Approximately one-hundred-ninety years ago, Reginald Lucious, a middle-aged Pantheran farmer, was tired of his mundane life. He lived alone in a small house , scraping by with bare essentials. His short, spotted fur stayed matted from sweat and dirt, as he worked daily for only a small profit off of his crops. He wanted to change the way he lived, as he lead a life befitting a peasant; waking up everyday just to plow the land and harvest the crops. He had to hide his beliefs and his feelings about the religion of his people, as he worshipped a lower god named Modais; a crime punishable by death. Modais is a militant god, this alone doesn't make his worship illegal. During the second fracture, Modais fought against is brothers and sisters over the enslavement of the human race. The god believed the human race were merely a lower race that only deserved to serve. This caused a war between the gods and Modais was forced to the lower plains and imprisoned. Worshipping lower gods isn't illegal everywhere but in the Kingdom of Lilistone, it was expected that the religion of Upper gods such as Katé, the creator of the Pantheran species, was followed. 

After a truly horrid harvest that barely turned out profit, Reginald couldn’t bear it any longer. He’d had it with the monotony, struggling to make ends meet, and hiding his beliefs—drastic times called for drastic measures, and this thought swirled in his head as he descended into his damp cellar. While it normally held seeds, tools, and anything else he may need for work, the space would also be useful for the ritual that was no longer unthinkable. He moved everything to the edges of the room, cleaned off the floor, and drew a knife from the sheathe on his side, cutting his palm with a wince. As the crimson drops fell to the floor, he shakily began drawing the symbol of Modais—three inverted triangles arranged in a longer triangle—and the symbol started to glow as he spoke an ancient chant to beseech his god. 

“With this blood I sacrifice,

My immortal soul I present 

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Yours to take for eternity”

With these words said, a slow mist began to form around him. 

“My child, why have you called upon me?” The voice in his head is smooth and deep, and the conversation it initiates causes Reginald to tremble in awe, fear, and excitement. 

“I request your help, my lord. I want power, wealth, and glory over my people.” He pleads, and a soft chuckle rings through his psyche. He knows that he is going to have to make a better deal than his soul. 

“Why do you deserve this power?” Modais asks, and there’s a trace of humor in his voice.

“My lord, I shall rule these lands, and everyone will know you and praise your name.” Though broken and trembling, Reginald’s pride comes out in full force. He is not one to be made a fool of, and the taunting of his god is quite…uncomfortable. Laughter from Modais hits him, and another offer is ripped from his core. “Modais, please! Take my soul, and the souls of every son born for the next twenty generations.” 

“Those are not yours to give.” The voice is cool in its reply, no trace of laughter now. The conversation has taken a darker turn than before—and he had been offering his own soul. Although his body wanted to shiver, he stood firm before the symbol. He had to have pride that matched Modais’ own for this to go his way.

“Then, then I'll make them offer you their souls.” Reginald wants to curse himself for the stammer.

“How might you plan to do that?”

“When I rule Lilistone, I will make every son of mine give you their soul when they turn sixteen. As… As an offering.” When the last syllable leaves Reginald's lips, a loud boom erupts in the distance, shaking the ground around him. Simultaneously, a shimmering sword, six foot in length, appears on the floor in front of him. His stammer must have added to his charm, he thinks to himself. 

“This is the weapon of my champions. Take it. Save your people from the tragedy befalling them, from their God.” The voice is menacing, but Reginald no longer fears it. He rises to his feet, lifting the sword. It feels much lighter in his hands than it should be, but it felt like his. With this, he is left with one phrase slowly echoing in his mind:

 “The deal is made.”