June; 6 months after The Start of The End

A soft glow greeted The Stag as he left the tall grass, stepping into a large clearing. He beheld the opening in front of him for a moment, as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. His shredded clothes stuck to his body, held to him by the clotted blood from his wounds. Somehow he had avoided any vital damage in his fight with the beast, but the loss of blood still troubled him. His eyes fully adjusted The Stag stepped over a line of mushrooms, emerging into the remains of The Woodland Court.

All of the tension fled his body at once, and he sank to his knees in relief. He was home. The Stag closed his eyes and gripped the short grass of the clearing with his right hand, feeling his fingers dig into the rich earth. The night air was crisp, and the ground was soft beneath him. The soil was fertile and alive, though the flowers that had grown here had been replaced by mushrooms and monsters.

The Stag took a deep breath, then opened his eyes to gaze at the heavens. A dazzling array of colors danced in the cosmos, and he let himself get lost in its beauty. Before The Start of The End he would have had to travel great distances to see such a sky, but now the stars could always be seen. What made The Woods famous before The Burning was also what had made them beautiful; in a world where forests had destroyed the cities, this was the one place where the treetops parted.

Turning his attention back towards the ground, The Stag looked over the remains of his Court. The clearing was massive, creating a circle at least 100 yards in diameter. A layer of short grass coated the ground, painted blue by the light from above. Not a single plant grew higher than The Stag’s ankles within, kept short by some unseen force. Just outside The Court the treeline rose rapidly, kept back by a line of charred trunks. Scraps of tattered fabric hung where slivers of banner had escaped the flames, while a thick layer of moss climbed up the corpses of dead Firs.

Struggling to his feet, The Stag turned to look at the center of the clearing. Roughly one third of the way from the back edge stood the dais that held his throne. Atop it a seat of woven wood sat undisturbed, its branches bleached white with exposure. The Stag began moving across the clearing, taking care not to inflame his injuries. He finally reached the dais and began to mount the short stairway, each step heavy with exhaustion. The stairs creaked softly as the blackened wood struggled to bear his weight. The entire Court was coated in a layer of hardened ash, compacted in the months since the fires had been doused. The Stag reached the top of the platform and walked to his throne, placing a hand on its back as he reached it. The wood was cold underneath his grip, chilled by the night air.

Reaching out to the edge of the left armrest, The Stag lightly gripped a small bowl that had been placed there. He raised the bowl to his lips and drank the cool water within, collected from the rain and morning dew. The water was like ice along his throat, quenching the thirst that had been gnawing at him. Satisfied, he replaced the bowl at the edge of the armrest, before seating himself upon the throne. A wave of comfort rolled over him; outside the clearing The Dead Woods were dangerous, but nothing disturbed The Ashen Throne.

“You really should clean up first before sitting on that, you’re going to leave stains on it.”

A female voice rang out sardonically, and The Stag scowled. That was the third time that day he had been bothered by a voice in the dark, and he hadn’t enjoyed the first two encounters. A woman stepped into the clearing to The Stag’s left, shrouded in a dark cloak. Static built in the air, The Stag’s senses heightened, and the distinct aura of divine power filled The Court. The Stag sighed and rose to his feet. Reaching to the right armrest of the Throne he found the hidden holster, and pulled from it a small handgun. Straightening himself, he pointed the gun at the goddess who had been approaching the dais.

“To enter this realm is to declare war.” The Stag said “That doesn’t change ‘cause you’re a god.”

The goddess stopped before the stairs and pulled off her hood. A mass of curls framed her face, and The Stag spotted both a whip and sword strapped to her belt. She wore black jeans and a long sleeve shirt below her cloak, and simple black combat boots upon her feet. The attire was practical, lacking the opulence most gods shrouded themselves in.

“You’re in no condition to fight” The goddess said “And I have no interest to.”

“And yet you still came,” The stag adopted a weak fighting stance, and pulled the hammer of the pistol back “proving that interest irrelevant.”

The Goddess observed The Stag for a moment, then suddenly flew forward. Wings sprouted from her back as she did, carrying her to the dais. In two rapid movements she swatted away the gun pointed towards her, and pressed a hidden dagger against The Stag’s throat. Her eyes burned with insatiable retribution, while a light smell of apples touched the breeze.

“Your hubris will be the death of you.” The Goddess hissed “Just as it was the death of your kingdom.”

The Stag met her look of retribution with one of fury, responding in a low voice “Which god are you?”

The Goddess released The Stag and returned the dagger to her sleeve, stepping back as she did. Her demeanor calmed a bit, becoming almost aloof. “I am an affliction to all subject to death; I need no name beyond that.”

The Stag turned back to his throne and sat down, releasing a heavy sigh. “I’ve had enough of gods who speak in riddles. What is it you want?”

“You’ve been chasing a trail that never ends.” The Goddess looked over the court as she spoke, taking in what little remained “A trail that goes in circles. A great injustice was done here, and it’s never been punished. If you keep your hunt going it will remain that way.”

“The gods must be physically incapable of giving a straight answer, since none of you ever seems to say what you mean.”

The Goddess looked at The Stag again, with sympathy in her eyes. A slight smile touched her lips “Sometimes we’re not allowed to.”

She placed a hand on The Stag’s arm, and leaned down to look him in the eyes “You are burdened with a hunger for revenge, a hunger that I share. Your lands are due their vengeance, which will not come to you here. Find the place where three become one, and where the sun and moon are in balance. Only then will you get retribution”

The Goddess removed the dagger from her sleeve and placed it in The Stag’s Hand, before standing straight up in front of him. Before he could speak she leapt up, unfurling her wings to fly over the trees. The Stag sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back in the Ashen Throne in exhaustion.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Since The Start of The End the world has been filled with deities, belonging to countless pantheons. They are considered universally hazardous by the remnants of humanity, with many wielding untold power. Most dangerous of these are those who are unnamed - whether by a lack of a title or refusal to give it. By hiding their identity they entrap those they encounter, using a lack of knowledge to their advantage. Those unfortunate souls who encounter them have their stories carefully recorded and archived, if they are sane enough to recall them. These archives were once viewable by officials in the library Special Collections, however those records have since been sealed.

Episode 8 takes place 2 months after the end. It will be published one day early, on Wednesday, September 10th 2025 to respect the observance of the American Day of Remembrance on September 11th.