Chapter Text
Belief, like mercy, was not something freely given. It had to be earned—through fire, through loss, through every unanswered prayer that left the world a little quieter.
And as a boy who lost his home crossed into Gotham, the city of black walls and iron hearts, he swore one thing to himself: if the gods had abandoned men, then men would have to learn to live without them.
The cathedral bells tolled across the marble streets of Veyra, their chime echoing through the high vaults and golden domes. Within, hundreds of villagers sat shoulder to shoulder beneath the stained glass, faces upturned toward the pulpit where the old priest spoke.
“And so,” Father Hiram cried, voice trembling with conviction, “the God of Hope lifted our forefathers from the dust. He granted us the light that burns eternal—the light that made Veyra prosper!”
His hands, thin as parchment, rose toward the mosaics above—depictions of winged figures and saints, all painted in gold leaf and quartz dust. Candles flickered beneath them, their scent mingling with incense and the faint aroma of sweat and wax.
Jon shifted on the wooden pew, his elbows on his knees. He was no older than twelve, lanky, sun-skinned from days spent running errands for the blacksmith. The sermons always felt long—longer than the forge fires that burned through summer.
Beside him, his mother sat with quiet patience. Her hands were folded neatly, though her gaze was not on the priest. It lingered instead on the cracked marble pillars and the thin streams of light falling through the windows.
When the priest spoke of miracles, she only exhaled softly through her nose.
“Do you not believe him, mom?” Jon whispered.
She gave a faint smile, one corner of her mouth twitching upward.
“Belief,” she murmured, “feeds the soul, Jon. But it must be earned, not forced.”
The priest’s voice swelled again, echoing off the stone walls. “Lower your heads, children of Veyra! Bow before the God of Hope who shields us from darkness!”
Jon obeyed, clasping his calloused fingers together, though his thoughts wandered elsewhere—to the clanging forge, the scent of iron, the open fields beyond the walls.
Father Hiram paced before the altar now, robes brushing the floor like the sweep of angel wings as they kept their heads low.
“Do you know,” he said, his eyes gleaming with feverish light, “how our kingdom rose from the ashes? When the world was young, the lands were drowned in shadow. Men devoured men. Empires burned, and despair ruled all hearts. But then—He came.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
“The God of Hope, radiant and merciful, descended in light! He gifted us the Sunstone—our sacred relic—and through it, he brought harvest to barren soil, peace to war-torn tribes. He chose us!”
Gasps rippled through the congregation. Several bowed deeply, crossing their arms in the sign of devotion. Jon only stared at the priest’s trembling hands, the way the man’s knuckles whitened as he held up the carved quartz emblem of the Sunstone. The light from the stained glass made it shimmer like a living flame.
The God of Hope.
Jon had heard that name since he could walk. Yet each year, as he grew, the words felt less like truth and more like coin—the kind nobles tossed to keep peasants obedient. His stomach turned as he remembered the beggars outside the cathedral steps, the ones the priests ignored. If their god was so generous, why did they freeze in the streets? Why did the orphans steal bread only to be whipped in the square?
He lowered his head just enough to avoid his mother’s glance.
Perhaps the God of Hope only listens to those with gold on their fingers, he thought bitterly. Perhaps hope itself is just another word the rich invented to keep the rest of us quiet.
Father Hiram’s voice thundered again, almost as if he could sense Jon’s doubt.
“Hope must be guarded, children! Doubt is the first flame of darkness. When faith weakens, so too shall our walls. So too shall our sons and daughters perish in despair!”
The congregation murmured their assent.
Jon’s jaw tightened.
He felt the sting of shame—not because he believed the priest, but because a part of him wondered if it might be true. What if doubt really did bring ruin? What if disbelief made the gods turn their faces away?
He squeezed his hands tighter, knuckles pressing white. He wanted to believe. He truly did. But the words rang hollow, and the god they praised seemed far away—watching from somewhere above, too proud or too cruel to help those below.
Father Hiram raised both arms high, his shadow stretching across the congregation.
“Pray with me now! Pray for our king, for our children, for the God of Hope who lights our way! May He burn away despair from every soul!”
The crowd knelt in unison, a sea of bowed heads.
Jon followed, more out of habit than devotion. His lips moved silently, forming a prayer he didn’t mean.
When the priest’s final blessing echoed through the vaulted chamber, Jon opened his eyes and stared at the flickering candles. Each flame wavered, uncertain, as if even fire itself struggled to stay alive in this place.
He wondered if the God of Hope could see through smoke—and if He did, whether He’d even care.
For a fleeting moment, the cathedral seemed eternal — its marble pillars rising like frozen hymns, its gilded icons gleaming in the lamplight. The air smelled of incense and beeswax, and the choir’s chant curled upward to the vaulted ribs of the ceiling.
And then — the first scream.
It was faint at first, muffled beneath Father Hiram’s solemn prayer. But it swelled — raw, jagged, desperate — until it drowned out the litany.
The sound did not belong in a place like this.
It cut through the hymn like a blade through silk—raw, jagged, human.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The choir faltered, their voices collapsing into uneven notes. A child somewhere near the back began to cry. The incense smoke drifted, slow and indifferent, as if the world had not yet understood what had happened.
Father Hiram froze at the altar, arms still raised.
“Remain calm,” he said, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “The God of Hope watches over—”
The doors burst open.
They slammed against the stone with a crack that echoed like thunder. Cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of ash—thick, choking, wrong.
Another man stumbled inside.
His clothes were blackened, his face streaked with soot and blood. He collapsed onto the marble floor, hands clawing forward as though the ground itself might save him.
“They’re here,” he rasped.
Silence fell again—but this time it was not reverent.
It was afraid.
“Who?” someone whispered.
The man’s eyes rolled wildly, searching faces that could not help him.
“Monsters,” he croaked. “And soldiers—gods, they’re killing everyone—”
The second scream came from outside.
Then another.
Then many.
The sound swelled until it drowned the cathedral bells.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the congregation erupted. Benches overturned, candles fell, wax hissing on the stones. The once-holy air filled with screams and the stink of burning oil. Mothers clutched their children. Priests dropped their censers, their prayers dissolving into shouts.
Panic broke like a dam.
People surged to their feet, benches scraping against stone, prayers dissolving into shouts. Mothers clutched their children. Men pushed toward the doors, only to recoil as shadows flickered beyond the threshold—moving shapes against the orange glow of fire.
Jon’s heart slammed against his ribs.
He turned to his mother.
For the first time, her composure cracked.
“Stay close,” she said, gripping his wrist hard enough to hurt.
The priest’s voice rose again, desperate now.
“Do not give in to fear!” Father Hiram cried. “This is a trial! The God of Hope will deliver us—He always has!”
But even as he spoke, the stained glass windows trembled.
A deep, distant boom rolled through the city.
Dust sifted from the vaulted ceiling.
Jon looked up.
The golden saints above seemed to flicker—not with divine light, but with the reflection of something burning beyond the walls.
And in that moment, a thought crept into his mind, cold and unwelcome:
If the God of Hope was watching…
why hadn’t He stopped this?
At the altar, Father Hiram stood as if struck blind, his lips shaping words no god would hear. The golden Sunstone emblem trembled in his hands, its once-bright facets catching the firelight.
Jon felt his mother’s fingers seize his wrist.
“Jon—move!”
They pushed through the panic, the crush of terrified bodies. The great bronze doors groaned as they fled into the open air.
Outside, the world was burning. The sky blazed the red of molten iron, not sunset but slaughter. Smoke coiled between rooftops like black serpents. The stench of pitch, blood, and scorched wheat filled the air.
A horse bolted past, riderless, foam on its lips and terror in its eyes. The cobblestones were slick — too slick — and Jon realized it wasn’t rain that stained them.
Above the city, the royal banners burned, their golden suns curling into ash.
“Ma, where do we go?”
“The river!” Lois coughed, shielding her mouth. “Keep low, and don’t look back!”
They ran through what had once been the market square. Where bakers once shouted prices and minstrels strummed lutes, only ruin remained. Flames devoured the stalls. Bodies lay amid the embers — some human, some not.
Between the smoke, shapes moved — shadows with teeth and horns.
Jon glimpsed one.
A creature with the body of a man but the head of a boar — tusks slick with blood, eyes gleaming with mindless fury. It tore through a city guard in a single motion, flinging him aside like a rag doll.
Jon froze, horror rooting him in place. He wanted to fight, to help — but what could a boy with empty hands do against such things?
Behind him, the cathedral burned like a pyre to the heavens. Its spire glowed white-hot, then cracked. With a sound like thunder, the roof collapsed inward.
Jon stumbled, staring back through the haze. He didn’t know if the ache in his chest was grief — or relief. Relief that he would never again kneel at that altar, whispering prayers to a god who did not answer.
“Come on!” Lois’s voice trembled. “We have to reach the river before the bridge falls!”
They pushed onward, weaving between shattered carts and fallen beams. Then — a scream, thin and broken.
A woman’s voice.
Jon turned. Near the ruins of a bakery, part of the roof had caved in. Beneath the wreckage, a woman lay trapped, her arm reaching out from under the charred beams.
“Please—someone! My child—help me!”
Jon darted forward before Lois could stop him. He threw himself at the debris, gripping a half-burned timber. The heat scorched his palms, but he heaved anyway. It barely shifted.
“Jon!” Lois ran to him, then she saw the look of stubborn determination in her son's face and she grits her teeth before pulling at another beam, hoping to help. When it didn’t even shift with both their strengths combined, she yells, “It’s too heavy!”
“We can lift it!” he shouted, straining and determined. “We have to!”
The woman’s face turned toward their voices — eyes milky and unseeing.
“Please,” she whispered. “I can’t feel my legs… my son—where is he? He was just here—he was…”
Her words broke into sobs.
Lois’s voice cracked. She looked down and saw the grey eyes and disfigured lower body. “Jon… her lower body’s crushed. And her eyes—gods, she can’t see.”
Jon’s strength faltered. The beam slipped from his grip, flames licking closer.
“I can carry her!” he cried hoarsely. “I can—”
A thunderous boom ripped through the street. The ground shook. A house exploded into flame, hurling shards of timber through the air.
“Jon!” Lois threw herself over him as embers rained down. She shielded her son with her body, enduring the specks of fire stinging her back.
The woman screamed—not from pain, but pure, pleading terror. “Please! My God, forgive me! Don’t take me! I repent! Please—my child!”
Jon crawled toward her through the smoke, coughing. His eyes stung, tears and soot mingling.
Across the cobblestone street, a man stood atop a rickety cart, his eyes ablaze with fervor as he waved a cracked icon of the God of Hope in his trembling hand. "The God of Hope punishes us!" he shrieked, his voice piercing the smoky air. "He burns the wicked, the faithless priests, the liars who profane His sacred name!"
Jon's urgent shout cut through the chaos, "Help me move this beam! Please, she's dying!" The man's gaze was feverish, his voice shaking with ecstatic conviction. "No! The fire is judgment! Only the pure shall be saved, only the righteous shall be spared the inferno's wrath!"
A shadow moved behind him, swift and silent as death. The boar-headed beast lunged, its razor-sharp tusks driving clean through the man's chest, impaling him like a sacrificial offering. His scream was swallowed by the cacophony of flames, the creature's primal roar, and the crumbling of ancient stone. The beast tore him apart with brutal efficiency, casting the mangled pieces aside like discarded kindling.
Jon choked back bile, his stomach heaving in revulsion. "Mother..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of destruction. Lois seized his arm, her grip like a vice. "Jon! We have to go. Now!"
He looked back one last time, his gaze lingering on the blind woman's cries, her hand still reaching through the smoke like a spectral plea. "Please... anyone... forgive me..." she whispered, her voice fading into the inferno's maw.
Jon's throat burned, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Every part of him yearned to turn back, to lift the beam, to save her. But he didn't. He let his mother drag him away, his feet heavy with the weight of abandonment.
In that moment, watching the cathedral crumble and the gods burn with their city, he understood. No prayers would be answered tonight. The God of Hope had turned His face away, leaving only the fire – the true god of Veyra – devouring all without mercy or favor.
And in its flickering light, Jon learned that mercy was nothing but another kind of weakness, a fleeting illusion in the face of unyielding destruction. The fire's judgment was absolute, its wrath impartial, consuming all that dared to stand in its path.
As they fled the inferno's grasp, Jon's gaze hardened, his heart calcifying like the scorched earth beneath his feet. In the depths of his soul, a spark ignited, fueled by the realization that only the strongest survived in a world forsaken by its gods.
The world turned grey after that.
Days bled into nights without distinction, each one swallowed by the same colorless haze. Jon and his mother walked north with the endless tide of refugees that crawled along the old king’s road.
The world they moved through was a graveyard in motion. Broken wagons lay half-buried in the mud; cracked wheels jutted like bones. Blankets, stained with soot and blood, were left where the dying had fallen. The air smelled of smoke and salt and unwashed grief. Ravens followed the column like black prayers, their wings catching the morning light before fading into the fog.
No one spoke much. When voices did rise, they carried the sound of ghosts. People whispered of what had become of Veyra—of how the monsters had not merely conquered the city, but been invited in. Some said the beasts were punishment sent by the God of Hope Himself; others swore it was rebellion, that the nobles had turned the sacred wards against their own people.
Each version ended the same way:
“Veyra is gone.”
Jon stopped listening after the third night. He learned to keep his gaze fixed on the road, his hands steady on the straps of their pack. The rhythm of walking became a kind of prayer—step, breath, silence. Step, breath, silence. Pain dulled into something distant, something that almost felt merciful.
When they finally saw a neighbouring kingdom's towers through the dawn mist, Jon barely reacted. His feet were split and raw, his shoulders ached from the weight of their belongings—a patched blanket, a few tools, a loaf of stale bread wrapped in cloth. His mother walked beside him, her face thin, her silence heavy. Even her shadow seemed tired.
The kingdom walls loomed ahead—black stone, ancient and immense, rising like the ribs of a dead god. The city’s gates were choked with refugees, a sea of hollow eyes and trembling hands. The smell of sweat, smoke, and despair hung thick in the air.
From above, guards watched the crowd with the indifference of men long accustomed to misery. Their armor caught what little sunlight remained, dull against the soot-stained horizon.
One soldier leaned against his pike and muttered to another, his voice coarse with disinterest.
“Veyrians. Poor fools, still chasing that make-believe god of theirs. Did their kingdom finally burn to ash?”
His companion snorted.
“Good riddance. Let them pray to Gotham now, if they’ve got any prayers left. Might buy them a crust of bread. Welcome to Gotham!"
A few refugees flinched, but none dared respond. Words could get you beaten—or worse.
Jon kept his head down. The stink of rot rose from the basket in his arms—bruised fruit traded along the road, now soft and seeping through the wicker. The smell clung to him, as if the corruption of it had seeped beneath his skin.
Lois touched his shoulder lightly. Her hand was cold, her fingers trembling.
“Don’t mind them,” she murmured. “They only mock what they fear.”
Jon’s voice came out hoarse.
“Fear of what?”
“Of what they could become,” she said. “If the fires ever reach their gates.”
The gate ahead groaned open—just enough for another group to be herded through by spearmen. The sound was like a sigh, long and weary.
Jon stared at the gap between the gates. Beyond it lay the promise of safety, but also something colder: a new kingdom with its own gods, its own false hopes.
He glanced at the guards again—how they avoided the refugees’ eyes, how one idly rubbed at a small pendant on his neck, shaped like a tower and a flame. Gotham’s god, no doubt. Every city had one. Every god promised deliverance. None had come.
"Mother,” Jon said quietly. “Do you still believe?”
Lois didn’t answer right away. The wind tugged at her hood, revealing the streak of silver in her dark hair. Her eyes were red—not from tears, but from smoke and sleeplessness.
“I believe,” she said at last, “in keeping you alive. That’s enough for now.”
Her voice didn’t tremble, but something in it had broken long ago.
Jon looked away. He could still see the cathedral burning whenever he closed his eyes—the gold and quartz spire collapsing, the light swallowing the screams.
“If the God of Hope was watching,” he murmured, “then He’s cruel.”
“No,” Lois said softly. “Just gone.”
They fell silent. The line of refugees shuffled forward, inch by inch. Somewhere ahead, a child cried until his voice cracked. Somewhere behind, an old man coughed and did not rise again. The gates creaked once more. Jon and Lois stepped through.
Inside, Gotham smelled of iron and smoke. The streets were narrow and dark, the stone slick with mist. Watchmen shouted orders from the walls; merchants haggled over grain with the desperation of men trading in famine.
“Keep close,” Lois whispered. “Don’t draw attention.”
"Do you think they’ll let us stay?”
"If we work,” she said. “If we keep our heads down.”
Jon nodded. But as they passed beneath the shadow of the gatehouse, he glanced back one last time.
The road beyond was still filled with wanderers—faces upturned, eyes searching for something they could no longer name. Smoke from the south still streaked the horizon.
In that drifting haze, Jon imagined the God of Hope watching from somewhere above, silent as stone. He wondered whether gods turned their faces away because they couldn’t bear what they saw—or because they no longer cared.
Perhaps his mother had been right all along.
Belief, like mercy, was not something freely given. It had to be earned—through fire, through loss, through every unanswered prayer that left the world a little quieter.
And as a boy who lost his home crossed into Gotham, the city of black walls and iron hearts, he swore one thing to himself: if the gods had abandoned men, then men would have to learn to live without them.