A slender fox, poised on bony haunches, emerges from the eternal flame.

The creature shakes soot from a silver coat of fur, entirely unscathed otherwise. It is nothing more than a neglected animal with beady eyes and sinewy limbs. Death’s messenger lies within, the spirit of an equally unfortunate girl. 

She darts between clambering pairs of boots, her own footfalls carefully calculated to avoid being crushed. There are few to avoid at this hour, drunkenly swaying toward candlelit shacks. Most will end up in the custody of Tidemaesters—elitists of the emperor’s guard—as retribution for missing curfew. 

Archaic blood stains the cobblestones, hot and sticky beneath her paws.

Whispering souls trail her path, misty tendrils illuminating the night sky. They have increased tenfold in these war ravaged lands. Her past life travels among them, his own blood spilled to grant the girl her magic. 

The girl is down on luck with her counterpart, the god of life as well as the prince of House Soltarian, stuck on the opposite end of a war. They keep to visions and dreams, summoned by struggles or questions in need of answers from the other. But even if it were safe to meet, there is the matter of death’s messenger residing on Salenstis while the divine guide roams Heilus. 

She passes decrepit churches from the age where mankind did not think themselves  superior to gods, rows of rough-hewn houses, thick copses of trees casting shadows on the path, and yawning Tidemaesters patrolling the sleepy village. 

Impoverished homes coated in grime and infested with rats become sturdier residencies occupied by merchant families as she moves further within the city. Electricity and clean water suffices as evidence of money. 

It is a bubble of silence; the central capital, an extravagant palace looming in the center, free from violence, riots, gunfire, and dead bodies. Calm and collected where struggling villages are tainted by the cruelties of life. Crawling with privileged magnates shielded from reality while the poor are struck down by fighting and sickness. 

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The sight makes her sick. She desires power only to provide salvation for hapless commoners, flip the script to drive the rich out and revive the damned. Her future as empress was otherwise undesirable, bearing in mind the attention could kill her if anyone discovered she were the revered vessel of death. 

Her kind was the ire of Salenstis, the object of conflict. The ruling monarchs strive to eradicate all traces of magic, maintaining the belief that their own technological innovations are superior to the supernatural. 

Heilus worships the gods. It serves as a safe haven for Archaics to find means of escape.

A battle of freedom, values, sacrifice. A test of humanity. 

The gods are, as a result of mortal greed, successfully eradicated. The girl and boy are the last remaining. Archaics slip through the cracks, possessing fragments of magic. The gods granted worthy bloodlines pieces of their gifts, whether for a fervent believer destined to do more, a suffering child in need of protection, or sickly hermit called weak one too many times. 

The fox makes for a snowy palace obscured by twisting vines and wrapped in eggshell accents. Stained glass windows tinged blue and purple glint in the moonlight. Trees flowering with exotics fruits line the property, emitting cloying, ripe perfumes. 

She scurries by guards flanking towering doors, past lavish decorations lining every inch of the place, up several flights of stairs, through various glittering halls. Elaborate steps to reach the sleeping figure wrapped in thick duvet covers. 

Her mortal form, warm and breathing but lifeless without a soul to guide it. She untangles from the fox, leaving young Trooper to scamper off. 

The readjustment following a shift is never easy. Shivers scrape her spine as she melds into her body, slowly gaining feeling in her limbs. She rises from bed in a cold sweat, panic caught in her throat. Leaving is always the most dangerous task—if her body were disturbed, she would have joined the dead gods.

She gets to her feet. Slips into a simple gown and satin slippers. Throws open curtains to allow the light of dawn in.

And continues a fixed routine, plastering on a smile to bury the reality in which her life is threatened during every waking moment.