What the Gods Became

Wisterly’s consciousness returned in pieces. First came warmth—not the scorching heat of the Eternal Storm, but something deep and nourishing that flowed through her core. Voices followed, speaking words she didn’t recognize before fading away. Then she felt the surface beneath her body. It cradled her with comfort more profound than she’d ever known.

Her eyes fluttered open.

She lay on an impossibly soft bed in an unfamiliar room. The ceiling curved in organic spirals like the inside of a seashell, and the walls shimmered with a hazy light that flowed as if she were underwater.

She tried to sit up—and gasped. Her body felt far too light, as if her bones had been replaced with the shafts of feathers. She reached up to touch her hair, then the dark veins that had marred her face. They were still there, but they no longer felt tortuous and sick. Instead, they were humming with a low, pleasant vibration.

Someone had bathed and dressed her while she was out. Unfamiliar white robes whispered against her skin. She pulled back a sleeve and examined her arms—arms that had been sliced into bloody ribbons by the Eternal Storm.

Nothing. Not even a scar.

She lifted her eyes to look through a window of what appeared to be crystallized air. Outside, flowers bloomed in wild hues, and fountains flowed upward in graceful spirals. The trees were lush and vibrantly green, rustling in an unseen wind.

The garden seemed familiar. Hadn’t she seen it before?

A memory tickled at the edge of her mind, then rushed in all at once. She’d been carried through the desert toward a city of gorgeous gardens and living crystal. Her saviors had faces covered with branching veins, and their necks were absent of collars. Though she’d faded in and out, she remembered the Gods’ energy flowing from them, powerful and unrestrained. Strangely, they hadn’t seemed mad or corrupted. They’d seemed perfectly fine instead.

She wondered if the Child was playing with her sight again. But the beauty around her was solid and unchanging. Maybe it hadn’t been a vision or a dream. Maybe everything she remembered was real.

An older woman with white eyes entered the room. White hair floated around her head as if suspended in water, and the veins decorating her face reminded Wisterly of frost on leaves.

“Easy, child. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.” Her voice rose and fell like a song she’d only heard once, long ago.

Wisterly’s throat felt raw and dry. “Where—where am I?”

The woman drew closer. “You’re in our Healing Chambers. Our scouts found you at the Storm’s edge three days ago, barely alive.” She regarded Wisterly, then offered her a smile. “I am Elder Thana. Welcome to the Sanctum.”

Three days?! Dread swept through her. “Mordred—the man with me, is he—?”

“Alive, yes. Emberlock is a vicious poison, and it nearly claimed him, but our healers know their craft. He’s resting in another chamber.”

Wisterly took this in slowly. She glanced around the peculiar room, then back at the woman again. “All this is real, isn’t it?”

Elder Thana laughed. “As real as anything shaped by the divine. It’s strange to me that you’re real too. We’ve been on our own for centuries. Why, I haven’t seen a collar like yours for just as long.”

Wisterly’s hand flew to her collar. The hard silver was still there, solid and familiar. Relief sagged her shoulders. The Apostates hadn’t cut it from her neck while she was unconscious.

“Why don’t you have collars? Why aren’t you all—”

“Monsters?” Elder Thana finished.

Wisterly nodded mutely.

Elder Thana’s smile turned grim. “We of the Sanctum are the descendants of those who were stranded here by the Storm. When the Storm Seed backfired, our lives were destroyed for a second time. Our fertile lands became barren wasteland, and we were left on our own.”

Wisterly’s face went pale. These people had lived through the Severing, then a few generations later, the Storm Seed’s backfire. But it hadn’t affected her side of the Storm the same way. The Heartlands were still quite fertile.

“The Storm took everything from us,” Elder Thana continued. “When our children began showing the Signs, we had no forges with which to make collars, and no Divine Brand with which to mark them. We had to find another way, or watch our children go mad. It took decades of research, but we’ve learned how to safely guide Acolytes into their power.”

She touched the branching veins on her own face. “These marks appear during that process—divine energy first overwhelms the flesh, but then can be guided to form pathways through it.”

Wisterly’s fingers tightened around her collar. The silver felt heavier than she remembered—heavy and safe. And yet an idea formed, terrifying and impossible to ignore. She swallowed hard, then forced herself to voice it.

“Could I live without my collar too?”

Elder Thana shook her head. “Once a collar is placed, it becomes part of you. Your body and energy adapt to its filter. Removing it now would flood you with all the Nine’s energies at once. All who have tried lost themselves.”

Still, she paused. “But you… your collar channels both the Hearthkeeper and Dancer, does it not? And you’re new to the Dancer’s power.”

“I am!” Wisterly said. “It’s been maybe a week since I got it.”

“I wonder...” Elder Thana murmured. Her fingers traced silent patterns in the air. “Perhaps if we introduced the energy over a longer time, your system could adjust...”

There was a gentle rapping sound. Elder Thana turned and called to the door. “Come in.”

Two people entered the room. The first was a young man whose cheeks were a web of deep blue veins. They pulsed with energy that felt to Wisterly like the Healers, though it also different somehow—like an overgrown rosebush, she thought. The second was a woman whose veins also traced her face and throat, but hers held a golden gleam. Tiny blooms and leaves unfurled underneath her skin at the end of each vein, appearing with a gentle shimmer before dissolving and reappearing in a lazy, endless cycle. It didn’t look involuntary. It looked like jewelry.

“The other one is awake as well,” the young man said, not even sparing a glance for Wisterly. “Though he’s... agitated.”

The flowering woman gestured at Wisterly. “Has this one asked about the Artifact yet?”

Elder Thana’s expression hardened. “Not yet, Kira.”

Realization dawned on Wisterly. Her heart pounded. “The Box—when I crossed the Storm, I had the Box. Where is it?”

“It’s safe,” Elder Thana replied. She gestured to a nearby table. Wisterly’s Dancer robes and pack had been torn to shreds, but what was left of them had been carefully folded and placed next to the Box of Pathways. The Box itself was no worse for wear.

Relief loosened the knot in Wisterly’s chest, but suspicion quickly replaced it. “Did anyone try to use it?”

Kira grinned at the young man beside her. “Jerrick thought he could do it. Jerrick, why don’t you tell her?”

Jerrick flushed deep red and cleared his throat. “When I touched the Artifact... well, I saw the Child. He had ribbons in His hair and bells on His ankles. He didn’t say a word, He just stuck His tongue out at me and laughed.”

Then Jerrick mumbled something quickly under his breath.

Kira gave him a playful punch on his shoulder. “Come on, Jerrick! Speak up!”

Jerrick glared daggers at Kira, then sighed. “After that, every plant in the room started singing nursery rhymes. Off-key. For hours.” He lowered his eyes to the floor. “I could only speak in rhymes for two days.”

Despite everything, Wisterly giggled. That sounded exactly like something the Child would do.

Elder Thana studied Wisterly with renewed interest. “Perhaps the Artifact has chosen you as its vessel. But you’re not even attuned to the Child.”

Wisterly felt their scrutiny press in, heavy with more than curiosity. Her Dancer sense felt a strange desperation lurking there, an aching longing that she found she recognized. It reminded her of Lord Thorne’s study, and then—unpleasantly—of Lord Thorne himself.

She averted her eyes. “I think I should check on my friend.”

“Of course.” Elder Thana’s smile faded. “But I must warn you, for his sake—some in the Sanctum haven’t forgotten what happened when the Storm fell. Your friend is human, and his presence reopens wounds that time has not mended. Take care to look out for him.”

Questions crowded Wisterly’s throat, but she bit them back. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, marveling at how light and steady she felt on her feet.

Elder Thana motioned for her to follow, then guided her past Kira and Jerrick and down a shimmering corridor. Soon, they stood before a door that seemed identical to her own.

“I’ll return in a while,” the Elder said, and swept away in a fall of blue robes.

Mordred’s room was indeed just like hers, save for Mordred himself: he lay in his bed, pale but whole. He too wore white robes, and his green eyes were sharp beneath his golden curls. As soon as their eyes met, he pushed himself upright.

“You’re alive!” Joy shone openly on his face—then he cleared his throat, and the emotion passed. “You really took your time waking up.”

“I’m sorry if I worried you.” She sat on the edge of his bed. “How do you feel?”

Mordred rubbed his temples. “Like I’ve been trampled by a very large, very angry horse. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“What do you mean?”

He glanced at the door before speaking, and kept his voice low.

“I don’t know how I’ve never felt it before, but it’s all around me. There’s divine energy flowing through everything. It’s like it’s pressing against something inside my head.”

A chill ran through her. She remembered her vision in the Darkwood: the ancient wall buried deep within Mordred, marred by one single, hairline crack.

“How bad is it?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Sometimes I hear whispers in a language I don’t know. And there are moments where I feel like… like something other than me is looking out through my eyes.” He met her gaze, and she felt his fear churning beneath the surface. “I don’t know what’s happening, Wisterly. Is this what it’s like for you?”

She reached out, timid and slow, to put a comforting hand on his. His eyes searched her face, but Elder Thana chose that moment to open the door. She paused, taking them both in.

“Am I interrupting?”

Wisterly pulled back quickly. Her cheeks burned. “No, Elder Thana.”

Mordred snapped to the newcomer. “Elder Thana, is it? I’m Mordred.”

Elder Thana inclined her head. “It’s a pleasure to see you alive and well. You gave us all quite a scare.”

Mordred quirked a brow. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

“How’s your head?” she asked.

Mordred’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”

Wisterly realized, all at once, that Elder Thana already knew what was happening inside Mordred. She cleared her throat.

“Elder Thana,” Wisterly said, “I’ve felt into Mordred before. I saw a vision, an ancient wall inside him, holding back something vast. And it was failing.”

Mordred turned to stare at her. “A wall? Inside me? What?”

Elder Thana nodded. “What you saw was what we’ve also seen. We’ve been studying you since you came into our care. There’s something ancient stirring within you that we don’t understand. It will take time for us to research what it is, and if it will harm you.”

Mordred quirked a brow. “You’re looking out for me, are you?”

Elder Thana laughed, a musical sound. “We are, yes. In the meantime, now that you’re both stable, I’ll arrange for you to move to one of the residential halls. We’ll have you both in the same room by nightfall.”

Wisterly felt heat rise in her cheeks. “We’re not a pair.”

She could feel Mordred looking at her, confused. It only made her face burn hotter.

Elder Thana’s eyebrows lifted. “Certainly you couldn’t be—you’re an Acolyte and he’s human. But you’re both outsiders here. It will be more comfortable for you if you both stay together.”

She paused, regarding them both with an unreadable look. “You should know this: you’re the first in history to make it across the Storm alive. I’ll have a grand feast served so we can introduce you properly. Rest and prepare yourselves—you’ll have many questions to answer.”

Elder Thana left again, closing the door behind her. Wisterly and Mordred were left looking at each other.

Mordred leaned in close. “Do you know what’s going on here?”

Wisterly shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“I was hoping you might know more than I do, seeing as you’re an Acolyte. This place is dripping with divinity.”

“Well…” she paused. “Elder Thana told me to make sure I look out for you. She said people haven’t forgotten what happened when the Storm fell. I think the humans did something bad.”

“Great, that’s just my luck,” Mordred muttered. “I’ve already felt it, and I just woke up. I have to figure out what’s going on, and fast.”

Wisterly frowned. “Me too. I don’t know about them, Mordred. They tried to use the Artifact.”

“How rude.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “A bit, yeah. But the Child didn’t let them. He made fun of them instead.”

Her smile faded quickly, and her fingers found the edge of her sleeve to pull at the fabric. “They may have saved us, but something’s wrong. I don’t know why, but they’re desperate. I can feel it.”

They sat in silence for a moment in the strange, elegant room. The world that surrounded them was unknown and new. There were no Orders here. There was no Guild. The rules were different—unknown and waiting to trap them.

“We need to be careful,” Mordred said finally. “No matter what they do for us, or how they act, we can’t trust them. They’re Apostates.”

He reached out and took her hand. The contact steadied them both, and she felt determination set in both of their hearts. His eyes held hers, bright and unwavering.

“We stay together. No matter what they ask of us, no matter what happens—we’re in this together.”

She searched his eyes, then nodded. “Together. We’ll be okay.”

He let go and, for a fleeting moment, the world felt manageable again.