The council chamber was carved from eternity itself—stone that had never cracked, air that had never known smoke. Other gods filled the tiers in restrained splendor, their domains humming faintly beneath their skins.

Yet the fracture was immediate.

Remorse did not sit.

He stood near the obsidian table, fingers braced against its edge, shadows coiling lazily at his feet. Across from him, you remained composed among the brighter gods, hands folded, presence steady—infuriatingly so.

You —Protector of humans. God of Peace.

The title tasted bitter.

“They shelter behind you,” Remorse said, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, but the air rippled as if something massive had shifted. “As if peace were a shield instead of a delay.”

A low murmur stirred the chamber.

You lifted your gaze to him. “Peace is a choice,” you replied evenly. “One you abandoned.”

Something snapped.

Remorse’s hand clenched. The marble plate beside him—etched with ancient sigils and offerings meant to appease the council—shattered as he swept it from the table. Stone struck stone with a thunderous crack, fragments skidding across the floor.

Several gods recoiled. Light flared.

“You speak of choice,” Remorse hissed, stepping forward, boots echoing far too loud in the sacred hall. With every step, the light dimmed. “While you stand there protecting creatures who beg forgiveness only when the blood dries on their hands.”

He stopped just short of the boundary line carved into the floor—peace on one side, judgment on the other.

“They come to me after your mercy fails,” he went on, voice rough now. “When your treaties break. When your ceasefires rot. You hand them over and call it balance.”

You did not move. That restraint drew his gaze like a blade.

“They are not beyond redemption,” you said quietly. “Not while I still stand.”

The shadows around him surged, then stilled—tight, controlled, furious. The air between you trembled, peace pressing outward, remorse pushing back. Gods leaned away instinctively, sensing the pressure of two absolutes colliding.

“You protect them,” he said, lowering his voice, making it somehow worse. “You teach them hope. And when that hope fails, you send them to me.”

For a moment, the chamber seemed to hold its breath.

Remorse exhaled sharply, jaw tightening as he turned away, fist still clenched, knuckles darkened as if bruised by his own power.

The silence did not calm him.

It only sharpened what he had already decided.

Remorse turned fully back toward the council, shadows peeling from his form like torn wings. The fractured plate at his feet began to tremble, fragments lifting slightly off the floor, orbiting him as if pulled by his anger alone.

“You cling to them,” he said, voice low, carrying to every tier of the chamber. “As though they are fragile glass instead of what they truly are.”

His gaze slid to you again—slow, deliberate, accusatory.

“They wage war in my name and beg peace in yours,” he continued. “They burn cities, then kneel in the ashes and ask why the gods are cruel.”

The fragments snapped together in midair—

—and exploded outward, slamming into the far wall. The chamber shuddered. Several lesser gods flinched. A few shields flared instinctively.

“I am done carrying their regret,” Remorse snarled. “Done being the place they crawl to when consequences finally catch them.”

Withdraw your protection,” he demanded, eyes blazing. “Let me finish what they started. Let humanity face an ending they cannot apologize their way out of.”

The air grew heavy, oppressive, like a storm pressing down on mortal lungs.

“If you do not,” he went on, quieter now, more dangerous, “I will unmake them piece by piece. Cities first. Then memory. Then prayer.”

A cruel smile touched his mouth.

“They will forget your name before they die.”The chamber erupted in protest—voices overlapping, but Remorse never looked away from you.