Few heard the full story of the God of Balance.

They often recalled tales of a god who saw Alta's suffering and claimed the lands for himself, calling for peace. Even those who embraced the chaos of the godlands preferred it didn't happen in their territory. And so, they let him take responsibility. He led them with a steady hand, and the divines were pleased not to have to do the work themselves. But no one, not even those who knew the God of Balance, could have foreseen the vision that he had for their world.

Born to Drugan parents, he was raised among fighters who specialized in cutting down their enemies. His parents— and many generations before them— had all been born on those lands. The god came from a long lineage of fighters who all but ruled the array of barbaric villages in Alta's center.

But when Belthore received his power, his godship of Balance, no one knew what to do with him. He couldn't stay in Druge, but nowhere else seemed to fit. He didn't belong among the nature folk, didn't thrive on the seas of Saltis, and it was pointless for him to gaze at the stars with the Sky Gods.

It seemed there was no place to call home. So, Balance created one for himself— the Court of Balance.

At first, the Court was a place for those who cared about the godlands and wished to see them flourish, but as more people flocked to their domain, he created laws to protect them. Gods were stubborn and strong-willed, but most took the rules in stride. They came to him with simple problems at first, but his lands grew quickly.

After the first year, he was swamped with so much work that Balance's Council was born. Every member helped lighten the burden. Before he realized it, his advisors had become his family, and the outcast Drugan boy finally found a place to call home.

The God of Balance charged forward, sword clanging against Death's.

It almost felt nostalgic: memories of long summer days spent fighting in open arenas, facing young godlings wishing to prove themselves to their peers. He still had a good many scars from his time in Druge. In those lands, marks on the skin were just another story to tell around a warm fire.

He dodged a blow from Death, back aching as he leaned away from it. Balance glanced to the right. Peace stared at him from the sidelines, eyes growing wide with terror as he swung at Noctavius again and missed. It wouldn't be right to die here— not while the boy could see him.

When he first heard The Sea had given them a God of Peace, Belthore wanted him on his Court. He paid his parents a visit, expecting to meet a godling wise beyond his years, but found something he didn't expect: a timid child hiding from them in the gardens.

A boy who didn't believe he belonged anywhere.

Belthore took him in. He whisked him away from his parents, who considered his power to be useless, and brought him to the marble halls of the Court. The boy fell in love with it at once, and his childhood was all the happier for it, but something always troubled him. A growing void that those shimmering ceilings couldn't heal.

No matter how much Hartley studied, how much he wandered the long walkways and made friends with lesser gods, it couldn't ease the weight he carried on his shoulders. And while the child never voiced his feelings, the words lingered in his distant look.

Not a single person ever visited him. Not his parents or grandparents— no one.

Tutors canceled his lesson on those bad days, and the boy would climb the stairs until he reached the top of the wall, staring out into the valley, knowing that somewhere in Alta was a family that didn't want him.

It made Belthore's heart ache. But instead of letting him stew in his misery, he gave him purpose. He took Hartley on as an apprentice and treated him like an employee, giving him responsibilities that would typically be entrusted to the Council. No one wiped the boy's tears away. No one comforted him or treated him like the child he was.

Balance held off Death's quickening flurry of attack, his muscles screaming, and found regret stirring in his stomach.

He never thought to treat the boy like family.

Noctavius cleaved his blade through the air, and Balance sidestepped, but too slow. It cut across his shoulder in a long swipe. He hissed, jabbing his sword forward in a counterattack.

Death bounced out of the way. He was quick— much too quick. And as the fight continued, a realization struck him: his opponent was younger than him by many years, and while Belthore had grown up in Druge, his age wore on him.

The duel was lost before it began.

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Death rushed toward him, blade aimed at his heart, screaming, "Die!"

It was too quick to block. A flurry of emotions filled his heart, knowing that his Council would witness his death. He only wished they would remember him well. Taking in his final moments, he closed his eyes and thought of home.

He had done his best, and perhaps he would never know if it was enough. Belthore held his breath and waited for the final strike— but only heard the clash of steel.

Hartley stood in front of him, panting. The God of Peace’s glare seared into Noctavius.

"I won't let you kill him."

Belthore started, "Don't—"

"No," he shouted back. "If he fights anyone, he should fight me. Let's end things right now."

Noctavius laughed, leaning back on his blade. His troops laughed with him, but the sound was strangled and uncertain.

"You want to die first, then so be it," Death hissed. "I'll kill all of you, one by one, until not a single member of your Council left."

He sliced his blade forward. Hartley met the blow with his shield, staggering back. He pushed the weight back, aiming his sword at Death's middle, but the god leaped out of the way before he managed to wound him. Back and forth they went. Belthore's heart thudded in his chest as he watched, unsure it had been minutes or hours since the fighting began.

Belthore's voice trembled. "What is he doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Justice snorted, watching the fighting with a cool gaze. "He's become the leader you always said he would be."

Belthore turned back to the fighting and realized he was right. Somewhere down the line, the God of Peace had grown up. As he moved his blade with precision, blocking Death's blows and skirting around him, it looked like someone new— the Court of Balance's future.

His eyes watered, but he didn't cry. Hope leaped in his heart. Death's soldiers became more uneasy as the fight raged on, and their leader's attacks became quick and erratic.

"Give up!" he barked, shoving Peace back. "There's nothing left to fight for. Everyone inside is already dead, and the Court of Balance is mine."

Bluff or not, Belthore noticed the words throw off his footing. He scrambled upright and readied himself.

"Worthless." Death stabbed at Hartley and missed. "You'll lead the Court to ruin."

Hartley grimaced, "Says the one who hired children to fight his war."

"They're our future. Why shouldn't they fight?"

He said the words as fact, but Balance detected uncertainty in his eyes. A glimmer of regret.

"If they're dead," growled Hartley, "they'll never have a future."

He hesitated, and Hartley used the opportunity to surge forward. He cleaved toward him, but as Death was about to move, it sliced into his hip.

Holding his side, the god dropped to his knees. His hands pressed against the wound and came away red. The sword tumbled from his grip. He exhaled shakily

"I just wanted something to be remembered by."

"It doesn't have to be like this," said Hartley, crouching beside him. "Let's end this war. Take my hand, and we can build a better future for everyone. Together."

"A future?" Death paused and bowed his head low. "Could it be possible?"

Hartley reached out his hand. "There's no need for anyone else to die."

Belthore held his breath. Death's hand crept to his other side, and before he realized what was happening, Death grabbed a dagger from his waist and buried it in Hartley's stomach.

Time stilled. Belthore shouted, but it was lost to the ringing in his ears as Hartley fell.

"No!" cried Balance, charging forward, but Justice grabbed him by the armor. "We have to get him to the healers."

Eyes watering, Justice croaked, "It's over."

Death's soldiers turned on them, cackling with delight. The moon was high in the sky, gleaming in his gaze, as Belthore's former Council member looked over them with contempt. For a second, he glanced back at Hartley, but then he grabbed his bloodied blade from the grass and pointed it in their direction.

"Kill them."

The troops lunged. Balance stood back-to-back with Justice, sword raised. There were so many of them; he knew they didn't stand a chance. He never wanted it to end like this. A Deruton aimed his cutlass for his throat, but before he could defend, a wave of sadness came over him.

He had lost. There was nothing left to defend. Lowering his blade, he waited for the killing strike to land.

Darkness swept over the valley.

Every torch and lantern that dotted the hill flickered out. One by one, they disappeared until only the Court of Balance remained lit.

Belthore thought he was dead, but then Death's army screamed, stumbling through the darkness, unsure who was friend or enemy. Glancing around, a silhouette in the distance caught his eye.

The three figures moved slowly, almost leisurely, toward them. A single light sprang to life, but when he saw who was carrying it, he understood.

The lantern at the God of Death's waste glowed blue. And if the swaying was any indication, the divine carrying it was trembling. He cut the lantern from his belt. It fell onto the blood-soaked grass and flickered out. Noctavius's soldiers stilled.

"It can't be," breathed Belthore.

From somewhere behind him, Justice huffed. "What? Who is it? I can't see anything."

All at once, fire engulfed the advancing group, crackling into the air. Darkness couldn't touch them. They were consumed by dancing light, and as they moved closer, a wave of heat followed them. One god stepped away from the rest, and the flames trailed after him, lighting up the valley. Belthore almost didn't recognize him, but then he caught sight of the red hair and mischievous smile, and he knew.

The God of Fire had returned to Alta. And by the looks of it, he had chosen their side.

Belthore fell to his knees. He wanted to sob into his hands or scream into the sky. He wanted to find Hartley, hold the boy into his arms like a child, and apologize for everything. If his intuition was correct, the God of Peace was the only reason Maruble would ever step foot in the Court of Balance again. Somehow, he had done the impossible and saved them all.

Maruble stepped forward. Behind him, the Goddess of Memory and the God of Rot stood close behind him, one itching the skin on his arms. They parted, giving the boy his space as he waved a hand. The torches and lanterns surrounding them blazed to life, bathing Noctavius in an orange glow.

The God of Fire held out a hand and helped Belthore to his feet. His legs trembled as he stood. Maruble smiled, and his face was brighter than the flames swirling around them as he shrugged, as if it was the most casual thing in the world.

"I heard you could use some help, old man."

And right there in front of everyone, Balance wept.