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The War Ended. The Titans fell,
Their veins bled into the earth, and from that blood,
the Evanuris raised their empire
Elvhenan, they called it.
Banners bloomed across the mountains.
Towers rose—carved from stone, shaped by pride.
And amid the celebration,
sacred marks once earned in blood
now etched on every bone
the sun's light claiming
a blessing that none could disown
And amid the bowing
the wolf felt nothing
He came to Mythal
“Why bless the arrogance,” he asked,
“yet shun the silenced?”
And she answered:
"Better stillness than the storm.
Better the sun above than the fire below."
Amid the sun burnt
Friend to the Dead
rose from the shadow
More Bowing beneath him.
Their names were unspoken.
Their lives, unwritten.
And Solas broke the law to set them free.
Falon'din cried for punishment.
The court stirred
But Mythal raised her hand
the wolf was spared.
His friend was not.
That night, she made him an offer.
“If you want them to listen,” she said,
“be what they revere.
Godhood, It is long overdue.”
Her voice was soft. Almost kind.
“Forgive me, Love” she said.
“You won us the war, and I gave you no glory.”
the wolf bowed his head—
not out of gratitude, but shame.
Still, he didn’t refuse.
The preparations began.
The gods sent their gifts.
Andruil, the huntress, gifted him blades as sharp as vows.
June offered eluvians—his own inventions.
Elgar’nan, had his masons build a towering altar in his name.
to drain the life of a thousand slaves, a ritual offering to consecrate one's divinity.
And it was Falon’din who delivered those slaves. Not willingly. But when Elgar’nan requested, he obeyed.
Solas sat in silence as the priests presented him with possible vallaslin—his new mark, the symbol of his godhood.
It was his ascension. And that was one of the few things they let him decide.
No one had yet declared his title. But they would.
Then a servant’s voice,
cutting through the stillness.
A new offering.
Tavien stepped forward—
once a friend, once an equal.
Now kneeling.
“A gift,” he said,
“from the All-Mother.
For your elevation.”
He held it with both hands—
a relic to bind spirits.
Solas did not touch it.
He only stared.
The memory of freedom given coursed through him—
now offered back as power to take from others.
A long silence.
Longer than comfort allowed.
Then, voice low—barely enough to be polite:
“Did she choose this herself?”
“She… approved it.”
Solas said nothing.
That night,
he wandered the empty halls.
Past stone, past gold, past silence.
He overheard two handmaidens—
soft voices, behind silk screens.
“A thousand slaves,” one whispered,
“for one god.
They’ll be bled dry.
He won’t even have to touch them.”
His world tilted.
He sat alone
No court.
No gods.
No eyes but his own.
Buried his face in his hands
grief or shame.
Or both.
Her marking
Too light to be a chain.
Too heavy to be glory.
with a spell
he burned it
He watched himself in the mirror
traced his fingers on his past
nothing left
but a deep scar
The mirrior flared.
Felassan stepped through, laugh fading.
He touched the wound, gentle, horrified.
“What have you done?”
“I’m sorry,” Solas breathed.
“I didn’t mean to call you back.”
Felassan’s voice was steady.
“Tell me why.”
Solas turned to the flames.
“Never return to her.”
That night, Solas descended into the dungeons.
He moved like shadow,
his spells silent,
his will sharp.
The guards fell where they stood—
some mid-jeer,
some mid-blow.
Their blood ran in front of the chained.
Some whispered:
A new god walks for Mythal.
Others cursed:
merely a lapdog fetches bones.
When he pulled back the bloodied hood,
they saw his face.
Mythal wasn't there.
He reached the slaves.
They flinched.
None met his eyes.
One spat.
It clung to his cheek
He knelt before the man,
and broke his chains.
“I know Falon’din’s cruelty,”
he said,
voice soft as falling ash.
“I understand your resentment”
The man rubbed raw wrists.
Suspicion flickered in his gaze.
“What game is this?”
Solas rose.
Moved to the next.
And the next.
Breaking bindings, one by one.
“No game but the truth”
An elder fell at his feet.
“My lord, we came to serve your godhood.
Bless us. Protect us.”
He sighed, the weight of millenniums in that single breath.
" They said the guards were here to protect you.
But they struck with the same hands that claimed to shield.
Falon’din calls himself mighty.
Yet he sent you to rot—
Drained your blood—no war, no justice—
Only to bless another false god's throne
Protection is a cage with polished bars.
it speaks of safety—then wraps fingers around your throat.
They will call it mercy.
They will call it order.
But what they truly fear—
is you, unshackled.”
I am no god. I am a man. And so were they . I can't protect you, Nor can they.
Come with me. I can offer a path—One where no one owns you again."
Solas handed them Andruil's weapons—
blades meant for gods, now grasped in the hands of the servants
With June’s eluvians, he led them through the Fade.
A spirit answered—a hidden sanctuary, untouched, untraced
A begining
And then came the day of the ritual.
The Evanuris arrived, cloaked in splendor.
Aristocrats filled the balconies.
Servants flowed like rivers—carrying trays, silks, perfumes.
The High Priest took the altar.
The first rite: to remove the new god’s vallaslin.
Solas arrived late.
Cloaked in gold robes.
Face bare.
Gasps rippled—like wind through leaves.
A priest stepped forward, stiff with outrage.
“You burned your vallaslin. Without divine sanction.”
Solas smiled—slow and sharp.
“Strange. A would-be god, shamed for lacking ink.”
He stepped toward the altar.
shattered it with a spell
An execution, masked as elevation.
Now broke with the stone.
His voice echoed like a blade drawn in silence:
“You praise devotion carved in flesh—
But ignore the rot beneath it.
You reward obedience and call it virtue.
You spill the blood of the helpless—
and call it sacrifice.”
At his signal, the missing slaves stepped forth.
Armed.
Barefaced.
Alive.
Chaos bloomed.
Falon’din surged forward, snarling:
“You dare turn my offerings into your dogs of war?
They were chosen—by ritual, by right!
Steel does not make them free!”
Solas met his rage with scorn.
“It seems I burned their devotion
with the ink you gave them.”
He took one step closer.
“You call yourself a god—
Yet bow to Elgar’nan so easily.”
Falon’din’s face twisted.
Magic flared at his fingers.
Guards rushed in.
Too late.
Smoke poured from Solas’s sleeves.
A shroud of shadow drowned the temple.
Flames choked. Screams scattered.
The faithful fled.
At the center, the Eluvian blazed open.
As the last of his people crossed it,
Solas turned.
Mythal had not moved.
Her face was unreadable.
But her fists was clenched
Andruil’s smile gleamed
her gaze upon mythal,
a huntress eyeing a lioness
whose hound had just broken free.
Elgar’nan watched him—
cold gaze, no surprise.
He had pried open the lapdog’s jaw
and found the wolf’s teeth.
The court whispered of failure. Of weakness.
Mythal was forced to tighten the grip on her own.
Those loyal to him—
some jailed.
Some exiled.
Some executed.
Felassan never returned.
He joined him.
and solas welcomed him in silence.
The charges came swiftly:
Treason. Sacrilege. Assault upon the divine.
The Evanuris, at last, declared his title.
They thought raise him high enough,
would break more than his flesh
yet He leapt.
and in the abyss,
he learned how to fly.
Servants. Witnesses.
Those who watched a man
cast down everything
to save a thousand lives.
They passed his name between them
like a prayer.
Or a promise.
The Wolf.
The Trickster.
The God who betrayed.
The man who will set them free.
Fen'Harel.