Flint and Itsy stared up at Alan in a mix of horror and shock.

  “Is apathy my curse as a god?” Alan inspected his glowing hand, where shining residue that once glued Hyndole’s stone form together dripped to the hilltop.

  The battlefield flooded with awakened Token citizens who sprang back to consciousness by Alan’s godly presence. The realm had a different air now—radiating with the power of a realm’s protector, despite the dreary crimson sky. A faint glimmer of amber now pierced through. Perhaps the threat had gone.

  Alan stepped past the solemn Fate Chasers who fought valiantly. In time, they would be rewarded for their valor. Protecting Token was all that mattered now. It must prosper. Trade must continue.

  The dead were wrapped in blankets of gryphon feathers, as was customary for the Fate Chasers. Token warriors rushed to help Elkire to his feet and inspect the fallen enemy scattered throughout the plains.

  As Alan continued to pace, he ignored everyone and everything.

  Godhood proved to be overwhelming in every respect. Alan’s fleeting sense of emotion frustrated him, which soon faded into apathy… just like everything else. He wanted to connect with his friends on a human level—hug them in joy that the invasion had been stopped, or at least forestalled. But he couldn’t bring himself to.

  Stepping into a memory and becoming who he once was only lasted for seconds at a time, and whenever he returned to the present, only one thing mattered—the realm. Develop it. Protect it. His initial vision for Token became a mantra he was now beholden to. Inspiring trade and fostering a place of long-lasting growth meant everything. Citizens of Token must prosper. A sense of golden relief blanketed him whenever he moved toward his vision, only to be tempered with a sense of looming dread for what was to come.

  As he paced away from his citizens, he thought of Hyndole’s final moments—calling to the Red Pact and showing what Alan had become… where he resided. It was only a matter of time before the full might of his enemies would be upon them.

  “Alan. Noble Alan of the great coming. God of Token!” Flint rushed forward, nearly tripping on his robes.

  “The last thing he needs is more smoke up his ass, dummy!” Itsy coughed, holding her wounds as she ran next to him.

  Neesha scurried up to Alan, hugging her stone and blocking his path. “Where are you going?”

  Alan looked down upon her, experiencing a tiny tickle that fleeted to nothing like a dying star. His eyes grew cold, despite her final whimpers being the trigger for accepting this plight in the first place.

  “You were there when the frogs bestowed their clairvoyance,” he said evenly.

  “Of course! Aha! You see it now, Alan. I always knew you would! The frogs speak prophecy,” Flint whispered like it was a secret.

  Alan understood that now more than ever. When he faced off against Hyndole with a skeletal army at his beck and call—he felt like he was stenciled into what the frogs showed him long ago. It made a believer out of him.

  “And they speak truth!” Flint held up his finger.

  Alan nodded. “It so happens that you are right. The frogs are a gateway to potential futures. Though the full picture is not shown in their vision. There is discovery to still be had.”

  “I knew it!” Flint pumped his fist and did a cartwheel.

  Neesha stomped over to Flint and slapped him across the face. “This is no time for celebration. The Fate Chasers mourn more losses. And the waking citizens of Token are mortified from being blindsided. Guilt and remorse run deep this day.”

  Alan closed his eyes, allowing the realm to speak to him and show visions of the sections he desired—similar to the trances he’d fall into whenever focusing on a weapon. That power was amplified now. He transported his consciousness to Madam Mar’s tower, where she lay flat in the center of it, groaning and holding her head. Even she was poisoned.

  “Mardonnus,” Alan called in his mind. “Recover and be ready to receive guests.”

  He then returned to the familiar rattling of chains. Lucius moseyed up to the group with a Token Knight as his warden, wounds hissing with steam. Alan only stared at him with the golden shimmer of godliness in his eyes, daring his betrayer to make a quip.

  Lucius shook his head—curls coiling. “You have become everything you worried you would be.”

  “A sacrifice.”

  “Ah, so now you understand what it means to care deeply about something.” Lucius smiled. “Finally.”

  “Don’t pretend we are alike. I don’t undermine others for my cause.”

  “Not yet. Just give it time. Our decisions all have consequences,” Lucius said. “I’m living mine. But soon the crown will rotate, I think.”

  Alan stared at him, judging every fiber of his body.

  “Alan the god.” Lucius scoffed. “Who would’ve thought? It feels like just yesterday I was sweeping your legs from under you in training.”

  The Knight behind Lucius looked to Alan for the signal to push Lucius back to prison, who nodded for him to do so. Lucius was shoved forward, whiplashing his neck.

  “Lucius,” Alan called, stopping the prince in his tracks. “Thank you for summoning me, and for fighting.”

  He grunted at Alan. “I merely adhered to a prompt, old friend. Besides, you’re going to need all the help you can get in what’s to come.”

  Those words were grave and true.

  “Ahem!” Neesha still stood with an angered expression. “What are you going to do, Alan? Our healing facility is only in its initial stages. Sar’fidius’ soldiers lay on the field. My sister’s legs have been crushed by her Helldraken—”

  “Do you remember what you said to me in your dying breaths?” Alan asked.

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  “Keeping those who survived as prisoners will only risk more Token death.”

  “Alan!” Neesha stomped her foot. “Don’t!”

  “Oh my, oh my.” Flint held his hat. “Alan, I don’t think that is the way. No. No. No. Remember the frogs. They showed two paths for you. Yes. Yes they did.” Flint pushed up next to Neesha. “Do not descend into the Destroyer of Realms. I beg of you.”

  “The realm must prosper. It cannot do so if it is wiped from the universe,” Alan said.

  “Whoa there, crazy. I didn’t sign up for no genocide.” Itsy stuck an oversized piece of grass in his face, which sizzled into a limp, burnt sliver. “Ey!”

  Alan turned to the warzone at his back, focusing on the two guards holding Trish by the arms. He focused on the dagger still in its sheath, her armor, everything. Still, even as a god, her past proved cloudy. Beige sand trickled off her face, speaking of Hyndole’s deceptive hold fading. How much of it was her, and how much was him?

  “Alan.” Neesha grabbed his arm. “The battle is over. Send them all back to prison. Reinforce the cells with your new power. Do not slay them.”

  “Aho, friend.” Flint patted his shoulder. “Lady Neesha is right. Of course we cannot imagine what you’re experiencing, but we know you’re still in there. Your heart is why we followed you here. Great Alan of the realms! I’ll give you Titles all day by wishing them into existence.”

  “Flint, I need quiet.”

  “Of course.” He swallowed hard. “I only ask that you settle into your new existence. Please, do not do anything rash.”

  “The realm must prosper and survive, holding onto the good people who seek the safety of it. All else is distraction.”

  “I suspect if you mix a few words around in there, you’d have the same vision as the Red Pact,” Neesha said scornfully. “Where’s the man who sacrificed everything to save his friends?”

  Alan clenched his jaw as he made his way up to Trish. With a twist of his gold-plated wrist, an escalated version of the Vosh bubble formed around them, expanding into a house filled with a silver, self-playing organ piano, rows of pews like a church, and a stained glass window letting in red light from outside.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “By the bellies of bogermuts!” Flint ripped at his hair, tapping Itsy.

  “I see it, dummy.” Itsy flexed her bone into a boomerang, likely wondering what would pop out next.

  Alan stood straight, finding nothing odd about the situation, commanding Trish be wrapped in manifested chains and lifted so her arms were stretched and the light from the stained glass bore down upon her.

  “Mmph,” she yelped, wincing.

  “How much of it was you?” Alan demanded.

  “Would you believe me if I said none of it?” Trish asked, opening teary eyes to match his gold-misted ones.

  “Why do I have difficulty reading your weapons? What are you, Trish?”

  She rattled in her chains. “I am exactly who you think I am.”

  “I’ve studied the Beige. Persuasion only goes so far. It does not erase free will,” Alan said. “You have blood on your hands. And if I didn’t intervene, it would be an entire realm’s worth.”

  “I never took you for a murderer, Alan,” Trish said, tears leaking down her face. “You ripped away Hyndole’s soul like he was nothing.”

  A memory of Trish crying from a fight they once had on Earth flashed through Alan’s mind, piercing it like a splinter.

  I remember it so clearly. She wanted me to go to a party with her friends in Vegas—to see a show. But all they’d do is give me dirty looks whenever I was around.

  A rush of emotion flooded him for a fraction of a second but was erased just as fast. Still, the lingering image of their fight remained. Her expression matched exactly. It was there he realized…

  “You cared for him,” Alan said, earning a row of gasps. “You were on his side from the beginning.”

  She tilted her head. “Lot of good that did me. He turned me into a damn villain with that sand.”

  Another flash of emotion rushed through Alan… this time anger. Their reunion at the Tower of Quest seemed so genuine—like she wasn’t expecting him. All of her attempts to get back together, all orchestrated. All fake.

  The fury roiled, until again he blinked it away. It was as if godhood was fighting his human form. Every part of his new godly body was telling him it wasn’t important. A deity could not devolve into individual connections. It distracted from the true purpose—defending the realm.

  He narrowed his eyes, tightening the chains and raising her higher just by thinking it. “What forces does Jaeger have? How large is his army?”

  She smiled as if thinking of some old memory. “He showed me once. Hyndole. He was the first thing I saw when he brought me here. Power radiated from his stone, welcoming me to a life where I’d have the wherewithal to fight for what I wanted.”

  Alan understood those last words all too well. When he got to Strangey Town, he was immediately useful as a Merchant. That idea grew to change everything about him. But one thing was different from the beginning. Alan could harbor all sides of Saro—every color. Trish was limited to Black. Dread and destruction.

  That means she didn’t value any of our time together. Not here, or on Earth.

  His thought fled like a half-remembered dream. Even though his memories were there for his taking, the feelings dissolved into a mental blender.

  “Answer the question,” Alan said plainly, twisting the chains harder.

  “Alan, stop!” Neesha shoved him, only for a flash of golden light to shove her back.

  “I’ll answer a different question.” Trish grimaced. “When I saw you again… I felt something. And trust me, I didn’t think I would—ah!” She whimpered when the chains tightened further. “Because—you were pathetic on Earth. I mourned a failure, hugging your mom tight, angry at everything. You were taken before you could become something worthy. Who would’ve guessed all you needed was a fresh start.” She smiled angrily at him, challenging him despite her stretched limbs. “I made you, Alan. That’s probably why you can’t see through me. Hyndole knew it too.”

  The others growled and gasped beside Alan. Trish was acting bold even in confinement—reminding him of a certain dark prince. What’s worse, she was successfully piercing the veil of godhood, jarring Alan out of his poised state. She infected him, pulling darker memories to float around his head rather than the balanced mix.

  “Through all the deception of the Beige and Hyndole’s desires projected unto me, past my own lust for power, something real pierced through. I feel for you, Alan. Still.”

  The declaration activated a group of serenity-inspired memories, ones he’d used time and time again to keep his friends alive. Was she right in a sense? Was she the reason he’d been able to save so many people on his journey? Their connection spanned two lifetimes, after all.

  He wanted so badly to consult with Afarus about this, but his soul was released with Hyndole’s death. These godly prompts were in no way able to guide through such intense individualistic issues.

  “She was the cause of my potent Green until she arrived back into my life,” Alan admitted to those around him—the piano changing tune on cue. He turned away from Trish. “What does it mean?”

  “The mighty god Alan asks a question?” Neesha sneered. “I thought we’d only be hearing orders from you, or suffering burns of blessed Yellow.” She showed her hands.

  Alan’s gaze settled on Neesha. Her scornful words evoked another touch of remorse—recalling his journey to Hutten Fie and hoping for her forgiveness. His human form was fighting hard to return.

  “Alan, ah, you’re glowing.” Flint waved his robes at him.

  Neesha looked him up and down. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I only wanted you to survive.” Alan felt the gold-mist glow leave his eyes. A monumental relief washed over him as his humanity won for this eternal moment. “I just want you all to make it out,” his voice lost its prominence. “I can’t hold it for long, but you all have to know… I did this for you. War will change us all.”

  His friends stood stunned as a deep breath reignited his aura. “Trish. I owe you a great debt for the lives our memories together saved. Unfortunately, you cancelled that debt with your unforgivable betrayal.”

  Her mouth twisted. “You can’t kill me. I’m too important to you.” She jangled in her chains.

  “Don’t, Alan.” Neesha frowned. “I beg you.”

  “What are we up against?” Alan said matter-of-factly, ignoring the noise.

  Trish bared her teeth. “A force you could never contend. Twelve prominent realms and fifty lesser against your measly four. And now that they’ve seen what you are, you best bet they’re coming.”

  Alan nodded and turned his back to everyone. With a snap of his fingers, he rewound the Vosh bubble, bringing them back to the red dawn sky over a clearing battlefield. A touch of amber light peeked through the dark storm clouds, providing an ounce of hope.

  Reaching for the feather of his gryphon, Alan knew its gold-encrusted enhancements meant his minions were empowered too. He held it up to an echo of caws far above—where a whole fleet of gryphons led an empty chariot through the air.

  “Madam Mar. Summon a dirt patch to house all the enemy survivors and follow me,” Alan’s voice carried.

  “If you do this… I’ll never forgive you,” Neesha boiled, for which Alan reached for her hand and dulled his godly senses.

  “I am not lost, Neesha. Have a little faith.”

  She was dumbfounded by his reaction, letting her hand relax in his grasp before he gently let it go.

  The golden chariot turned ethereal like a shade, allowing Alan and his friends to seamlessly take their seats without moving.

  “To Figor Valley,” he commanded of Ara and her armored fleet. “We must tackle one problem at a time.”

  Once the chariot materialized into a clunky seat, the gryphons lifted off at blinding speeds, plastering everyone back and using White Saro windshields to counteract the acceleration. In a flash, their blurred vision stilled as they skidded to a stop at the bottom of a deep valley next to a brook—a section of Token Alan had created from memory. He thought of a hike led by his parents as a kid. Something he held dear.

  He allowed himself a deep breath to recall what it was to experience the world for the first time. Memories so foggy prior to godhood when he was creating the realm were crystal clear now. Still, there was this horrible detachment. Like he was an outsider looking in.

  Protect the realm.

  Alan stepped through the chariot—which changed to ethereal whenever he decided to exit—and bent to one knee.

  “This will be their new home.” Alan closed his eyes and pressed his gauntlet fist to the earth. With one magnanimous pulse that made everyone hop, a tunnel formed deep beneath his fist. “The item Trish used to break our Saro prison must be examined by a knowledgeable Merchant, since my powers do not extend to her items.”

  “It will be done, noble Alan. We have the means. Yes, we do!” Flint said optimistically.

  Neesha held her heart and plopped onto her backside, exhaling a deep sigh. “My sister will live.”

  “She will not be mended, Neesha. But yes, she will live.”

  “I can live with that,” Neesha said.

  “I ask for patience in this uncertain time. I must settle into this new power. There is a constant tug to something I am not.” He shut his eyes. “I fear it will be an eternal struggle.”

  The redness of the sky completely faded back to blue. It felt as though the realm was communicating with them. The threat has subsided. This was a time to rebuild and reinforce.

  A giant shadow formed overhead, blotting out the sun. Everyone turned to the sky, where mounds of dirt trickled from the giant floating landmark with Madam Mar at the head.

  “They will pay for what they’ve done!” Madam Mar announced from the sky.

  Alan rose, flexed his arms, and with a mere thought moved the mountains slightly aside to make way for her descent.

  The dirt patch crunched into the ground, shaking the hundred kneeling prisoners rattling in their chains and their general strapped to a stretcher held by two Token Knights.

  “We know how much you prefer the underground in Sar’fidius’ Fel Wrath. So I will send you there to rot,” Alan commanded, twirling an enchantment of White winds down the tunnel he created. “Fellow Knights, spread the word. We just so happen to need twenty-four-hour warden duty at this time. Only those who were poisoned will qualify, for they have been vetted for us by the Junos loyalists.”

  Foretta got to her elbows as the Knights carried her off the mound. “It seems we underestimated you, Alan. Twice now.” Her nose wrinkled from the obvious pain of her injury—a Helldraken falling on her legs was not a light punishment. “And you, dear sister—”

  Neesha squared her shoulders while hugging her stone.

  “—you are a warrior after all.”

  The Knights stopped for Neesha, where Foretta reached to cup her face.

  “I watched you breathe life into Knights and Wizards who surely should’ve been pronounced dead. I hear even with a knife through your belly, you strained to heal. That is no gardener.” She smiled. “Mother would be proud.”

  Her words were genuine. So much so that Alan was forced to turn away to combat the flood of rushing memories—his father’s approval whenever he did well on a test at school. His mother’s love. He felt it all before it was whisked away again, testing his sanity.

  Mujungo wasn’t mad on his own accord. Of that, Alan was becoming certain. In no more than a day, he felt like he’d suffered a lifetime of conflict.

  All the soldiers were escorted to the tunnel by the angry waves of Mardonnus’ net. She borrowed Orange Saro from anyone she could and set fires to the prisoner’s backsides to get them rushing to their confinement.

  Alan had already mapped out the prison in his mind and constructed it on his singular pulse. And now it was time for the last prisoner to be dropped. Trish the betrayer.

  “I’m coming to understand our souls may be tethered,” Alan said, pushing her forward lightly.

  “Oh, how romantic. Call me a soulmate without calling me a soulmate.” She smiled facetiously.

  “More of a cancer,” Alan said evenly. “One that must be culled.”

  He shoved her into the wind tunnel, taking neither pleasure nor pain in watching her spiral to her cage.