Zeroth hunched over, his body wracked with tremors that had nothing to do with the cool air of the coliseum. His right hand instinctively clutched his new arm.. It was heavy, solid, a limb of matte black obsidian shot through with intricate veins of smoldering crimson and gold that pulsed with a gentle, rhythmic heat, in time with his own frantic heartbeat. Pyronox's arm. Now his. The gaping wounds were gone, the necrotic chill vanquished, his physical strength largely restored. But the anodyne of magical healing did nothing for the raw, gaping wound in his soul. Ardric. And now Pyronox. One, a brother by blood and bond, his light extinguished. The other, a creation of his tormentor, a being who had sought a different path, now a literal, living part of him. The weight of their sacrifices pressed down on him, heavier than any mountain.
He sat there, amidst the ravaged, blood-soaked sand, lost in a maelstrom of grief, guilt, and a bewildering, alien power thrumming through his new limb. The distant, fading roar of the divine audience was a meaningless echo. The coliseum, vast and silent now, felt like a tomb. Then, Delores's voice, clear and carrying, cut through his desolate thoughts, drawing his gaze upward. She hovered far above the center of the arena, a diminutive, elegant figure silhouetted against the false, uncaring sky.
"Champions! What a spectacular display of… attrition!" Her voice, though light, carried an edge of finality. "The sands have been stained, essences have been snuffed, and alliances have crumbled into dust! Truly, a Godswar to remember!"
Zeroth slowly, painfully, lifted his head, his own blue eyes, now rimmed with a faint, lingering ember glow, fixing on the distant lich.
"But alas," Delores continued, her tone shifting, a hint of theatrical gravity entering her voice, "all delightful bloodbaths must eventually draw to a close. The end is near for this particular stage of our grand contest, though the Godswar itself, my dears, is far from over!"
Her words, a pronouncement of impending conclusion, somehow managed to deepen the knot of dread in Zeroth's stomach. It wasn't over? What more could they possibly endure?
"For every contest must have a victor!" Delores declared, her voice swelling to fill the vast arena. "And as it stands, two distinct paths to glory remain! Two potential champions, two wildly different destinies, hang in the balance!"
She paused, letting the anticipation build, her unseen gaze sweeping across the desolate battlefield.
"On one hand," she chirped, a note of genuine, almost childlike excitement in her voice, "we have our marvel of mortal ingenuity, the little sparkplug who dared to challenge the divine order! Tingle, champion of the mortal plane, wielder of borrowed godsfire and his own, quite frankly, terrifying brand of explosive enthusiasm!"
Zeroth's gaze, heavy with exhaustion and sorrow, shifted. Across the ruined expanse, Tingle stood alone. The immense, crystalline armor of golden magic had faded, leaving only small, random arcs of power sparking erratically around his small, soot-stained form. His transformed gunblade, too, had reverted, now resting innocuously at his side, back in its original, more mundane state. The gnome looked small, tired, and utterly alone, yet there was an unyielding, stubborn defiance in his posture.
"And on the other hand," Delores purred, her voice dropping to a more intimate, almost conspiratorial tone, "we have the reluctant inheritor, the dwarf forged in the fires of a god's rage and a creation's sacrifice! Zeroth Velkyrr, now the sole vessel of Vulcanix's might, a walking, breathing inferno with a rather fetching new arm, I must say!"
A heavy silence descended. Zeroth felt Tingle's gaze meet his own across the desolate expanse. The gnome's usual bright, mischievous eyes were wide, filled with a complex mixture of worry, awe, and a dawning, terrible understanding. They just stared at each other, two figures left standing amidst the carnage, the weight of Delores's unspoken implication pressing down on them both. One of them had to win. One of them had to lose. And there was only one way to decide.
A tremor ran through Zeroth, not of pain, but of a deep, emptiness that settled into the marrow. He shook his head slowly, the movement heavy, as if his neck were made of lead. His gaze drifted upwards, scanning the vast, silent stands of the coliseum, searching. It didn't take long. There, seated upon a throne that seemed woven from starlight and energy, was Aeonis. The Prime God's massive, ethereal form glowed with a soft, white light, a stark contrast to the fiery chaos that had just consumed the arena. He was just… sitting there. Watching. No discernible emotion, no reaction to the carnage, the sacrifices, the raw, brutal display of power. Just an ancient, impartial observer.
Zeroth sighed, a sound like stones grinding together. Of course. This whole bloody Godswar, all this death and destruction, it was just entertainment for the lesser deities, a way to settle their squabbles without tearing reality apart themselves. Aeonis wasn't orchestrating it; he was merely overseeing it, a cosmic referee ensuring the game, however deadly, followed some semblance of divine protocol. The realization brought a fresh wave of weary cynicism.
He looked back at Tingle, the small gnome still standing alone. Pyronox's sacrifice… it had mended his body, refilled some of the well of his divine power. He could feel it, thrumming beneath his skin, the potential to erupt into his godform once more, to unleash that devastating, borrowed might. But the thought was ashes in his mouth. "No. Not again." He was done. Done with gods playing games. Done with friends dying for those games. Done with power that came at such an unbearable cost.
With a shudder that ran through his entire frame, Zeroth turned and began to walk, not towards Tingle, but back towards the spot where his original arm lay, a gruesome, forgotten remnant amidst the scorched stone. Beside it, his battle axe rested, its obsidian surface dull and lifeless without his touch. He reached down, his new, Pyronox-forged arm moving with an unfamiliar grace, and gripped the haft. The wood felt cold.
Then, he began to walk towards Tingle. He didn't lift the axe, didn't shift into his godform. He just walked, a lone, battered dwarf, dragging the heavy, obsidian blade behind him. The sound of it scraping against the stone floor echoed eerily through the silent, vast coliseum, a mournful, grating dirge that seemed to fill the emptiness left by the screams and explosions.
Tingle watched him approach, his small face a mask of confusion and dawning apprehension. As Zeroth drew closer, the gnome took a few hesitant steps backward, his hand instinctively sliding towards the gunblade's trigger. His mouth opened, as if to speak, to question. But before any words could form, Zeroth, now just a few feet away, met Tingle's gaze. And in his own tired, sorrow-filled blue eyes, there was no malice, no threat. Instead, he offered the smallest, almost imperceptible, sly wink.
Then, he leaned in, his voice a low, raspy whisper, meant only for the gnome's ears, lost to the distant, uncaring gods. "Tingle," he murmured, the sound raw with unspoken grief. "If… if something happens to me… if you can… bring Ardric back. Please. Find a way."
Zeroth stepped back, the weight of his words, his desperate plea, hanging heavy in the air between him and the stunned gnome. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his battle axe high above his head, the obsidian blade catching the eerie light of the coliseum, poised as if to bring it crashing down upon his friend.
Tingle flinched violently, a small, terrified yelp escaping his lips as he stumbled backward, bracing for an impact that felt inevitable.
But the blow never landed.
Zeroth held the axe there for a long, tense moment, his muscles straining, his face a mask of grim resolve. Then, with a sudden, almost anticlimactic movement, he stopped. He lowered the axe, not to strike, but to swing it around and, with a surprisingly casual shrug, lock it firmly onto the holster on his back.
"I QUIT!" he bellowed, his voice, though tired and raspy, echoing with an undeniable finality that cut through the oppressive silence of the coliseum.
The reaction was immediate and furious.
"THAT'S NOT ALLOWED!" Delores's voice shrieked from high above, no longer amused, but laced with genuine, outraged surprise.
Simultaneously, Vulcanix's furious roar boomed from the stands, a wave of incandescent rage that washed over the arena. "DWARF! YOU DARE?! YOU CANNOT SIMPLY—"
Zeroth turned slowly, his one good arm and his new, Pyronox-forged limb hanging loosely at his sides. He faced the direction of the enraged voices, his gaze sweeping from Delores's distant, sputtering form to Vulcanix's furiously blazing figure, and finally, to the silent, watching throne of Aeonis. He let out a long, exaggerated groan, the sound dripping with utter exhaustion and defiance.
"Oh, here we go," he muttered, loud enough for those closest to hear. Then, raising his voice, he addressed the sputtering lich and the raging fire god. "Others have quit before! Aunrae did it! You trying to tell me there are different rules for a dwarf than an elf? And if either of you seriously have a problem with it," he continued, a dangerous glint returning to his eyes despite his weariness, "then by all means, come on down here. We can solve it. Physically."
Delores, high above, actually began to visibly amass power, streaks of violet energy crackling around her small form, her face contorted in a rare display of genuine fury. Vulcanix looked ready to incinerate the entire coliseum.
But before either could act, before the fragile peace of the Godswar could shatter completely, Aeonis moved.
One moment, the Prime God was a distant, colossal figure on his throne. The next, with a silent, almost imperceptible shift in reality, he was there. Still unbelievably massive, his ethereal form radiating an ancient, unassailable authority, but now standing directly on the arena floor, a silent, glowing mountain between Zeroth and the enraged deities. He held up his hands, a simple gesture that nevertheless carried the weight of cosmic law, halting Delores's gathering spell and Vulcanix's incandescent fury in their tracks.
"Enough," Aeonis's voice resonated, calm yet absolute, a pronouncement that allowed no argument. "Champion Zeroth Velkyrr speaks true. It is the right of any champion to acknowledge their defeat, to yield when the will to fight is extinguished. The rules, while allowing for bloodshed and triumph, also allow for surrender."
His gaze, like twin swirling galaxies, turned from the fuming deities towards Zeroth, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Then, he turned towards the small, stunned gnome who was still trying to process the whirlwind of events.
"Tingle," Aeonis declared, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, yet still echoing with divine power. "By the laws of this Godswar, by the yielding of your final opponent, you are declared the victor of this trial."
He paused, allowing the pronouncement to sink in. "As the victor, you are entitled to a request. Within the bounds of reason, within the confines of what is possible without unmaking reality itself, you may ask for what you will. Any outcome related to this conflict, nearly any reward. Speak, mortal champion. What is it that you desire?"
Tingle looked down at his soot-stained boots, his small shoulders hunched as he visibly wrestled with the weight of Aeonis's offer. The vast, silent coliseum seemed to hold its breath, awaiting his decision.
As Zeroth watched the gnome, a familiar, faint blue shimmer appeared in his peripheral vision. Grimbli's spectral form solidified, the ancient dwarf's translucent features etched with a complex mixture of sorrow and a hesitant, almost proud, relief. He floated slowly towards Zeroth, his star-speckled beard swaying.
"Lad…" Grimbli began, his voice raspy with an emotion Zeroth hadn't heard from him before. "I… I am so deeply sorry. For Ardric. For Pyronox. For all you've endured in such a cursedly short time." His spectral hands clenched. "It near tore my essence apart, watching, unable to directly lift a finger to help. Trapped."
Zeroth slowly shook his head, the movement heavy with unspoken grief. He held up a hand, palm out, forestalling any further apologies. The image of Ardric's lifeless body, Tingle desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood and divine light, flashed vivid and agonizing in his mind once more. He swallowed hard.
"Hopefully…" Zeroth muttered, his voice thick, "hopefully things can get fixed now."
Grimbli nodded, his gaze shifting towards the small, still-contemplating gnome. "Aye. It's up to the little one now. He holds the power to reshape this moment, at least."
They both turned their attention to Tingle, who finally straightened up, his small frame seeming to hold an unexpected weight of resolve. He cleared his throat, the sound surprisingly loud in the expectant silence, and looked up at the colossal, patient form of Aeonis.
"Great Aeonis," Tingle began, his voice clear and surprisingly steady, though tinged with a lingering sorrow. "First… first and foremost… Tingle wants Ardric back. Alive. Whole." He paused, taking a shaky breath, his gaze flicking momentarily to where his friend had fallen. "And then… Thalamar. Archmage Thalamar. Tingle wants him restored. Tingle wants Vaelthore Everbound to remember who he truly is and to be free."
Aeonis stared down at the gnome, his calm, galaxy-filled eyes seeming to search Tingle's entire being, weighing his requests. The silence stretched, taut and heavy. Zeroth held his breath.
Then, a sound rippled from the Prime God, something utterly unexpected: a slight, almost imperceptible chuckle, a sound like distant stars colliding softly. "Ardric's return is a simple matter, little champion. A soul so recently departed, and one of such valor, is easily recalled."
Aeonis paused, and a hint of something that might have been divine amusement touched his ethereal features. "As for Vaelthore… it seems he was already ahead of you in part of that regard, little one. The threads of his past were reweaving themselves even before your victory." He let out another soft chuckle, muttering almost to himself, "Only my champion could find a way to circumvent my own divine edicts through sheer, stubborn will and the unpredictable currents of mortal love."
A faint, almost gentle smile touched Aeonis's lipless maw as he looked down at Tingle, then shifted his gaze to include Zeroth and the spectral Grimbli. "Your requests are granted."
With that, Aeonis snapped his fingers.
The sound, though impossibly small from such a colossal being, resonated through the coliseum like the cracking of creation itself. A blinding, pure white light erupted, enveloping everything, washing away the blood, the shadows, the sorrow, in its incandescent, overwhelming brilliance. A powerful, yet not destructive, wave of pure, untainted energy surged outwards.
When Zeroth reopened his eyes, blinking against the lingering afterimage, Aeonis was gone. The throne of starlight was empty. The coliseum felt… lighter. Cleaner.
Then, he heard it. A voice, weak, confused, but achingly familiar, calling his name.
"Zeroth…? Is that… is that you, brother?"
His legs nearly buckled. He heard grunts of effort, the sound of unsteady steps on stone. Slowly, almost afraid of what he might see, Zeroth turned.
Varic, looking utterly drained but upright, was half-supporting, half-dragging Ardric towards him. His brother was pale, his armor still battered and stained, but his eyes were open. He was alive. Moving. Breathing.
Zeroth just stared, his own breath catching in his throat, as they slowly, painfully, approached.
The world narrowed to that single, impossible sight: Ardric, alive. Zeroth didn't think, didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, his own aches and pains momentarily forgotten, and pulled both his brother and Varic into a crushing, desperate hug. Relief, so potent it was almost painful, flooded through him, making his knees weak. He buried his face in Ardric's battered shoulder, the scent of sweat, blood, and his brother's familiar presence an anchor in the swirling chaos of his emotions.
"You're… you're okay," Zeroth choked out, his voice thick.
Ardric managed a weak chuckle, patting Zeroth's back with a trembling hand. "Aye, brother. Thanks to Tingle, it seems. And you… you look like you've been through the forge itself."
But the moment of reunion was shattered. A roar of incandescent fury ripped through the coliseum, followed by the sound of something massive impacting the arena floor nearby. A cloud of dust and debris erupted, and when it cleared, Vulcanix stood there, his molten form flaring with nearly uncontrolled rage, his empty eye sockets burning with a terrifying intensity as he glared at Zeroth.
Zeroth sighed, a weary sound that barely carried over Vulcanix's simmering fury. He gently released Ardric and Varic, turning to face the enraged deity. "Right," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Now it's time to fix the hothead. Got an idea for this one."
He offered Tingle, Ardric, and Varic a tight, almost manic grin, then stepped away from them, his gaze fixed on the fuming god. He began to walk towards Vulcanix, who was already bellowing, his voice a torrent of divine wrath.
"DWARF! YOU INSOLENT, PATHETIC WORM! YOU THREW IT AWAY! MY VICTORY! OUR POWER! I'LL DRAG YOUR WORTHLESS HIDE TO MY REALM AND CHAIN YOU AS A PET FOR THE NEXT THOUSAND YEARS! YOU WILL RUE THE DAY YOU—"
Zeroth dragged a hand across his face, through his ash-streaked beard, utterly tired of the god's incessant, arrogant posturing. He just kept walking, closing the distance.
When he was just a few feet from the raging Vulcanix, Zeroth stopped. He took a deep breath, and then, with a will born of grief, desperation, and a sudden, reckless clarity, he unleashed the power within him. Not Vulcanix's power, not Pyronox's, but his version. His godform erupted around him, lava-streaked flesh over dwarven bone, his new obsidian arm thrumming with contained heat, his height swelling to match Vulcanix's towering stature.
Vulcanix, mid-rant, actually faltered, his fiery jaw snapping shut as he stared at the transformed dwarf. "WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE FORGE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE—"
Zeroth didn't let him finish. With a guttural roar that was entirely his own, he swung. His massive, Pyronox-forged fist, wreathed in crimson and gold fire, connected squarely with Vulcanix's skeletal jaw.
CRACK!
The sound was like a mountain splitting. Vulcanix, the god of lava and metalworking, the Emberheart himself, went sprawling, his colossal form tumbling a good fifteen feet through the air before crashing heavily onto the arena floor, sending another cloud of dust and debris billowing outwards.
Zeroth threw his head back and let out a wild, unrestrained yell, a sound of pure, cathartic release. "HA! GODS, THAT FELT AMAZING! FINALLY SHUT HIM UP FOR A SECOND!"
Before the dust even settled, Delores, who had been hovering discreetly nearby, a silent, amused observer, zipped down with surprising speed. She landed lightly beside Vulcanix's downed form, her tiny, four-foot frame looking utterly absurd as she peered down at the groaning, eighteen-foot-tall deity. Zeroth couldn't help but note the oddity of the scene, the diminutive lich attempting to assess the damage to a god she barely reached the knee of.
Vulcanix pushed himself up onto one elbow, his flaming skull swiveling towards Zeroth, his eye sockets blazing with murderous intent. "I AM GOING TO DISINTEGRATE YOU, DWARF! I WILL UNMAKE YOUR VERY—"
"JUST STOP!" Zeroth shouted, cutting him off, his own voice booming with newfound confidence, though tinged with an undercurrent of desperate hope. He held both his hands out, palms open, a gesture of peace, or at least, a plea for a ceasefire. "Just… stop yelling and listen for a damn minute! I have an idea! And it might… it might just be what you actually want." He thought of Grimbli's words, of Thalamar's pained confession. He thought of a lost goddess, of a love absorbed and a grief that had festered for a thousand years. He thought of Aenara.
Vulcanix, propped up by a surprisingly gentle Delores, was still radiating waves of pure, murderous fury, his skeletal jaw set in a silent snarl. But Zeroth's desperate plea, the raw conviction in his voice, seemed to give the enraged god a fractional pause.
Zeroth didn't waste it. He closed his eyes, shutting out the stunned silence of the coliseum, the worried gazes of his friends, the smoldering glare of the god he had just punched. He reached inward, not just to the power Vulcanix had once forced upon him, or the essence Pyronox had gifted, but deeper, to the very core of the divine fire that now resided within his soul. He let his mind link with it, with all of it, allowing the raw, untamed energy to coalesce, to reshape itself not into destructive force, but into something else: memories. Visions.
He gasped as the torrent began, not of pain this time, but of overwhelming sensation. He saw Vulcanix as he once was, the Emberheart. A being of creation as much as destruction, his forge a cradle of innovation, his hands shaping wonders from raw starlight and cosmic dust. The sheer proximity to Vulcanix, the raw, unshielded state of the god after the blow, it was creating a stronger link, a clearer window into a past locked away even from Vulcanix's own conscious thought, buried under centuries of rage and grief.
Memories flashed through his mind, not his own, but Vulcanix's, like flipping rapidly through the scorched pages of an ancient, forgotten tome. Forges burning with a clean, white light. Laughter, deep and resonant, echoing in vast, star-dusted halls. Hands, molten but gentle, intertwining with others, equally divine, yet different…
Then, amidst the chaotic flood, he felt it. Something new. Something that wasn't Vulcanix, wasn't Pyronox, wasn't even himself. It was a gentle presence, calming, almost sorrowful, yet imbued with an incredible, resilient strength. It wasn't guiding him through Vulcanix's memories; it seemed to be a part of them, a forgotten melody in a raging inferno, and now, it was reaching out, offering to guide him.
With a shuddering breath that felt like it was drawn from the dawn of time, Zeroth let go of his own searching, his own desperate sifting. He allowed this new, unexpected essence to take the lead, to guide his mind, his will, his very being.
And the power began to flow out.
Not outwards in a destructive blast, but gently, steadily, like a river returning to the sea. It poured from his godform, from the very core of his being, a torrent of incandescent energy. He felt himself shrinking, his divine form receding, but the power wasn't diminishing; it was being transferred, redirected. It pooled on the scorched stone floor between him and Vulcanix's now utterly shocked, silent form, a roiling, incandescent mass of pure, divine potential.
Ardric, Tingle, and Varic cried out, shielding their faces as the heat and light emanating from the growing mass became almost unbearable. They grunted with effort, bracing themselves against the sheer, overwhelming pressure of the energy Zeroth was now channeling.
Zeroth felt himself nearing his limit, his dwarven form almost fully restored, the last vestiges of his god-power pouring into the incandescent sphere on the ground. The glowing mass, now vast and thrumming with an ancient, resonant hum, began to rumble. It flared, pulsing in and out with an impossibly bright, silvery-white light, so different from Vulcanix's harsh crimson. Slowly, agonizingly, the form began to take shape, to stretch, to solidify. It grew, rising from the ground, proportional to Vulcanix in height, easily eighteen feet tall.
His own eyes still closed, Zeroth could feel the last of the borrowed power leave him. He swayed, utterly drained, his new obsidian arm the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. Then, with a final, shuddering gasp, he opened his eyes.
He stared.
The being before him, wreathed in a soft, silvery-white light that pulsed with the gentle rhythm of a heartbeat, was undeniably divine, impossibly powerful. But it was… not masculine. Not like Vulcanix. This was something else entirely. Graceful, strong, her form shaped from what looked like burnished silver and flowing starlight, her eyes like twin moons, radiating a gentle, ancient wisdom.
The last of the divine energy left Zeroth, and his legs buckled. He collapsed to his knees, his vision swimming, the new obsidian arm the only thing propping him up, preventing him from falling face-first into the scorched sand. He was utterly, profoundly drained, every fiber of his being aching with an exhaustion that went beyond the physical. Ardric, Varic, and Tingle rushed to his side, their faces etched with worry and awe. Tingle, small but surprisingly strong, wedged himself under Zeroth's good arm, while Ardric and Varic flanked him, their hands steadying his trembling frame.
Across the small space separating them, Vulcanix, still sprawled on the ground where Zeroth's punch had sent him, stared at the newly formed goddess. His molten body trembled, not with rage, but with something akin to disbelief, to a dawning, impossible hope. A single, choked whisper escaped his lipless maw, a name lost for a millennium.
"Aenara…?"
The blinding, silvery-white light that had wreathed the goddess began to recede, like mist burning off at dawn. As it faded, Zeroth finally saw her clearly. Her hair was long, the color of moonlight on freshly forged silver, and it seemed to flow and shimmer with a soft, internal glow, like embers gently breathing. It framed a face that was both strong and gentle, with high cheekbones, a soft jawline, and vivid, intelligent orange eyes that seemed to hold the warmth of a dying star. Her skin was a light, burnished bronze, smooth and unblemished. She was beautiful, in a way that transcended mortal understanding, a goddess of craft and creation made manifest.
Zeroth just stared, speechless.
Vulcanix began to move. Slowly, painfully, he crawled towards her, his massive, skeletal form scraping against the stone. The raging inferno that usually engulfed him seemed to dim, to recede into the core of his being, leaving behind a stark, almost vulnerable framework of molten bone and shadow.
Delores, who had been standing near where Vulcanix had fallen, looked utterly dumbfounded, her usual amused composure completely shattered. Her lips moved silently, forming words Zeroth couldn't hear but could easily guess: "Aenara… But she was… gone… forever…"
Aenara's gaze, soft and filled with an ancient sorrow, met Zeroth's. A gentle smile touched her lips. "Thank you, champion," she said, her voice like the chiming of a perfectly forged bell. "For everything. I've got this from here."
Then, she turned to face the crawling, diminished form of Vulcanix. As her eyes fell upon him, truly taking in his spiked, skeletal visage for the first time, she took a small, shocked step backward. Her beautiful face, so recently serene, crumpled with a sudden, overwhelming grief. A single, silvery tear traced a path down her bronze cheek.
She sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. "Oh, Vulcanix…" she whispered, her voice laced with an unbearable sadness. "How… how did all this happen? How did you fall so far?"
Vulcanix reached her, his molten, skeletal hand resting near her silver-shod foot. His voice, when he finally spoke, was no longer a roar of divine fury, but a broken, gravelly rasp, filled with a pain that transcended time. "When I lost you… Aenara… I did what I had to. To save what I could of you. To keep your essence from fading completely." He paused, his flaming skull bowed. "And then… then they sealed me away. For a thousand years. Alone. With only my rage… and your fading echo."
Aenara tsked softly, a sound of gentle reproof. She knelt, her silver robes pooling around her, and looked Vulcanix directly in his burning eye sockets. She laid a hand, surprisingly firm, on one of his spiked, obsidian pauldrons. "You did rather deserve it at first, my love," she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "For your ambition, for the chaos you unleashed." Her expression softened further. "But perhaps… perhaps you've suffered more than enough. Perhaps it's time for that suffering to end."
She then reached out, her slender, silver fingers gently taking his massive, skeletal head in her hands. She looked deep into the infernal light of his eyes. "But this form…" she murmured, a hint of her old, teasing warmth returning to her voice. "I am really not a fan of this, my dear Emberheart. And before I even think about kissing you after all this time… could you please, please go back to how I remember you?"
A beat of silence. Then, everyone had to shield their faces as another wave of intense energy, this time a blinding fusion of crimson fire and silvery moonlight, enveloped the two deities. It wasn't destructive, but transformative, a reshaping of divine essence.
When the light finally faded, Zeroth, blinking against the lingering spots in his vision, stared in utter, slack-jawed shock. So did everyone else.
Vulcanix was… changed. Gone was the terrifying, skeletal monstrosity. In its place stood a god, yes, still wreathed in fire, still undeniably powerful, but… different. His form was no longer jagged and spiked, but smooth, his armor now of perfectly forged, interlocking plates of obsidian and dark, gleaming metal, without the grotesque spikes. And his head… it was no longer a flaming skull. Like Zeroth's own brief, controlled godform, Vulcanix now possessed distinct facial features, crafted from living flame. Sharp, angular cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a surprisingly neat, trimmed goatee, all burning with a controlled, crimson intensity. His long, fiery hair, the color of a dying sun, was pulled back neatly from his face, revealing pointed, almost elven ears.
He looked… regal. Powerful, yes, but also… civilized. Almost handsome, in a terrifying, fiery god sort of way.
Zeroth just gaped. Ardric, Varic, and Tingle looked equally stunned. This was Vulcanix? The raging, tyrannical Emberheart? It was almost impossible to reconcile this composed, almost noble figure with the monstrous being they had come to know and fear.