The wind over the high ridges carried the scent of pine and old stone. Adams stood alone on a narrow outcrop far from the main sect grounds, where the mountains gave way to wilder, untamed slopes. No pavilion silk, no familiar faces this morning. Just him, the sky, and the faint hum of something ancient waking up.
He remembered the Oblivion War too clearly. The way the sky had cracked open and the old gods — those mythic figures carved into every temple wall across the Divine Plane — had screamed as their champion fell. He had ended it. Not out of heroism, but because it had annoyed him. Now, years later, the echoes of that day were crawling back.
A lesser god’s remnant, perhaps. Or something wearing their skin.
He turned and started down a narrow trail that switchbacked toward one of the older outposts — a half-forgotten watchtower where a handful of veteran scouts and a reclusive elder named Soren kept vigil. Soren wasn’t part of the inner circle. He was one of the original survivors from the Lovigary campaigns, a grizzled man with a lame leg and eyes that had seen too many betrayals. Exactly the kind of person Adams needed today.
The tower came into view as the sun climbed higher. Rough stone, moss-covered, with a single banner of the Primordial Chaos Sect fluttering lazily. Soren was already waiting on the wooden platform, leaning on a cane carved from dragon bone.
"Adams," the old scout greeted, voice rough as gravel. No bowing, no titles. Just the blunt familiarity of someone who had bled for this cause and lived. "You don’t come down here unless the world’s tilting again."
"Close enough," Adams said, stepping onto the platform. The wood creaked under his weight. "The echoes we’ve been dealing with. They’re stirring old things. Gods. Remnants from the Oblivion mess."
Soren spat over the railing. "Figured as much. The stars have been wrong for three nights. And the old altar in the ravine below started bleeding light yesterday. One of the lesser ones, I’d wager. Veyra, maybe. Goddess of fractured mirrors. Always was a spiteful bitch."
Adams leaned on the railing beside him, looking out over the vast stretch of wilderness that bordered the Beast Continent. "I need eyes down there. Not the pantheon’s. Something quieter. You still have contacts among the old cults?"
Soren grinned, showing missing teeth. "A few rats who owe me favors. I’ll send word. But if the gods are moving, even broken ones, they won’t come at you head-on. They’ll twist things. Turn your own people against you, maybe."
"That’s why I’m here instead of the main hall," Adams said. "The pantheon’s strong, but sometimes the old ways see what polished power misses."
They talked for a while longer — practical things, supply lines, hidden paths through the ridges. No grand strategy session. Just two men who had survived the same war sharing a quiet understanding. When Adams left the tower, the sun was higher and the weight on his shoulders felt a little more manageable.
He took a longer route back, cutting through a misty valley where bioluminescent flowers bloomed in the shade of ancient ruins. This part of the territory was rarely visited — a place where old battlefields from the early days still carried faint scars. Half-buried statues of forgotten gods lay toppled among the vines. One in particular caught his eye: a cracked marble figure with six arms, once a deity of boundaries. Its face had been shattered during the Oblivion fighting.
Adams stopped. He placed a hand on the stone. For a moment, something ancient and resentful brushed against his senses.
*You took everything from us,* a faint voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He smiled thinly. "I gave you a chance to adapt. Most of you wasted it."
The presence recoiled. Adams continued walking.
By midday he reached a secluded glade where a small group of independent cultivators — not full sect members, but allies who had sworn loose oaths after he saved their village years ago — were training. Among them was Lira, a sharp-tongued archer with silver-streaked hair, and her brother Kael, a burly shield-bearer. They weren’t pantheon, but they were solid. Reliable in their own stubborn way.
"Adams," Lira called out, lowering her bow. "Didn’t expect the big man himself. Come to check if we’re still breathing?"
"Something like that," he said, joining them by the firepit. They shared a simple meal of roasted meat and flatbread. Conversation flowed easily — stories of recent beast hunts, complaints about arrogant young disciples from the main sect, quiet gratitude for the protection Adams’ rule provided. He listened more than he spoke. These people saw a different side of the world. Grounded. Mortal.
When he finally told them about the stirring gods, Lira’s face hardened.
"Veyra’s cult still has a shrine two valleys over," she said. "We burned offerings there once to keep her quiet. If she’s waking up angry..."
"Then handle it quietly," Adams told her. "You and Kael. No need to involve the pantheon yet. Report back if it gets worse."
Kael nodded, gripping his shield. "We owe you more than we can repay. Consider it done."
Adams left the glade feeling clearer. Different pieces, different perspectives. That was the real strength he was building — not just overwhelming power, but a web of people who could act when he couldn’t be everywhere at once.
He returned to the main sect as evening painted the sky in deep golds and purples. The central plaza was alive with activity. Anderson spotted him immediately and fell into step.
"Adams. Jack’s team is prepped. They’ll leave at first light. The women were asking after you."
"Good," Adams said. "Walk with me."
They moved through the gardens behind the main halls, where lanterns had just begun to glow. Mabel, Inara, and Akira were waiting near a quiet fountain. The water shimmered with faint spiritual energy.
"You’ve been wandering far today," Mabel observed, voice soft but pointed.
"Needed different eyes," Adams replied. He sat on the stone bench beside them. For a while they simply existed together — Inara leaning against his shoulder, Akira tracing patterns on his hand, Mabel watching the fountain with quiet thoughtfulness.
"The old gods are moving again," he told them eventually. "Remnants from Oblivion. They’re latching onto this impersonator business. Fear makes people stupid, even immortals."
Inara’s eyes flashed. "Then we remind them why they stayed quiet all this time."
Akira smiled. "The pantheon’s ready. So are we."
Mabel simply took his other hand. "You don’t have to carry the weight alone anymore."
Adams looked at the three of them, then beyond to where the sect lights spread across the mountains. For the first time in a long while, the vastness didn’t feel quite so empty.
Later that night, as lanterns dimmed across the grounds, Adams stood on a quiet balcony overlooking the valley. A distant pulse rippled from the direction of the nexus trail — stronger now. One of the old gods was definitely watching.
He smiled into the darkness.
"Let them come," he whispered. "The board’s bigger than they remember."
Somewhere in the fractured spaces between realities, the Hollow stirred. And in hidden shrines across the Divine Plane, forgotten gods opened their eyes once more.
The game was shifting.