After a brief respite in the halls of convalescence, Era found herself back on her feet, adhering to a rigid regimen. Her purpose had never been clearer. The weeks spent bedridden, trapped with only her thoughts for company—aside from Geoffrey's evening visits—had led to a stark realisation. Beira's riddle had been no mere diversion; it was a map, an intricate cipher guiding her toward the trials she must face. Each line, each cryptic phrase had unraveled into something tangible. Now, she knew the names of those who would stand against her:
Phoros, the God of Greed and Ambition: a face she'd rather not see again.
Thalor, the God of War and Valour: whom she had been warned against, thanks to the small issue of murdering his champion.
Kaelith, the God of Chaos and Flames: once thought to be her best shot, though after her first trial, her opinion had shifted.
And the fourth, unnamed—only known as the God of Speed.
Should she trust Beira? A masked enigma she had encountered once? Ordinarily Era was a firm believer in stranger danger but-
She had no choice.
Beira had spoken a truth; Phoros had been her first adversary. That alone lent weight to her words. Besides Era enjoyed the thought of an ally among the Realm of Gods. Still, her next opponent remained elusive, at least to H.V.N.'s records. But Era had a sinking feeling she had already met her challenger.
It had to be Zyra.
The sadistic goddess who had all but vowed to rip her limb from limb. If Zyra was crafting her next trial, it wouldn't be a test. It would be a slaughter.
That was a problem for several reasons.
First, Zyra would most likely seize the opportunity to kill her—only for Era to be resurrected and plunged into a fate worse than death, having lost the bet.
Second, even if Zyra offered a fair trial (however slim the chance), Era doubted she would receive the goddess's blessing. After her first trial, she had learned that passing only secured her life—not a contract. That was up to the god's discretion. The key to earning their favour, it seemed, was appealing to their domain. Phoros had rejected her for failing to display greed or ambition. But how was she meant to appeal to speed?
Even if she survived, she would likely return empty-handed.
And that led to problem three—her next challengers.
Thalor had every reason to despise her. His very participation in this game reeked of vengeance for Peter's death. He would ensure she never passed. As for Kaelith, he might be her best shot at securing a contract, but she had to reach his trial first.
No matter how she looked at it, she was screwed.
Her chances were next to naught. Honestly, it seemed pointless to try; she couldn't do nothing either. If she was going to die, let it be after giving it her all. At least then, her conscience would be clear.
So, every time exhaustion threatened to overtake her, the memory of Zyra's wicked stare and the weight of her guilt compelled her back to her feet. Each morning, she strengthened her body, building endurance until her muscles burned. Afternoons were spent honing the craft of the dagger Silas had restored, turning it in her hands until it felt like an extension of herself. And in the evenings, she sat before the fire, pouring over ancient tomes with Geoffrey, seeking knowledge of the gods.
And then—nothing.
Six months passed. No summons. No sign of Zyra's machinations. Just silence.
But Era knew better than to think she had been forgotten. Zyra was playing the long game, savouring the tension, feeding off the uncertainty. Perhaps she would wait until Era was old and withered before calling her forward. That sort of cruelty suited her.
Meanwhile, the world within H.V.N. festered with its own troubles. The agency was fracturing. The Illuminati grew bolder with each raid, their power swelling. Fear took root among the people, and where fear spread, blame followed.
And, to be fair, Era was to blame.
At first, she ignored H.V.N.'s affairs, focusing solely on her training. But hearing of members perishing or disappearing was sobering. As the days dragged on, guilt festered. The weight on her shoulders grew heavier. It was an odd feeling. Era knew Zyra's summon would mark her death, the thought was as appealing as cheese in a trap, yet she yearned for it to come sooner. She had set these events in motion. Now, she was sitting idly by, watching the consequences of her actions unfold.
Still, Zyra's summons never came.
Perhaps that was her plan—to whittle away at Era's resolve- it was working.
-------------------
The cafeteria was as cold as the rest of H.V.N. these days.
Era stepped inside, her stomach twisting at the hushed murmurs that followed her. The scrape of chairs against linoleum, the shifting of eyes that refused to meet hers directly, the weight of whispers curling around the edges of her hearing. She was an outsider within her own ranks. No one said it outright, but she could feel it—resentment, distrust, fear. As if her very presence had tainted the air.
Sheesh, icy Era thought feebly.
She moved through the rows of tables, her tray in hand, ignoring the cold glances thrown her way. The meal was forgettable—some bland ration of bread and stew. She would retreat to her room, eat alone and leave the others to enjoy their supper in peace ( like a loser.)
Then she saw her.
Mira, the women who had first guided her through this all, sitting alone in the far right. Era had not seen Mira since she had led her to the chairman's office before her first trial, and although she hadn't been particularly friendly, Era oddly enjoyed her company.
Era sat down beside her.
Mira glanced up. Dark circles under her eyes. Red, puffy lids. A heaviness clinging to her like a second skin- she looked exhausted.
"Ah. Curse-bringer," Mira muttered. "Nowhere else to sit?"
Era flushed. "No."
Mira sighed, rubbing at her temple. "Well, I'm afraid I'm not in the mood for company."
There was an unusual softness to her voice—rare, raw.
Era hesitated, then asked carefully, "Is everything okay?"
Mira let out a breath, slow and heavy. " Danny died this morning."
Era choked on her food, nearly sending a spoonful flying. "What?! But, he's an archangel!"
"He was," Mira corrected bitterly. "The Illuminati unveiled a new weapon this week—one that drains ichor. He was found with a sword through his chest, completely void." She paused, staring at the table. "He was ambushed. Never stood a chance."
Era felt the words hit her like a punch. Danny. Gone.
A heavy silence settled between them, pressing down like a weight on Era's chest.
Danny. Dead.
Her fingers clenched around her spoon, but she couldn't bring herself to take another bite. Instead, she swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Guilt crept in, slow and insidious. She hadn't particularly liked Danny. He was loud, overconfident, annoying. She'd dismissed him, snapped at him. But he didn't deserve this.
He was supposed to be an archangel. A warrior. Not someone who could just die.
The agency were loosing their best fighters.
Era forced herself to look at Mira again. She was still staring at the table, fingers curled into a fist. She looked tired. Broken in a way that Era didn't know how to fix. And she should say something. She should tell Mira she was sorry, that Danny was a good fighter, that he didn't deserve to go out like this. But all Era could think about was how this was her fault, she didn't deserve to offer support. His blood was on her hands.
The words wouldn't come.
So she stood.
Mira barely reacted, just flicked her tired gaze up as Era muttered, "I need to go."
Then, without another word, she walked out. Her steps quickened as she made her way through the winding halls, her pulse hammering in her ears. She needed to move. To do something. To burn off the restless energy clawing at her insides. By the time she reached the training room, her hands were already shaking .She grabbed a blade from the rack, tightened her grip, and forced herself to breathe.
Then she started swinging.
-------------------------
The ceiling blurred in and out of focus as Era lay motionless on the stiff mattress, her arms sprawled at her sides. Sleep refused to come. It wasn't that Era missed Danny - she hardly knew him, and what she did know annoyed her, but he was always willing to help her out.
Except now he wasn't, couldn't.
Her chest ached, heavy with guilt and something uglier—anger. Not just at herself, but at everything. The Illuminati, the war, the gods who sat on their thrones and watched. What was the point of all this? Why give mortals power if they were just going to be torn apart by it? Why bless people of opposing teams? Why bless at all?
She exhaled sharply, trying to force the thoughts away. It wasn't like she could do anything about it now.
But then—
A strange sensation washed over her. A weightless pull, like something was unspooling from her chest, yanking her toward some unseen force. Her breath hitched. She knew this feeling. Her soul was being summoned. Her fingers twitched instinctively toward the dagger beneath her pillow. She didn't hesitate. In one swift movement, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt and sat up, her pulse steady despite the adrenaline humming beneath her skin.
Finally.
If this was Zyra calling her, then death was knocking at her door.
Good.
Era had plenty to say and even more emotions to brandish before she fell.
She adjusted her grip on the dagger and let the pull take her, her body fading into the void.
This time, she wasn't afraid.
This time, she welcomed it.
--------------
Era hit the ground hard. The black marble beneath her was unnervingly smooth, stretching endlessly toward the horizon—a floating platform suspended over a churning, storm-torn abyss. There were no walls. No safety. Just open sky and the crushing weight of something vast and unseen pressing down on her. The wind lashed against her, tearing at her clothes, biting at her skin like it wanted to strip her down to nothing. It howled in her ears, whispering warnings she refused to heed. Every instinct told her to run, to find cover, to flee.
At the far end of the podium stood Zyra. Era had been right, her next challenger was indeed her. This was it.
The goddess stood utterly untouched by the storm. She didn't brace against the wind. She didn't even acknowledge it. It moved around her, through her, like it didn't dare touch her without permission. Her dark hair lifted in slow, lazy waves, shifting like it was an extension of the world itself. She was stillness in the chaos. Absolute. Unshaken.
Era clenched her jaw. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger. She swallowed the fear clawing at her throat.
This was it.
Then, Zyra finally spoke. "Really?" The single word cut through the storm as if the very air bent to her voice.
Era stiffened.
Zyra's gaze flicked to the dagger in her hand. A slow, humourless smirk curled her lips."That's your plan? A blade?" She laughed—soft at first, then rising into something cold, something cruel, something that rattled inside Era's chest like breaking glass. "How... quaint."
Era's grip tightened, but Zyra wasn't finished. Her violet eyes gleamed, a predator's amusement flickering behind them.
"Tell me, mortal—" The goddess cocked her head slightly, like she was inspecting something fragile, something already broken. "What exactly were you hoping to accomplish?"
Era didn't answer. Couldn't.
Zyra took a slow step forward.
"Did you think I'd brought you here to fight me?" Another step. "Did you think you would win?" Another. "Or did you come here to die?"
Era's heart pounded. She refused to step back, refused to give ground. She wouldn't. She couldn't. So instead, she lifted her chin and forced the words out, even as her voice shook.
"Let's just get on with it."
She didn't care she would loose. if Zyra wanted to rip her apart, she would have to work for it. To her dying breath, Era would be an inconvenience. She would make sure she had drained away any drop of satisfaction Zyra hoped to achieve from torturing her like a plaything.
For the first time, Zyra's expression shifted. The amusement and mocking in her eyes flickered, giving way to something colder, more sinister. And then—she smiled. The curves of her lips digging deeply into her cheeks.
No signal. No warning.
The winds around them shifted, and suddenly Era wasn't standing anymore.
A crushing force slammed into her chest, sending her hurtling backward with the power of a hurricane. The impact was deafening—thunder cracking through her bones, air ripped from her lungs. Her feet skidded against the marble, but it was useless. The storm was dragging her, pulling her, throwing her toward the edge.
No. No, no, no. Not like this.
She tried to dig her heels in, to resist, but the force was too strong. Her body was weightless, her limbs flailing, her breath strangled by the sheer pressure swallowing her whole.
And Zyra—Zyra still hadn't moved.
Era gasped, fought, forced herself upright with sheer willpower. The dagger was still in her grip, her only lifeline, her only chance. The storm raged, the platform blurred, but she kept moving.
She had to reach Zyra.
She wasn't thinking beyond that. She wasn't thinking at all.
Closer.
She pushed forward, her muscles
screaming, her lungs burning.
Closer.
One more step. One more breath.
And then Zyra raised a single finger.
With the laziest flick of her wrist—
Era's dagger disintegrated.
Not shattered. Not deflected. Just… gone.
Dust trickled between her fingers and was swept away by the wind. Era's breath caught. She stared, hands still outstretched, fingers still curled around empty air. Her brain struggled to catch up.It couldn't be real.
She turned to Zyra, heart pounding. The goddess regarded her with an expression so blank, so utterly indifferent, it chilled her worse than the storm.
"Did you really think…" Zyra exhaled the words slowly, deliberately, like she was savouring them. "Did you really think you had a chance?"
She wasn't mocking. She was genuinely asking.
The question struck Era harder than the wind, harder than the storm. Her stomach twisted. Her resolve cracked.
Of course she hadn't had a chance.
It was arrogance. It was delusion. Let alone challenge Zyra, she had failed to even be a pest. To irritate her. To be a minor inconvenience, for even a minute.
She was nothing.
The weight of it crushed her. Her limbs felt heavy. Her fingers trembled as they dropped to her sides, empty and useless.
Zyra let out a sharp, delighted laugh—one that sliced into Era's chest like a blade.
"Oh, mortal," she purred, circling Era like a beast toying with its prey. "You do amuse me." Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "Don't be embarrassed."
Era didn't move. She couldn't.
" Have you accepted you end mortal? Do you desire death" she whispered into Era's ear, the words echoing through her mind. Era didn't acknowledge her words.
For the first time, Era didn't resist. She didn't brace for another attack. Didn't even lift her head. The fight had left her. It should have terrified her, this feeling—this quiet, creeping resignation—but instead, it settled in her chest like something inevitable. Something she had known all along.
There was never another outcome.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. She exhaled slowly, letting the wind steal the breath from her lips.
Zyra's smile widened.
"Good," the goddess purred. "Then let's end this."
Era's eyes fluttered shut.
Zyra's laughter exploded through the storm like a crack of thunder—wild, sharp, merciless. It wasn't just amusement. It was something twisted, something ravenous.
Era's eyes snapped open.
Zyra howled, throwing her head back, gripping her stomach as if she might fall apart from sheer delight. The sound was jagged, raw, like nails dragging across stone. "Oh, that was pathetic!" she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "That was all it took? for you to roll over like a dog!"
" I have seen your soul now, mortal. And it's as expected. Pathetic."
Era clenched her jaw, biting back the furious retort bubbling inside her. Zyra noticed.
And it only made her laugh harder.
"Oh, are you mad?" she sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. "Are you embarrassed? What are you going to do about it, mortal"
Era's nails scraped against the marble. Hate. It clawed up her throat, curled in her gut, set her blood on fire. Zyra smirked. She felt it. She loved it.
" You don't deserve death. You don't deserve to die by my hands. You are my dog, my slave and you will do my bidding"
"I have a problem, dog"
"There's a creature I wounded years ago," Zyra mused, as if discussing the weather. "A beast that refuses to die. Somehow, it's still hanging on. Much like you." Her eyes gleamed. "I want you to finish the job."
Era's lips parted, but no words came. Is this how far she had fallen? Not deserving of death, not deserving of peace.
"It has my sword embedded in its side," Zyra continued, amusement curling around her words like poison. "All you have to do is end it."
She leaned down again, just enough for Era to see the gleam of sharp, inhuman teeth behind her smirk.
"Oh, you're not done falling yet."
Era didn't get the chance to respond.
Because before she could so much as breathe—
The wind roared. And then she was falling.