The Sundered Sky
THE COUNCIL OF GODS
Preparing for the Council of Gods took a month.
The Choristers worked day and night, practicing the old songs, relearning the harmonies that had been forgotten during the Silence. Seraphine led them, her voice steady and strong, her rust-colored eyes bright with purpose.
Lyra practiced too, though her voice was still weak. She could not sing the deep songs. She could not hold a note for more than a few seconds. But she could hum. And her humming was enough to guide the others.
Davin stayed by her side.
He helped her with the exercises, bringing her water when her throat grew dry, rubbing her shoulders when her muscles grew tight. He did not try to sing. He was not a Chorister. But he was present. And his presence was a song in itself.
Morwen handled the logistics. She sent messengers to the surviving villages, to the hidden valleys, to the places where the old gods slept. She invited them to the Spire. To talk. To listen. To remember.
Not all the gods accepted.
Some were too angry. Some were too afraid. Some were too curious to refuse.
Seven gods came.
They arrived on the first day of winter.
The sky was gray, the air was cold, the ground was hard with frost. But the Spire was warm, its fires blazing, its stones humming with anticipation.
The first god to arrive was Aeris, the north wind. She came as a woman, tall and pale, her hair white as snow, her eyes blue as deep ice. She wore robes of frost and carried a staff of crystal.
The second god was Ignis, the fire beneath the mountains. He came as a man, short and broad, his skin red as embers, his hair black as soot. He wore armor of molten rock and carried a hammer that sparked with flame.
The third god was Undine, the water of the deep sea. She came as a woman, slender and dark, her skin green as kelp, her hair flowing like currents. She wore robes of liquid silk and carried a vial of seawater.
The fourth god was Terra, the earth beneath our feet. She came as a woman, old and wrinkled, her skin brown as soil, her hair gray as stone. She wore robes of woven roots and carried a staff of petrified wood.
The fifth god was Umbra, the shadow between stars. He came as a man, thin and gaunt, his skin gray as ash, his eyes black as voids. He wore robes of darkness and carried a scythe that cut through light.
The sixth god was Lux, the light before dawn. She came as a child, small and bright, her skin gold as sunshine, her hair silver as moonlight. She wore robes of woven light and carried a lantern that never went out.
The seventh god was Tempus, the time that passes. He came as an old man, bent and weary, his skin pale as parchment, his eyes milky with age. He wore robes of cobwebs and carried an hourglass that was almost empty.
They gathered in the great hall, these seven gods, and they looked at Lyra.
“You called us,” Aeris said.
“I called you.”
“Why?” Ignis demanded, his voice like grinding stone. “We have slept for millennia. We did not ask to be woken.”
“The Sundered King woke. He almost destroyed the world. I stopped him.”
“We know,” Undine said, her voice soft as waves. “We felt his death. We felt your song.”
“Then you know why I called you. The other gods are waking. The angry ones. The hungry ones. The ones who will not listen to reason. I need your help to stop them.”
“Stop them how?” Terra asked.
“By reminding them. By teaching them. By loving them.”
The gods were silent.
Then Umbra laughed. It was a hollow sound, like wind through a dead forest.
“Love,” he said. “You think love can stop the hungry gods?”
“I know it can. It stopped the Sundered King.”
“The Sundered King was weak. He had fed too long. He had forgotten himself. The hungry gods are not weak. They are strong. They are ancient. They will not be swayed by a song.”
“Then what will sway them?”
Umbra’s black eyes gleamed.
“Fear.”