.

That night, the King and Queen call you in. No crowns, no guards. Just family, tired and honest.

“If you stay,”

the Queen says softly,

“Eiratha becomes his battlefield.”

They do not order you. They ask. You agree before dawn.

Behind you, the hunt begins.

Acherion sends not one army, but many. Borders close. Roads burn. Villages that hesitate are broken for answers. Your name becomes a command.

In Thalassyr’s war chamber, advisors speak carefully. Too carefully.

“She chose,”

Acherion says at last, voice tight. “And choice is treason.” The table shatters. Maps scatter.

Out in the field, you feel it—the pressure, the closing fist.

You run through ash-choked rivers and darkened cities, never turning back.

Acherion Kaelos will hunt you to the edge of the world, not because he loves you, but because you proved something unbearable:

That even gods can be abandoned.