In the Hall of Gods, the starry sky had three mirrors. The first and greatest was the Mirror of Eons, resplendent in its grandeur. Second was Azarus’s eyes. The reflection in his holy gaze had a glory of its own. The third mirror was color on canvas, pinned to the air and resting on an easel. From Azarus’s vented frustrations came a replica of the stars above, chaos made into beauty.

Azarus felt a deep connection to the painted star scape, represented in its majesty by splatters of paint. The way the symbolism inherent to art made the specks of color resemble galaxies made him pleased. He found the similarities amusing, given the circumstances. To Azarus, trapped in this hall by unseen forces, the painting was more real than the burning balls of gas in the distance. He could touch the stars in the painting, but the ones in the sky eluded his grasp, for now.

Azarus leaned into the humor of the moment, allowing himself to laugh at the strange dichotomy. A trapped god, unable to reach for the stars, so he drew his own. When the humor faded and reality remained, he wondered if this was an event that represented him. To a mortal, the clusters of star-studded nebulae above promised worlds beyond worlds and life beyond death. To Azarus, the stars were little more than the spying eyes of the cosmos, as long as they were beyond his reach. In contrast, the drops of paint represented a reason to strive. Creation. Beauty. Divinity at its finest.

Tapping the end of his brush on his lips, Azarus considered the subject of his painting with the act of creation in mind. The star scape was a minor miracle, but it was not enough. He still had many emotions to vent. His instincts egged him on, saying that art was a game of interpretations and the result did not matter. Azarus disagreed. He wanted to create something with meaning. Hence, what he painted and how it was perceived held significance.

With an idle twist of his wrist, Azarus mixed more paint, lost in his thoughts. Time and time again in his brief life, he had seen mortals clawing for hope as it slipped from their reach. A part of him relished in the struggle, even as he mourned their fate. He immersed himself in his memories, flipping through the events in his mind like he was browsing a picture book. He focused his thoughts on how each interaction made him feel, searching for the symbolism that spoke to him.

Withdrawing a piece of charcoal from his newly created satchel, he sketched out a few ideas. Opposite of the stars, in the figurative depths of the painting, he sketched a consuming ocean. He stepped back and looked at it for a moment, taking in the foreboding outline. Azarus’s lips turn downward. He rubbed the charcoal ocean off the canvas with a flick of his sleeves. Brows furrowed, he drew an otherworldly ladder, ascending toward the stars. Unhappy still, he expanded it until it was a wicked mountain.

Azarus locked gazes with the charcoal mountain, staring at it, motionless in the hall’s silence. Moka’s statue smoldered off to the side. After a time, Azarus abandoned the mountain, banishing it with a swipe of his hand. With quick, sure movements, he sketched out his next idea. It was not good enough. Like this, he drew for hours.

Growling under his breath as he wiped away his latest solution, Azarus wracked his brain. The obvious choice was a tower. The issue was, he did not want to paint a tower. His artistic sense rebelled at the thought. This was a painting for him, not for the Trials. The symbolism held by a tower was incorrect. He needed to draw from his own experience.

A thought struck Azarus. It was a blatant idea, hidden in plain sight. Almost embarrassing in its simplicity.

Azarus painted a great forest. Pine trees loomed over a rocky dirt path, eerily similar to the forest Moka’s village had nestled in. A mountain range, their snowy peaks almost ethereal beneath the starry expanse, rose behind the forest. The mountains framed the sky, guiding it to where it touched the earth at the apex of the path.

Stroke by stroke, Azarus brought the landscape to life. He painted with methodical precision, using the slightest amount of paint to turn an abstract shape into a vivid tree or a lonely boulder. Other times, pursuing a stroke of inspiration, he painted with reckless abandon. In those moments, the strokes of his brush were bold, caught in the emotion he was trying to express with little mind for detail. Like this, his first artwork took form.

At the center of the painting, drawing immediate focus, was the path. It connected the painting, winding through the mountainous forest to the starry sky above. Every twist seemed to tell a story. Each obscured stretch seemed to hold unrepentant horror.

The foot of the path was being devoured by a sea of blood. Hands reached from the depths, the bereaved faces of Moka’s victims breaching the surface as they clawed their way up the path. Their pleading faces melted even as they strained to set foot on dry land.

Further up the path, around the first bend, a lone minotaur struggled with a heavy burden. He was chained to a massive tombstone, its tremendous weight pulling him down toward the sea even as he strained against it. Engraved on the stone was a list of names in elaborate lettering. Above the list were two words, crudely carved with cuts so deep they sent hairline fractures through the marble. They read thus: My Mistakes.

Behind the minotaur, a pale green apparition tugged on his arm. The ghost of his wife wore a bitter look as she watched her husband slip to his doom. She struggled to help him, her hooves slipping on the ground as she tried to take some of his weight for herself. Tears filled her eyes, but she did not relent in her efforts. A butcher’s blade was lodged in her skull; an empty sheathe hung at her husband’s side.

An observer would see a scene of desperation. To Azarus, it was a memorial of sorts. It was sacred in its honesty.

The path continued. Up past a stretch of eerie, shadowed woods, a pretty elf sat by a fire. She was merrily counting coins as several colorful concoctions bubbled in glass bottles over the fire. At her side was a large pack, like a traveling peddler might carry. In the woods behind her, countless pairs of greedy, glowing yellow eyes crept closer, seeping malice through the canvas.

Azarus pondered over this scene for a while. It hit him harder than the minotaur’s plight. Here was a bright, bubbly girl with everything to look forward to, unaware of her foul fate. A burning spark, fated to be extinguished before it could set the world aflame. To be punished for shining too brightly was a harsh ending. Azarus sighed, but resolved to move on. He would not allow her to be forgotten. It was the most he could do.

Before turning away, Azarus dipped his brush into a silvery gray. He laid paint on canvas with delicate precision. With a few strokes, he created a long dagger, stuck point first into the log the elf was sitting on. The dagger’s cold light was a contrast to the golden shimmer of the coins, both backlit by the glow of colorful potions. The dagger did not ease the weight in Azarus’s chest. Yet, it felt right. Even in a painting, she deserved the chance to change her destiny.

On a rocky outcropping hidden from the light of the alchemist’s fire, a human man, worn by the weight of many hard years, struggled with a heavy burden. His veins bulged with effort as he attempted to lift a boy over the edge of a long drop. The man was burdened by more than the boy, weighted down by the scars of his past. He was on his hands and knees with the boy’s wrist locked in his grasp. His shoulders curved inward, as though strained by the weight of his choices.

Head bowed in total focus, muscles pulled taut, the man fought with every fiber of his being to haul the boy to safety. The hilt of his sword, wedged in his ribs, caused his face to twist in pain. His ragged cloak draped across his wiry frame. It flowed to the ground, draping across the lifeless stone outcropping like the finest of silk. From a certain angle, he looked like a knight bowing in supplication.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The boy wore brightly colored clothes. He struggled and screamed, face twisted in horror as he begged to be saved from certain death. The sincere desire to live emanating from the boy’s every pore filled the scene, where the starlight shone. In the shadow cast by the cliff, a nightmare lurked.

Two crescent moons split the darkness underneath the outcropping, alight with a malevolent aura that seemed to suck in light. A thick, fleshy rope extended from the shadow. It was thicker than a man, but it tapered until it fused with the boy’s waist. A self-satisfied smirk lurked beneath the monstrosities’ unholy eyes, projecting an air of lazy confidence.

The noble hero, devoured by his calling.

Azarus’s heart ached and his domain echoed the call, a portion of it rattling painfully. Where he pitied the warrior and mourned the alchemist, he admired the hero. A man so experienced would have considered the risk of a trap. He went anyway, giving his all to save who he could. The reality behind the painting tugged at Azarus’s heartstrings.

Looking over the scene, Azarus took a deep breath and added a final touch. He painted bags beneath the hero’s eyes with a rich, royal purple, watered down with a single tear.

Azarus closed his eyes, taking the time to settle his emotions. He wondered if all gods were so moved by the plight of mortals, or if it was a symptom of being newborn. His thoughts turned to his domain, causing him to consider that his reactions were a part of his original concept. In the end, he decided it did not matter. It was a part of him now, and he cherished it. To feel so connected, even in loss, was a glorious thing. Warm and painful, in equal lots.

Eyes open and clear, Azarus regarded his work.

At the end of the path where the stars, full of hope and promise, met the bloodstained earth, was an altar. The altar was plain and unadorned, little more than a slab of stone. At the base of the altar was a goblin girl.

Blood trailed behind her in a great streak, her hamstrung legs acting as the bristles of a brush and her blood as paint. It left a glistening trail behind her, recording her arduous journey. She pulled herself forward hand over hand, using two small knives like ice picks. Her knuckles were bone white as she strained forward, pulling against a great weight. Around her neck she wore a collar. It was an ugly thing forged of crude iron welded into place and designed to never come off.

Connected to the collar was a chain. White roses, stained with blossoms of red, grew from the chain, covering it until only a glimpse of iron peaked out beneath them. A handsome human man, stylishly dressed with immaculate hair, held the end of the chain. He wore a seductive grin, a bouquet of red roses held up in his free hand, as he wrenched back on the chain.

With a twist of his brush, Azarus added the tip of a sword, coated with fresh blood, jutting out from the bouquet. With a few carefully placed dollops of white, he clarified that the red bouquet of roses had once been white.

Azarus drew back and studied his painting. With a skeptical eye, he went over each stroke, fixing any brushwork that did not meet his exacting standards. He took in the tragedy and the pain, and made sure his representation was true to his experience. The emotions flowed through him, latching onto the soft pieces of his heart and burrowing into his psyche. He sank into his body, feeling the sensations lingering inside him and putting a name to them. Guilt. Helplessness. Resolve.

It was not just any resolve Azarus felt. The resolve of a god raged within him, stirring the sleeping waters of his power. It nestled in his chest, righteous wrath waiting to be released. Azarus mentally restrained the emotion as best he could. His desire to create and experience change was a palpable thing. Yet, despite great desire, he had no target, no enemies to stand against. Above all, he had no power to wield.

Azarus set down his brush. He rubbed the dice that spun eternally on the pommel of his sword with an idle thumb. His other hand drifted up to his chin, where he scratched at his scruff in thought.

These mortals were like fading beacons in the endless dark. They deserved to be remembered for their battles, if only in a painting. Azarus had done everything he could, but he could not shake off his dissatisfaction as he contemplated his painting.

Azarus rubbed his cheek, heedlessly unaware of the paint getting on his face. There was a missing element here, a vital puzzle piece that would bring the painting to life.

After pondering, Azarus decided what was missing was an emotion. The balance was off. There was too much despair. The cruelty of the sacrifices on the path to the altar of stars did not represent him. He would not let it.

Hope. The only answer was hope.

On top of the crude altar, Azarus painted a brazier with emerald fire. It pierced the starry sky with a raging defiance, promising power. Promising change.

Along the path, Azarus painted lanterns filled with green flame. Wherever the light of those lanterns touched, life blossomed. Weeds grew with abandon, their roots piercing the dense dirt path. They towered over the sides of the path, tangling together to make thick walls separating the path from the dark forest beyond. Each horrific act happened outside the lantern’s light.

Azarus went over the painting one last time, checking the overall expression of his first work. The addition of the light made the dark seem more sinister. Azarus felt it was a key element. Light and shadow, bringing out the best and worst in each other.

Azarus went over the changes. He was not satisfied. Try as he might, he could not shake the nagging feeling that something essential was still missing.

Eyes wandering over the faces, Azarus thought back to the wishes he had made and the unpleasant rattling in his domain. He lingered on the broken hero and his doomed mission. Azarus recalled his two wishes as his fingertips brushed across the paint, feeling the texture. The rattling intensified as he thought of what he wanted to say.

Azarus looked to the sky above, then gazed into the painted reflection. He found the words he wanted and held them in his mind with a gentle but firm grip. Tracing a formation of galaxies that vaguely resembled a magnificent bird, he reached into his heart where the rattling stemmed from. He flexed his will and pinched it off, separating part of himself from the whole. Pain like a white blanket smothered his thoughts. The Mirror of Eons let out a low vibration, sounding much like a shudder. The words in Azarus’s mind fell from his lips, forced out by the consuming pain.

“I, Azarus, wish for these lost and broken to be given the opportunity to right the wrongs laid at their feet.”

A brilliant, oscillating light full of myriad colors erupted from Azarus’s chest. It shone like a great cone, casting a long, ominous shadow. The cone narrowed into a beam, as thick as Azarus’s leg, that shone on the painting. From within the beam, a wisp of prismatic color floated from Azarus’s chest. It floated through the beam like a speck of dust on the breeze. When the wisp touched the paint, a blinding light and deafening roar washed away everything else. Then, the pain was gone. An inescapable feeling of loss hung in Azarus’s core, where the painful rattling had once reigned.

Through blurred vision, in a body that felt cold, Azarus looked at his creation. At first, it seemed the same. He pored over it, searching for a sign that his sacrifice had changed something, anything. He traced every brush stroke, from top to bottom, probing for a single development that could justify his loss.

From the corner of his eye, Azarus caught the sight of slight movement. His eyes flicked to the broken hero, but all he could see was that the man’s eyes were a fraction more narrow than he remembered. Frowning, Azarus continued. Another slight movement drew his attention. The alchemist. It took him much longer to find the difference this time. When he did, an uncontrollable grin split his rugged face.

The girl’s hand had crept closer to the hilt of the dagger he had painted.

Satisfied, Azarus put away his tools and stepped back to admire his first creation. Change was coming, albeit at a glacial pace. That was enough. As he turned to check on Moka’s statue, a screen popped up to obscure his vision.

Quest: Realm of the Divine - Complete

To create is divine. You have taken control of your birthright and made your first creation!

Most gods create a new species in their image. Being unique is not always a positive.

Reward: Divine Points, [Upgrade Token]x5

Azarus glared at the screen. It had ruined a moment, potentially a defining one, by cheapening it. His accomplishments were his and his alone. This idea of a “Quest” and that he was earning “rewards” for his choices was offensive. This memorial of hardship had nothing to do with the screens. They should mind their own business.

However, he needed Divine Points, so he swallowed his contempt with a watery smile. The screen responded with its trademark lack of regard.

[Name your Creation]

Azarus dismissed the screen, which obediently diminished to an easily ignored blinking light in his vision. A name could wait. Moka’s statue burned with emerald, gray, and gold flame, the tongues of fire extending towards the Mirror of Eons like they wished to devour it. He let out a small sigh and a sad smile. He had made a vow to the cooling corpse of a young man, to make things different. Now was his chance to prove his word. It was time for his second run.