The sky falls.
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In the Golden Wastes that the Howlers occupy, Inge Red Glissando, 14, and her parents sit stargazing after successfully hunting the caravan that had encroached on their tribe's territory.
"Mom, why do we drive out others from our land?" Inge asks.
"Well, Inge, outsiders seek the Mandala, our greatest treasure, for themselves. The Howler tribes have banded together to protect it. It's where all of our animals come from."
"Like Crucos?" Inge asks.
"Yes," her father says, "like Crucos. We... what's that?" Inge's father points to a yellow point in the sky. He moves to get up and pull his family out of the way, but he is too late and underestimated how fast it was moving. He and his wife are incinerated as the power of a Word of Creation strikes Inge Red Glissando head-on.
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Oleg Krylov, 55, sits in his chambers high in the Iron Tsar's tower, working on a new mechanical body for his master. He is moments away from finishing his work. He is mere hammer strikes away from finishing his grand creation, a new body for the Iron Tsar. "I can't believe I'm almost done!" He exclaims. His hammer strikes the last bolt of the automaton into place, securing the left shoulder plate. An unexpected event happens, however. A bright yellow object shoots through the window and into Oleg, slamming him into his new creation, imbuing it with the soul of its creator, and creating an accidental usurper.
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Caterina Rossi, 26, a Vissian artisan, cries as she holds her dead husband in her arms. The Order of Redactor assassins squabble among themselves what to do with her.
"She's not our target. She's innocent."
"She knew damn well what he was doing!"
"Our job isn't to pass judgement, it's efficiency. If you don't kill her, I will."
The man slowly approaches the sobbing woman with his knife. She clenches her teeth in anger and screams, because of her anger, heartbreak, and the pain of the Word of Creation that has shot from the sky and entered her body.
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Astrid Helgadottir, 20, sits on the bed of the brothel, sobbing. She has had to do this her whole life to survive, ever since her mother, one of the Witch-Queens of the Ulstang Skerries, disowned her for not developing any potential for sorcery. She wishes nothing more to escape this vile existence and reap revenge on her mother. Her chance comes, however, as a Word of Creation is drawn to the magic vacuum that is her body.
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Nitocris Merchant, 34, runs with her family towards the exit of the capital pyramid. The King and Queen, in their insanity, have ordered that the entirety of the slums be executed. They are almost at the gate, but her, her husband, and her two sons are all brutally shot down with arrows by the pursuing royal guard. As she clings to the last bit of life in her, her pain is immediately amplified tenfold as a Word of Creation shatters through the ceiling of the grand pyramid and pierces her body.
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Minah Mantara, 28, stands in stunned silence as she receives the news that her mother and father's ship was sunken by a Patrian war vessel. She does not cry, though, as her resolve to follow in their footsteps far outweighs any sorrow or melancholy she harbors. Her resolve has not gone unnoticed, however, by the Words of Creation, as she and those around her will find out momentarily.
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Barbatus Fonteia, 22, charges into battle with his fellow Patrian warriors against the Dulimbai forces for the very first time. His friend, Septimus, runs beside him.
"For Emperor Claudius!" Septimus screams. Barbatus nods, hiding his disdain for the emperor's recent actions. Septimus, however, will not survive this battle, and Barbatus will enact his terrible revenge, slaughtering nearly 15,000 warriors by himself in anger for his fallen comrade, not even aware that a Word of Creation had struck him mid-battle.
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Dawit, 18, and Fikre's closest friend. Dawit would not be spared the gift of godhood, either. As he and his family run in the opposite direction the massive reptilian was spotted, he is pierced by a Word of Creation as well. Unfortunately for him, God's luck did not smile upon him, as he was transformed into the vilest thing imaginable, with those even daring to glimpse at him going mad, himself included.
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And finally, of course, there is the matter of the vile man that performed the ritual that caused all this in the first place. His flesh and skin, now having melted from his own body, have left him with a skeletal appearance. He can no longer return to his tower, as the Toban monks will surely be searching for their sacred armor, but that is of little importance to a theurge. His path is clearly laid out before him, and his first plan of action is finding those who have also been blessed.
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Not one is spared from the terrible gift of godhood.