The Court of Balance didn't always exist.

There was a time when the godlands were riddled with violence, never-ending wars, and powerful figures attempting to claw their way into leadership. Each Altan region had been similar to a faction, and as tensions grew, fighting became a fact of life—a race for land and control. As Belthore walked down the steps of the Court's battlements, his bones creaking loudly with each step, he couldn't help but feel like the past had come back to haunt him.

Of course, most of his fighters were too young to remember such times, but their lives had been all the better for it. The gods who were old enough to remember had a certain look in their eyes. In their many years of peace, it was like they had almost forgotten the smell of blood mixed with iron— but now they remembered. Oh, they remembered.

Belthore paused to catch his breath. One of his soldiers called out to him from the wall, but he waved them off. The Wings of the Court needed someone they could rely on when the fighting started— not someone that couldn't make it down the damned steps. He continued his descent slowly, sighing to himself.

Perhaps he was getting too old for this.

It was something he had known for a while and had been preparing for. Even still, the truth of the words stung as he reached the bottom of the battlement steps. He shook off his cloak, and the rain hushed as he shut the door behind him, trying to keep the cold air from getting in. He hobbled down the hall. With all his soldiers keeping guard, the Court of Balance was eerily empty, and his footsteps were the only sound as he moved toward his chambers.

When he opened the door, Athema was already waiting inside. Two cups sat neatly at the table and, to his relief, a steaming pot of tea. Belthore accepted a mug gratefully and took a long tip. He could feel the goddess' eyes on him as he shook off his cloak and took a seat at the table. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

"You called for me."

He nodded, taking another sip. Belthore had asked Hartley to arrange this meeting. Studying the goddess, he wondered if he should have met with her days ago.

Athema's face was pale, and even while she watched him, her mind seemed far off— her blinking forced and unnatural. It was the look of a god being bombarded with visions and mentally pushing them away. He frowned, placing his mug on the table.

"I don't think you should fight," he said, finally. He raised a hand before she could object. "I'm told that your search for a new orb has been unsuccessful. And while I still think that you're capable, I can tell that the visions are weighing on you. Forgive me for saying, but you look ill."

"My visions are... insistent. But they are manageable, for now." Athema drummed her fingers on the rim of her mug. "But I wish to fight regardless."

Belthore bobbed his head in understanding. "Will you at least tell me what's on your mind?"

"I don't mean to sound self-loathing, but I believe this war is my fault. The Derutons, Maruble, Theon." Athema counted them on her fingers. "I spent so much of my life unraveling the future that I neglected the people around me. Now, the Derutons have joined Death's army, the God of Light is dead, and my own family has abandoned me."

He waited for Athema to continue, but she never did. They sat in silence as rain patterned against the window, but even the rain sounded foreboding. If he listened close enough, it almost sounded like thousands of horses approaching their walls. The sound of war drums in the distance.

"This war was not caused by one person alone." Belthore waited until she met his gaze and finally said the words that had been haunting him, "I was the one who killed Noctavius' wife."

Athema remained silent for a long time. She searched his gaze, but while she was the Goddess of Sight, her power relied on the future— not the past. After a moment, her curiosity got the best of her.

"How?"

"I was the one who ruled Gemma, Death's human wife, could not leave Alta until her memories of our world were erased. It was too much of a risk, and since there was no precedent for such a thing, I made the call myself." A flicker of emotion passed over his face, and Belthore pushed away his tea. He was no longer in the mood for it. "Gemma's human body couldn't handle the godlands. I thought she would give in when her body became weakened, but she never did. She refused until the very end." He shook his head at the memory. "It wasn't long after her death that Noctavius was sent away to Frost Holm— on my orders."

Athema added, "Because his Death Aura was affecting everyone within a hundred miles."

"That does not change the truth: I am the reason that Noctavius' wife is dead, and even though he was my friend, and even though he was in mourning, I still abandoned him."

Athema didn't respond. Perhaps, as the Goddess of Sight, she understood the truth behind his words more than anyone. Belthore turned to the window and watched the rain fall. His tea was growing cold, but he didn't think he could stomach it. Instead of comforting him, the goddess watched the window as well.

Guilt and regret— it was the only thing he was good for anymore. Belthore's eyes grew damp, but he blinked back the tears. There would be time for that later, but for now, there were more important things to address.

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"Hartley speaks highly of you."

The Goddess of Sight nearly spit out her tea. She smoothed down the wrinkles in her robe, not meeting his eyes, and Belthore smiled to himself. While most gods considered Athema to be shrouded in mystery, he knew that she wore her heart on her sleeve, and sometimes to a fault. Looking at her now, he could almost see that hazy-eyed godling that wandered into the Court all those years ago.

After awhile, she managed, "His company has been appreciated."

"Indeed."

The goddess flushed and looked away.

As much as he wanted to tease her, Belthore was glad they were spending time together. Dark times were approaching, and if Hartely was going to lead the Court of Balance, he would need as many gods standing behind him as possible— or beside him. Either way, with their powers combined, perhaps a better world was possible. He could almost see it.

Belthore blew out a long breath and said, "I'm retiring."

Athema froze. Even though her face was already pale, it seemed to grow a few shades lighter. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then tried again.

"When?"

"I'm stepping down when the war is over." The God of Balance stood and stretched out his aching limbs. "The Age of Balance is ending. I'm old, and the other gods are beginning to notice. Perhaps, once this war is over, Alta will be ready to enter a new age. The Age of Peace."

She pondered his words quietly. She was no longer drumming her hands on the mug, but she still gripped the handle tightly.

She asked, "Does he know?"

"He doesn't know when, but I ask that you keep it a secret."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Belthore emptied his cold tea. His movements were slower than he would have liked, and Athema continued to stare at him from her place at the table. He took his time answering, and when he finally did, he met her eyes carefully.

"Hartley's parents still think that I took him in as charity. To this day, I think part of him still believes it too." He straightened his cloak and rubbed a hand over his face. "He needs you, Athema. Your visions could help guide him down the right path— both as a member of the Court and a friend. That's what he'll need most."

Belthore walked over to the door and paused. There was so much he needed to say, but with Death's army approaching, it felt like there was not enough time. Not enough words.

"You might be the only god that could convince Hartley that his failure is not pre-determined and that, despite his fears and doubts, there is a future where he succeeds." With a wink, he added, "You are the Goddess of Sight, after all."

Athema stood up and asked slowly, "What will you do after you retire?"

This time, Belthore smiled and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I believe I'll spend a long time traveling. I want to see the world and come to know the gods that I've ruled over for so long. And once I'm done with that, perhaps I can spend the remainder of my days in the human lands, in a nice home with a garden." He paused and nodded to himself. "Yes, I think I'd like that very much."

Before Athema could respond, Belthore shut the door behind him and started down the hall. He listened to his footsteps bounce off the marble and felt more relaxed, even though he hadn't been completely truthful with the goddess. The truth was, he did want to travel, but only because he needed to know if he had failed his people or not. Part of him knew that he could only find the answer out there— living as one of them.

When he reached the stairs to the battlements, Belthore heaved a long sigh and cursed to himself, but there was no real fire behind it. The stairs had been his own idea, after all. As a youth, he hadn't accounted for just how many years he would spend going up and down them. As he ascended the steps, a soldier waved at him, and the God of Balance returned the gesture.

It was important for him to be here. The Wings of the Court saw his face and knew they weren't fighting alone. He made his rounds, and the pounding in his heart slowed a little.

"Let's get you another sword."

"Careful on the stones, they're slippery."

"See anything out there?"

Balthore continued on, smiling and cracking jokes with his people, and the tension on the wall eased. Even if it was just marginally, it was enough. This was where he was meant to be, and even though his time in the Court of Balance was coming to a close, he would always consider them his people. His beloved Court.

He walked until he saw a familiar face resting on an empty crate.

Hartley's head was in his hands. Fear seemed to radiate off him, and even though most of the soldiers paid him no mind, some of them were starting to glance in his direction. Smiling to himself, Belthore made his way over to the God of Peace and waited. After a long moment, he cleared his throat.

"One of the soldiers needs a new sword."

Hartley flinched. He looked up at him and took a moment to process his words. After a moment, the god blinked, flushing with embarrassment, and finally stood.

"Right." He looked around. "I can go check the stores if you—"

"Sit."

Hartley sat. For a moment, they remained silent and watched a few of the Wings spar. Even with Belthore's rounds, the mood on the battlements was still low, and part of him felt like the weather was a reflection of that.

"I can't lead them," said Hartley quietly. He motioned to the soldiers and bowed his head. "I don't think I'm cut out for war. I'm worried that I'll only make things worse."

Belthore patted his back and guffawed. Hartley's eyebrows shot up as his laugh grew louder, drawing the attention of the sparring soldiers. When he finally caught his breath, the God of Balance shook his head and couldn't help but smile.

"No one is made for war, my boy— not even the gods that say otherwise." Belthore stared over the battlements. He watched the spot where Death's army would appear with a far-off look in his eyes. Even though everything was happening so fast, the seconds seemed to creep by. "No one, not even the warriors in Druge, wants to watch their friends and family die."

The rain fell harder as Hartley fidgeted. For a fraction of a moment, he could almost see that boy that he had taken in so long ago. That nervous, stuttering boy who apologized for everything. Belthore fixed the sleeve of his robe and put a hand on his back.

"No one is made for war," he continued. "But perhaps, if our soldiers are led by someone they know and trust, they'll feel comforted in that. It's all we can do."

The God of Balance left before he could respond. Hartley said something to his back, but he didn't turn around. He couldn't. Instead, Belthore wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, and when he was finally out of view of the soldiers, he closed his eyes and tilted his chin to the rain.

Yes, Hartley was like a son to him, but he had never treated him like one. Belthore wondered what his life would have been like if he had, but that was just another regret— more guilt that he would have to make peace with when he retired.

"Silly old man," he said to himself, opening his eyes. "I really am getting too old for this."

For just a moment, he wore the despair on his face. Belthore let the hopelessness overwhelm him, as well as all the fears and regrets burdening his heart. He hoped that he would live through the night, but there was no certainty in war. There was a chance that he would never find answers to all the questions rattling his brain. Even still, he wouldn't abandon his people. He wouldn't run.

But just for a moment— a single moment— he let the tears fall.