The once immaculate white marble floor and walls of the Pantheon were now tainted with crimson and corpses. The Gods, who sat upon their gilded thrones, ‘guiding’ humanity, were dead. Even though the tiles were no longer their blinding, shimmering hue, there was still a brilliant white light coming from only God knows where that felt glaring to the mortal’s eyes, and only one God would know where the light originated. Arcturus, God of the Air, Sun, and Harvest. The King of Dragons. The man for whom their country of Arc was named. The one leaning against his throne. Its golden backrest, elegantly adorned with the depiction of the sun peeking through clouds to shine life giving light upon a field of wheat, was now stained as red as the setting sun. The worn face of the old God turned to look at his seat, before directing his attention back to the woman panting in the center of the Pantheon.

“I suppose this will be the dawning of a new age, won’t it, my Child?” The old man asked as he ran an ebony hand through his golden hair. Fixing the woman with a hard gaze from his pale gray eyes, his expression softened, as though he was to blame for this bloodshed. “When Ether told me of your birth, I was overjoyed. She whispered that you would bring about a time of change, a rebirth for humanity.” Arcturus’ gaze fell upon the broken bodies of his compatriots. Six. Six thrones now sat empty, and he was alone. The old god’s body flinched as the warrior delivered one final blow to the seizing head of Nocturnan, the now former God of Night and Stars.

What a dreadful necessity, violence. He wanted to hate this woman. Yet she reminded him too much of himself. His younger days, ripping this world free from the death grip of his kin. Their flesh and scales tearing under his talons as their thunderous roars rattled his eardrums. The sickeningly sweet taste and scent of copper flooding his senses. Only this time, the blood is his own. Arcturus glanced at the deep gash in his chest, made by a blade of the most pure and potent magic he’d ever seen conjured by any being. A disturbing realization ran down his spine. He’d never felt so cold. The old man gently sat on the steps in front of his throne.

“Before I go, my Child, may I know why you’ve done this?”

A grotesque squelch resounded through the room as the woman pried her gauntlet of pure, near translucent magic free of the pulverized skull of Nocturnan. As easy as breathing, the woman dispelled the gauntlet from around her hand. Her breath labored, she slowly climbed the stairs towards the old God, leaving bloody boot-prints with every step. Several steps below him, she kneeled and contorted herself, causing Arcturus’ body to almost glow at this. Her right knee was to the ground, to feel the cool, fertile soil. Her head was bowed, pressed against the thigh just above her knee to emulate the warmth of the sun. Lastly, she outstretched her arms, elbows bent inwards, palms facing each other and fingers splayed to represent the mighty Dragon’s wings from which the wind blew. A stance from which prayers and offerings were given to the old God.

“You offer prayer? You honor me, Child.” The bloodied warrior raised her head and lowered her arms, placing her forearms across her knee.

“Yours is the only life I will regret taking, Arcturus. It’s only fair I give you the respect you’re due.” A sad smile crosses the ladies’ face. “Oh, and please, your eminence, just call me Lydia.” Lydia raised her head to the God, so they were able to see each other’s features clearly without the whirlwind of battle. His smile only widened as he saw the scales that adorned her tanned complexion. Lining the outer part of her face, just above her cheekbones and ending before the hairline, were scales as midnight black as his.

“A kindred spirit indeed, it seems.” Arcturus chuckled as he waved for Lydia to have a seat beside him. Lydia hesitated at first, unsure of the God’s true intentions. “Easy, Chi-... Lydia. I’ve been in enough wars to know when I’ve lost.” He once again gestured at the spot next to him. “Come, answer my question and I will answer any you have. Well...” Arcturus once again glanced down at his chest. “As many as I have time for.” Lydia’s heels clicked against the last of the cold marble steps to seat herself next to the once thought infallible ‘God of Life’, as many of his followers called him.

“You want to know why I did this?” Lydia shot Arcturus a questioning look, and received an inquisitive nod, one much too relaxed and carefree for a man on death’s doorstep. Her eyes narrowed, directing her attention down to the bodies strewn about the room. “They were petty. Self-centered toddlers who used humanity to wage wars because one of their siblings bruised their fragile ego. We’re living beings, not just some play toys.” Resentment seeped from Lydia’s pores as the venom in her words stung the old man's already aching chest.

Arcturus sagely nodded his head at the young woman’s words. His kin had certainly not been without their faults, but it was also a piece of what made them who they were. Minor beings brought to life from pieces of Ether herself, without any guidance, into a world of charred, molten rock after the Dragon War. Told only that they were to help Arcturus turn this world into a home for many walks of life. Aquantios, conjuring the rains that would douse the fires of the earth and give birth to the oceans, lakes, and streams; and death to those who still clung to life when the floods came. Seros, the gentle girl who was the one that truly deserved the title of God of Harvest, having brought the enormous dragon the seeds of her first plants. He’d simply used his powerful wings to launch the seeds around the globe, sprouting new life all across the land. Flawed as they were, they helped create the ground humanity now stood upon. More than that... they were his closest companions. His children. Helping to create and grow. To Arcturus, if it was alive, it was kin.

“However...” Lydia’s words snapped his attention back to the present, only for Arcturus to become aware of the single tear running down his cheek. Her voice regained its smooth, even canter as she tried to ignore the pungent smell of iron that permeated the air. “I may be young, but I’m not a fool. I’m well aware we’re able to bring that destruction ourselves.” Lydia clenched her jaw, pretending she didn’t see the forlorn look on the old man’s face. “We just don’t need any help. You, however, never involved yourself in our affairs. A passive hand that allowed us to prosper and fail. To learn from our mistakes and grow from them, and applauded us when we finally got it right.” Arcturus left the streak of saltwater on his face and again nodded in agreement with his judge, jury, and executioner.

“Will you claim my throne? Guide your people towards a new future?” Lydia shook her head with a weak smile.

“No. I didn’t come here for Godhood. Living forever seems pretty miserable, outliving everyone I’ve come to care about. Besides, they’d never accept me. My magic goes against everything we know. Not to mention, I just toppled over our very way of life. I’ll probably be labeled a heretic. The only thing humanity hates more than something it doesn’t understand is something it can’t control. I’m both.” Lydia’s gaze fell to her feet. “I guess they don’t need me anymore, either.”

“The age of our usefulness is long over.” Arcturus said in a sure-footed tone, directed more at himself than Lydia. A long, uncomfortable silence filled the Pantheon, broken occasionally by the blood that dripped from the ceiling. “You know, I thought many times about returning to Ether. Giving her back the energy which I have so greedily held on to.” Arcturus lifted his gaze to Lydia’s face. His stare was intense, like he wasn’t looking at her features, but the very fiber of her being. “Yet every time, I saw the hope I inspired in all of you, your cultures, your traditions, dances, cuisine...” Another tear ran down his cheek, but his voice stayed as steady and calm as ever. A chuckle escaped his lips. “In the end, you’re correct again. My pride in knowing I had a hand in creating you, the pride of seeing everything you accomplished. The desire to see everything you can still do.” A heavy sigh left his chest as he dropped his head for the first time in a while to see the pool of his own life force had run its way down the red stained steps. The dying God leaned back against the arm of his throne and took a deep breath, savoring the warm summer air once last time. “Alright, my Child. When my blood reaches the fifteenth step, I will be gone. Ask me your questions. Make them count.”

Her heart ached for the old man. His once ebony skin now looked duller and duller as the seconds ticked by. A slight wheeze became noticeable for each breath he inhaled. “I...” Lydia was hesitant at first, but she knew it would eat her alive if she didn’t at least offer. “I could heal you.” A resigned grin spread across his face.

“Thank you, Lydia, but again. This is long overdue.”

Lydia looked down at the steps and counted which were already stained. Eleven. Only four remained untouched. “Will there be more like me? How will I know to find them?” Lydia watched in awe as the response to her question caused the last dragon’s eyes to glow with an eerie violet hue. Just as quickly as it came, it faded.

“Yes. Every two decades, another one of your kind will appear until a new Pantheon is founded. As for signs, not even the Marked will know until they manifest at the age of twenty. Just like yourself.” Lydia cursed under her breath and peeked towards the steps. Three remaining.

“You said we’re called Marked, marked by what?” Arcturus smiled weakly and raised his hand, tapping his forehead before dropping it by his side again.

 “The scales, young one. We are kin. Human bodies are incapable of handling the amount of magic we wield through Ether. So, you’ve had a piece of yourself removed and replaced with a dragon’s essence. That is what it means to be Marked. Our color scales may bring out defining traits, but they are not indicative of who we are.” Arcturus drew a weak, raspy breath, and looked to the murals upon the ceiling, which depicted his pantheon’s achievements throughout the hundreds of thousands of years. 

“What do they mean? What are the colors?” 

“Black, like us, are powerful and sophisticated. Blue, loyal, intelligent. Red, strong, but quick to anger. Purple, very magically adept, mysterious. Green, naturally lucky, excel at healing magic. Golds...” A terrifying revelation took hold. The God King wasn’t just telling old stories anymore. They could come back. The human visage that Arcturus had kept for a myriad of years began to falter. Some characteristics of his four-legged form bled through his human one. Primarily, the four deep scars running down the left side of his face that had also claimed his eye. Lydia scooted closer to the fading man and again turned her gaze to the stairs. The last step slowly turning crimson, she clasped his hand and asked for an answer in earnest.

“Arcturus, please, what about golds?!” The God quickly dropped Lydia’s hand and grabbed her by the collar of her breastplate armor. Any sign of the kind, benevolent man she met before was quickly replaced by a cold, calculating personality. The strength of his grip caused his fingers to curl in and dent the metal protecting Lydia’s collar bones. A shiver ran down her spine as the steel pressed firmly against her sternum. She never would have guessed the man was moments away from death if she hadn’t been there herself.

“The golds are dangerous. These scars are from an infant.” Harsh, labored breathing echoed through the Pantheon. Arcturus jerked Lydia to him so their faces were only inches apart from each other. The stench of dried blood and bile assaulted her senses. “Promise me you will pass this on to your kin before you die.” Lydia anxiously nodded her head, a new found fear gripping her chest.  

“If your kind produces a gold, kill them.”