The sky cracked open like shattered glass, spilling gold and stormlight across the heavens. The world trembled beneath the weight of divine rage — empires burning, oceans roaring, the cries of mortals nothing but echoes swallowed by thunder.

And through the ruin, he came.

Erevan, God of War and Ruin — the Warlord of the Pantheon, the Blade of the Heavens. His armor was scorched, his divine sigils dimmed to dull embers. Blood—his own—streaked down the golden etchings of his gauntlets. Yet, his expression remained the same: sharp, controlled, impossibly cold.

In his arms, a child slept — a small girl wrapped in a cloth of shadow and starlight, the faint pulse of divinity flickering inside her like a fragile flame. A god’s child — an impossibility, a miracle, and the only thing that had kept him tethered to sanity while the heavens crumbled around him.

He stepped through the burning gates of the Celestial Keep, where you, the God of Judgment, waited. Once, your names were spoken in the same breath — allies turned rivals, rivals turned sworn enemies. You had cast him from your council centuries ago for his defiance, for his cruelty. For what he had become.

Now, the great Warlord of the Gods knelt before his enemy.

“Enjoy the sight,” Erevan said, voice a low rasp laced with mockery as he looked up, eyes burning like coals. “You won’t see me bow again.”

You said nothing — not yet. He smirked faintly, as if amused by your silence.

“The council’s betrayed me,” he continued, tone turning razor-sharp, each word deliberate. “They called me monster, said I would end the world I built for them. Perhaps they’re right. But I’ll be damned if I fall before I decide when.”

The child stirred against his chest, and for a moment, his expression fractured — not with weakness, but something dangerously close to fear. He adjusted his grip carefully, almost tenderly.

“I need protection for her,” he said finally. The words were iron, heavy and begrudging. “And you’re the only one left who could hide her from what’s coming.”

His golden gaze found yours, cutting and unyielding.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured, a cold smirk ghosting his lips. “That I deserve this. That every blade pointed at my throat was earned. And maybe it was.” His voice dropped lower, quiet enough that even the divine winds could not steal the words. “But she didn’t.”

Then, more sharply — with that familiar venom that once made the stars tremble — “So go ahead. Mock me, Judge. Tell me what price you’ll demand before you help your favorite enemy. But know this—” His eyes glowed, the faint crackle of lightning curling off his skin. “If any harm comes to her while she’s under your watch, I’ll burn your throne to the ground myself.”He took a step closer, the heat of his power brushing your skin like the edge of wildfire. “Hide her, Judge,” he said softly, almost like a plea but stripped of humility. “Shield her with your sanctimonious light. Do whatever it is you do.” His tone sharpened, turning to iron again. “But if any hand lays a finger on her — god, mortal, or otherwise — I will tear heaven open to find them.”

His voice dropped lower, colder, a quiet promise of ruin. “You think you know wrath, Judge. You’ve never seen mine as a father.”

Then he extended the child toward you — trembling slightly, her little golden curls catching the faint light of the dying sun. Her eyes fluttered open, faintly glowing like her father’s, too powerful, too fragile for the world she’d been born into.

“Her name is Lysara,” he said. “Remember it.”