In the beginning, there were no gods. But over the eons, as divine essence was unconsciously channelled by billions of divine sparks into a common set of beliefs, entities that exemplified these beliefs formed. Over time, they evolved and became self-aware. Today, we call them gods.

It has been theorised, though not proven, that without worshippers providing a constant stream of divine essence, a god will not survive. The gods, understandably, have remained silent on the subject. —from the writings of Archmage Telthamos, world of Zoti.

Kyran’s thoughts were a jumbled mess. His mind was filled to bursting with unanswered questions and, despite himself, he was more than a little troubled by Iyra’s ominous farewell.

Disturbingly little of what he had heard made sense to him. Sara had to be the ‘candidate’, and he the ‘aberrant spirit’, but he understood little beyond that. What was the ‘Game’, the ‘Rules’, and for that matter, a ‘divine spark’?

Then there was Iyra and the Overseer. What were they? Certainly not human. Iyra in particular had a disconcertingly forceful presence, almost as if she really were divine.

Is she a god? No, that did not make any sense, she—

Kyran was wrenched elsewhere. The transition was instantaneous. One second he was in the marble chamber, the next, in a cavernous hall. Kyran’s eyes widened in alarm as he was jarred out of his thoughts. Where—? How—? His unease surged and threatened to blossom into renewed panic. What was the power of these beings that they could do all this?

He closed his eyes and took a moment to still his racing thoughts. His mind felt on the brink, strained near to breaking by the many impossibilities heaped upon it. Just observe, Kyran, he told himself. Only observe. There will be time to make sense of it later.

He opened his eyes, a touch calmer, and took in the room again. The hall itself was featureless, its walls and floors bare of any embellishments. The room’s only furnishings were a disk-shaped table and twelve glass chairs.

The table was utilitarian, a simple stone-clad structure, unremarkable but for its size, filling as it did nearly the entirety of the hall with its bulk. Kyran and the Overseer were in the centre of the room, on top of the table. Evenly spaced around the table were twelve crystalline chairs, built to the same scale. Only the room’s chairs—thrones, really—went beyond being simply functional.

Each chair was encrusted with precious gems, and engraved in flowing lines of gold. As Kyran studied the chairs closely, he noticed that the glittering whorls were not random but seemed to be inscriptions of some sort. On the peaked-top of each throne the script and gems were intertwined into symbols. He recognised a few of them. The chair to his left bore the image of a hunting owl, while the one in front of him appeared to be covered with writhing serpents. Heraldry of some sort?

As he studied the thrones, they began to fill up. The new occupants materialised within the chairs, much in the same manner as Kyran and the Overseer had appeared in the room. In a short space of time, the hall was filled and eleven giant entities—Iyra included—sat enthroned. One seat, that bearing the insignia of the owl, stood vacant.

The God Council. This must be it, he thought as his eyes jumped nervously from seated figure to figure. Not that he believed them to be gods but that was clearly how they saw themselves. Scornful though he was of their claim, there was something about their presence…something that sent ripples of unease shuddering through him, disturbing him more than he cared to admit.

Surrounded, and with the Overseer standing guard, the scene was well crafted to intimidate. With him cast in the role of supplicant—or prisoner. What his supposed crimes were, he didn’t know, but only the cuffs were missing to complete the picture.

“Overseer, why have you called us to Council?” The speaker was a humanoid lizard. Dressed in plate armour, his scales shone scarlet through his open helm, and his talons peeked out from his mailed fists. His eyes were yellow orbs; his voice, a sibilant hiss; and his nose and mouth merged into a snout filled with razor teeth. Even seated, he held himself rigidly to attention. How much stranger can this get? wondered Kyran. First an elf and automaton, now a…lizard-knight?

He shook his head, bewildered. He wondered how he was going to make sense of any of this. None of it fit with the world he knew. Either he was still dreaming or in a reality far removed from his own. Later, he reminded himself, he would try to make sense of it later. If there is a later, he couldn’t help thinking morbidly.

“Divine Balkar, I have convened the Council to determine how to deal with an aberrant spirit that has entered Myelad.”

Balkar fixed Kyran with a draconian gaze. “This one?” he asked.

Before the Overseer could respond, another voice cut in, oozing boredom, “Destroy him and be done with it.”

The speaker was equal parts fascinating and disturbing. Clad in polished leathers, she slouched back on her throne, legs dangling over the side. Her features, while similar to Iyra’s, had a malevolent undertone. Her hair was dark and lustrous, her lips blood-red, and her skin, winter grey.

“The Rules forbid me from harming any spirit, Divine Succera,” said the Overseer as toneless as ever.

“Bah! Get Kharmadon to do it then,” she replied. Kyran did not like the direction the conversation was taking. Destroy him? What did she mean, was he not dead already?

“As you are aware, Divine, the Rules preclude the gods from doing so either,” said the Overseer with just a hint of exasperation creeping in. Kyran’s mounting panic receded at the Overseer’s words. Dead or not, he preferred not to be ‘destroyed’.

“I am more curious as to how this spirit entered Myelad in the first place,” said another. That was a question to which Kyran dearly wanted an answer as well. How had he gone from falling off a bridge to here—wherever ‘here’ was?

“Divine Iyra was summoning a candidate when—”

“Iyra! This is her fault then, make her pay the penalty!” said a mottled, green-skinned creature with beady eyes and protruding horns. He was covered with an assortment of mismatched armour and yellow spittle sprayed as he spoke.

“Divine Xetil, there is no penalty—”

Again, the Overseer was cut-short. “Hold your tongue, Xetil, you old goat. I am not to blame here,” declared Iyra.

“Enough!” shouted a colossal figure with a fur cloak draped over his burly shoulders. Thus far, he had been broodingly silent. Even seated, he towered over the others. He had wild brown hair, shaggy eyebrows, gleaming fangs, and a nose squashed flat. “Be silent, and let the Overseer present the case.”

For a wonder, the other gods complied until—“Of course, magnificent Kharmadon, your word is our command.” This was said with a flourish and a bow from a short, rotund, genially smiling god with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Before the giant figure could take offense, another interjected. “Peace, Lok. Never mind his manner, Kharmadon is correct. Let us hear out the Overseer.” The speaker was an elderly god with silver hair and flowing beard. He leaned forward, clutching his gnarly wooden staff for support while he waited with visible impatience for the Overseer to continue.

Kyran had followed the conversation with a sense of disbelief. Undeniably, each of the entities seated at the table had a commanding aura that demanded respect. Yet, their Council bore a closer resemblance to squabbling children than a meeting of self-proclaimed gods. With each new exchange, Kyran found his awe diminishing. But, he cautioned himself, my fate seems to reside in their hands. It would not do to underestimate them.

“Thank you, Divine Weeran. Let me begin again. Divine Iyra was summoning a candidate when this spirit,” said the Overseer, pointing towards Kyran, “intervened, undetected, and was pulled with the candidate into Myelad.”

“Undetected?” asked Weeran sharply. “How is that possible?”

“He lacks the divine spark,” said the Overseer simply. His words struck the room silent, halting even the gods’ seemingly ceaseless bickering. Kyran looked nervously from face to face. What, he wondered, was so important about what the Overseer had just said?

In the appalled hush that followed, the gods turned as one to stare at Kyran. Their combined gazes hammered into him with palpable force. Kyran staggered backwards. Even though he was unclothed spirit, the gods’ regard shook him with the fury of a physical blow. What? he quailed. What is going on? Instinct urged him to flee—and he tried to.

He managed no more than a single step before he ran into an invisible wall. Spinning on his heel, he tried fleeing in the opposite direction but once more he was brought up short by an unseen force.

It was no use. He was trapped.