The sunset was glorious. As the clouds fled the wind, running beyond the mountain, the dying sun painted them in fiery reds and ominous oranges. Streaks of glorious pink adorning the sky contrasted with the dark purple shadows that bathed the land. The clear blue peaking from behind the radiant clouds, drifting like cathedrals in the sky, grew dark with the encroaching night. The moon, heavy and full, could not wait for the sun to depart before showing its face. Whistling winds screamed through the forest. The winds blew with such force they looked like a river in the sky, made visible by millions of specks of dust, shimmering in the fading light.

Azarus’s hands itched to pick up a brush and see if he could replicate the unspoken magic. His majestic prison of stars, clouds, and stone paled when held next to the dynamic feeling of life in the picture reflected by the mirror. It was like seeing a puzzle put together in different ways, the raw building blocks staying the same. Azarus stifled his urge to paint. Whether Moka’s insane plan would pay off or not was a more pressing matter.

The trapped god watched his champion, Granon, and two of the elders toil from a bird's-eye view. The elder with ogre heritage used his connection with the spirits to move the hard packed earth from a path between dwellings. Once the dirt was out of the way, he delicately planted the long wooden spears with fire-hardened tips that Moka had carved, pointing them up and at an odd angle. Once he was done, he raised his hands in a complicated gesture and let out a series of plaintive whistles, beseeching the spirits to return what they had displaced. The spirits obliged, then departed. They left the ogre-elder scowling at the mound of loose dirt where the path had been. With a sigh deep enough to cause a cloud of dust to rise, almost a third of it rising to join the winds above, the elder set about stomping the dirt back down into place. Every once in a while, he would stop to look up at the sky and the departing clouds, deep creases forming around his eyes and the corners of his lips.

Azarus monitored the ogre-elder even as he turned his attention to Elder Orestilla. He was very curious to see if the ogre-elder would accidentally stab himself in the foot or not as he clomped around.

In an alcove behind nearby a dwelling, Orestilla and Granon were working together to bend a salvaged branch, trimmed of its offshoots, and lash one end down. Granon furiously worked to tie the branch, almost folded in half, to its anchor point. Orestilla’s muscles strained beneath her marble-like skin, shifting like stone snakes as she braced herself with one foot against the branch and used the rest of her body to wrestle the unruly piece of wood. They had buried the other end of the branch in the dirt and fastened it in place with stone vines, courtesy of Orestilla. Granon looped the rope just beneath the split end of the branch, where he and Moka had wedged a pointed chunk of stone. Above and below the chunk of stone, tight wrapped vines kept the rest of the branch from cracking. The pressure, along with the hardened sap, kept the heavy stone in place.

A short distance away, Moka was running around double checking everything. From the simple levers buried beneath the earth, to the nooses of scavenged vines from the shrine. She looked like a madwoman as she scrambled about. Her hands and forearms were covered in cuts and bruises; her clothes stained and torn. The styled, messy bun granted to her by her [Architect] Class had ascended to another level, more resembling a bird’s nest than anything else. Watching her squint at a buried noose through the dark circles crowding her eyes, sweat dripping off her lashes, was almost enough to make Azarus wish he had given her [Dawn-to-Dusk]. However, judging by the amount of times [Course-correct] had activated over the last day, he had a suspicion she might already be dead in that scenario. Or at least missing a few fingers.

“Moka!” Sweaty and panting, Granon called out to the scurrying goblin as he stood up from fastening the branch in place. Moka paused what she was doing and looked in his direction. “You did not answer me earlier. Why are we building these outside my house and not on the main path through the village?”

Moka grunted. Then she shook her head, as if chasing away unwelcome thoughts.

“This is where the violence smells the strongest,” she made a broad gesture towards where the ogre-elder was flattening the dirt to make it look like it did before. His immense weight made compressing the dirt an easy task. Azarus had a sudden epiphany why the paths in the village sunk into the earth; many heavy feet over time.

Granon took a deep breath in through his nose, his cavernous nostrils flaring. He looked puzzled. Puzzled and tired. So tired, he just shook his head and got back to work bending the next branch with Orestilla. This one had no stone attached. They hadn’t had the time.

The whistling wind took on a deeper tone until it resembled the howling of thousands of otherworldly wolves. All three giants stopped what they were doing and stared at the forest. Thousands of umbrella shaped leaves flew far beyond their reach, caught in the river of wind chasing the departed clouds.

Moka’s shrill cursing broke from their stupor.

“Hurry! We are running out of time!” She sprinted down the road, heedless of the hidden spears, until she was nearly parallel with Orestilla and Granon. Fumbling with her chisel in her haste, she drew a massive x as fast as she could in the newly packed dirt. Sweat streaming down her face, her breath coming in ragged bursts, she gave her last instructions. “When its foot gets here, cut your rope. Best-case scenario, you hit its head.”

Off to the side, the ogre-elder buried his face in his hands and began mumbling to himself. The message of his muffled words was clear to all.

Zmei, the snake-elder, was right. They had all signed themselves up for a quicker death.

Orestilla was more direct in her skepticism.

“Little Champion,” she said, her voice halting. “You know that the skinwalker’s size eclipses mine? Even if these traps work, hitting it on the head is impossible. Clipping a knee is far more likely.”

Moka met Orestilla’s doubtful gaze with clear eyes and a manic grin. She opened her mouth to explain her genius, but before she could, a great crash came from the direction of the forest. Three giants and a goblin all jerked toward the noise, turning to see a towering figure push over a gargantuan tree with more strength than it should have. The figure emerged from the woods with a warm smile and dead eyes.

It was a giant-kin Azarus had never seen. He found it looked oddly familiar. If Granon was about fifteen feet tall, this newcomer was at least twenty-five. The newcomer was nowhere near large enough to push over one of the massive trees, but Azarus was the first to admit that size wasn’t everything. He had decided that when he left the vengeful minotaur kneeling in the snow.

The newcomer’s strides ate away at the distance between the forest and the village as he crushed the house-sized gourds underfoot, paying no attention to the paths between rows. His brownish-red beard and long hair whipped in the wind as one, giving the illusion that he was not a man, but a lion masquerading as one. As he drew closer to the village, where Moka and the three giants were pushing themselves to bend just one more branch into place, he called out. When he did, the missing piece of the puzzle clicked in Azarus’s mind, prompting a deep frown.

“Granon! Stop hiding and come out. Your mother and I have been waiting at the new village, so I came to find you. You know how she worries.”

Orestilla was the first to react to the cruel premise, her response of horror and reprimand the loudest and clearest. Granon was a beat behind her. For the first time, Azarus heard him utter a true whisper. It was heartbreaking that such a small sound could contain an ocean of pain.

“Chieftain!”

“Dad…”

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The approaching giantkin seemed to sense something, its head twisting to lock onto Granon’s hiding place despite the distance. Its warm smile grew a degree brighter, more welcoming. The dead look in his eyes sparked with something unsettling. Its body twisted to face the direction it was looking, never breaking stride. A deep rumble crossed the open space between Granon and the creature wearing his father’s face, carrying words dripping with honey.

“Come here, boy. And bring your friends. We can all go someplace safe together. It is time to chase a new future.”

Azarus could not tell if night followed in the skinwalker’s footsteps, or vice versa. Whatever the case, the creature seemed to move in shadow despite its immense size, backlit by a full moon tinted red.

Orestilla and the ogre-elder scrambled into position as Granon stared about with a blank expression, a concerned Moka tugging on his pinky finger with both hands. Before they rushed to their hiding places, the two elders exchanged brief, hushed words.

“Are you sure about this, Orie?”

“You know I hate that nickname. Ore is unrefined, I am not.”

“Please, Orestilla. Now isn’t the time for banter. We are about to die!”

“We have been about to die for months. I’d rather die here and now with you by my side than wait in agony until it is my turn to be reaped.”

With a pained expression, the ogre-elder reached out and grabbed Orestilla’s hand. He gave it a tight squeeze, looking deep into her eyes as he did so. His words were soft and filled with emotion.

“In the next life, I hope to follow you once again.”

Orestilla smiled at that, more alluring than any statue. The leather strap that bound her once immaculate bun of white hair chose this time to give way, allowing her waist-long hair to drift on the breeze like a cape, or halo. Azarus thought that he would model at least one of his angels after her when he finally reclaimed his rightful place. Brave, beautiful, and utterly incorrigible.

“I look forward to hearing you grumble about the next generations for as long as our spirits remain.”

Then the moment was over. The two elders parted ways, taking up positions on opposite sides of the path, hiding in the shadows of the dwellings.

As the two elders shared a final tender moment, Moka pulled her chisel from her belt and stabbed Granon under the fingernail. He jolted, ripping his hand from Moa’s grasp, clenching it in a fist, and cradling it against his chest. His expression darkened as he glared down at the offending goblin.

“You stabbed me?” Granon’s tone was equal parts shock, indignation, and hurt.

Moka waved her bloody chisel at him.

“Focus up! The thing wearing your father’s skin is coming to eat you. We need to fight it.”

Granon’s gaze sharpened, then clouded over. He looked listless, lost. His bass-filled voice was monotone, as if he had lost the spark that made him who he was. Azarus’s domain twinged in pain at the sight.

“What’s the use? Even Dad… even my father could not defeat it. What hope do we have?”

Moka’s nostrils flared. A vein in her forehead pulsed in time with her beating heart. She bared her fangs, her lips curling and nose scrunching as a bloodthirsty growl vibrated in her chest. Her ruby eyes flickered with poorly contained anger as she glared at the despondent giant.

The wind was raging now, the occasional gusts wandering down from the river in the sky to batter the leaf-covered roofs of the village. Moka glanced over her shoulder, leaning out from cover to look at the approaching skinwalker. With a huff, she spun on her heel and crept off to take her own position. As she did, she called back one last time.

“I chose to face my fate on my feet, with what little faith I can muster. I will not die without trying. How about you?”

Then she was gone, sticking close to the shadows as she darted across the open path. Granon stood where he was, staring at the blank space the Champion had been moments before, his eyes glazed.

The skinwalker loomed over the entrance to the village, the sound of wet snuffling echoing down the dirt streets. On its shadowed face, a crescent moon of teeth shone in the night. Its dead eyes seemed to consume light, not reflect it.

“Very well, boy,” the skinwalker pretended to not know which direction Granon hid, looking this way and that in mock confusion. “One last game of hide and seek for old time’s sake. Fe, fi, fo, fum, where is my son?”

Moka and the elders had taken up positions. The other villagers were cowering in their homes, praying to their god that the monster would pass them over and take Granon instead. Azarus’s eyes were glued to the mirror as the skinwalker paced through the village. It wandered one way, then the next, drawing out the game with a smile on its face and a twisted, sing-song poem on its lips.

“He reeks of fresh blood and fear.”

Azarus glanced over to Moka’s hiding space. She wore a furious expression. The murder in her eyes made her slaughter of the human village seem like a passionless crime. Slow and deliberate, she dipped a claw into the drop of Granon’s blood on her chisel. With a quick twist of her wrist, she used it to paint a pattern on her face. Next to her was a stack of extra fire-hardened spears.

To Azarus, Granon’s rasping breaths painted a mental image of a broken bellow, struggling to stoke a fire. The giantkin’s posture was rigid, his muscles so tense that they trembled under the strain. He pressed his fists against his ears, desperate to block out the sound of his father’s voice as the monster stalked closer.

Azarus felt a biting pain in his palms, his fingernails cutting deep, as he watched Granon struggle with the situation. He tried to roll his shoulders, then shake them, to relieve some of the tension. It did not work. With a sudden burst of inspiration, Azarus lifted one bloody finger to the mirror. The blood of gods held immense power. Imitating Moka, he used a quick swirl of his wrist to draw a circle, just large enough for him to reach a hand through. That was all he really needed, or wanted. To reach a hand out and help.

“Too fat to hide, too dumb to run.”

Azarus drew his fist back, twisting his whole body to bring his strength to bear as he attempted to punch through the circle of blood. His knuckles crashed against the surface of the mirror and skidded across, smearing the blood and adding more. The mirror remained as placid as ever.

The skinwalker was at the mouth of the alley now, peering around with a smirk on its face. Its smile was like a crescent moon made of bleached tombstones. It breathed in deep through its nose, then let out a satisfied sigh. An unholy glow lit up in its eyes, causing a chill to run down Azarus’s spine. He did not like that. At all. The creature must die.

Azarus’s domain lit up inside him. It raged in his chest, pushing against unseen boundaries with all the indignant frustration that Azarus kept bottled up. He punched the mirror again. This time, it shook.

A thought passed through Azarus’s mind in a flash. He did not know what concept he was born from, but his domain was reacting to a scene of terror and cruelty. Had he changed when his domain was stripped from him? Would he like his true self? Azarus chased the thought away as fast as he could. It lingered in the back of his consciousness like an unshakable scent.

“Look, he trembles as I draw near.”

The skinwalker took his first step into the alley, an exaggerated, high-knee motion with his elbows tucked and hands held loosely in front of him. It hunched his shoulders and took small steps on the tips of its toes, creeping toward Granon with all the subtlety of a galloping warhorse. As it crept, it slumped down with each step and rose with the next, a crude mockery of a father sneaking up on a child who thought they were well hidden. Its breath was like a furnace, turning the air to steam as it pretended to have trouble smelling Granon’s location.

Granon was slumped against a dirt wall, rocking back and forth with his fists over his ears. Sweat dripped down his face so freely that it mingled with his tears. Through the mirror, Azarus could hear Granon talking to himself, trying to gather the courage to do something, anything.

Azarus roared as slammed his fist against the Mirror of Eons a third time, his domain burning hot in his chest. If he could move it, he could break it. A great wave formed from the clouds beneath Azarus’s feet as the impact of his punch transferred into the ground. A second wave, pushed by the mirror’s vibration, rose behind it. Two waves, traveling great distances, smashed against the nearest of the world bearing pillars. They shook.

“It is not right,” the god leveled a judgmental finger at the mirror, undamaged but flexing wildly. Drops of blood rolled off his outstretched hand, dying the clouds at his feet with blossoms of red. Clad in traveler’s garb, carelessly splattered with paint, his long hair up in a loose warrior’s bun, Azarus had not been the picture of a veritable god until now. Gold tongues of flame, flecked with glimmering specks of gray and emerald, rose from his skin. His face held the wrath of a being who would condemn a world for being incorrect in his eyes. “He can face his fears and forge himself into a better, stronger man. I see greatness in him. I will give him this chance. It is my will and you shall not interfere.”

Screens popped into being, then disappeared all around him. It was like they were laughing. Seven ethereal chains appeared behind Azarus, radiating an aura of menace that the skinwalker could never dream to match.

On the surface of the mirror, Moka poked her head out from her cover, a look of dark satisfaction on her face as she watched the skinwalker take its next step.