Hearths are mystical places, sacred to the goddess Tamyris, where in the absence of a psychopomp to guide them to the afterlife, souls come to resurrect and return to this world. Hearths are tended by hearthkeepers, and by the Order of Holy Sisters. - Sacred and Divine by Melodia the Priestess


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    I was being irrational. I knew it. It still didn’t make me any happier at the prospect of absorbing a piece of a dead god. A very small piece, but still.


    I’d made Cixilo a trough of water for his griffin, and retreated. I needed something to occupy my mind, so I turned my attention to improving my defenses.


    It was easy enough to carve a gargoyle for the roof of my dungeon, and position it on eaves, with a small wedge of stone holding it up. With a thought, I could dissolve the stone and they would slide off the roof and plummet onto the heads of anyone walking below. Once I’d made one, I started copying it with barely a thought.


    What had my life become? I was constructing weapons of death, with the very real chance I’d have to fight for my right to live. I’d never thought very hard about whether I had a moral code. Stars didn’t have property to steal, there was no death or murder, and we didn’t succumb to temptations of lust like mortals did. The worst crime I could’ve committed in the heavens was being very rude to another star. But intrinsically, wasn’t consuming the core of another being pretty high up on the list of things you just didn’t do?


    On the other hand, I was probably going to die if I didn’t, and then other beings - beings who were probably as close to truly evil as it was possible to be - would consume my core to grow stronger. And then the world would probably die. Maybe the Dread Lords and the other powerful hero cores would find a way to escape that end, but for the majority of people on Esiliur, it would be curtains. There would be no hearths left to resurrect at, and their souls would drift in the ruins of their homes.


    I’d watched mortals for most of their history, and I knew they could be cruel beings, but I’d seen too many moments of joy, happiness, creation and love to be willing to sacrifice them all. Even if my own survival wasn’t at stake, I’d have wanted to do something to save them. It seemed obvious overcoming my personal misgivings about the whole thing was the right thing to do.


    But why did it have to be me?


    The gods and other dungeons had their chances and they’d wasted them. That wasn’t my fault. I allowed myself a moment of selfish frustration at their failures.


    It didn’t help, but it made me feel better.


    I finished placing gargoyles, and turned my attention to aerial defense. I took the tower I’d built once before, and copied it, building a second one on the opposite side of the island. It felt fitting to fill my island with copies of the tower that the gods had hated so much, and it would be a good vantage point to watch the skies. My influence had been expanding even while I hibernated, and it covered about half of my island. When it reached the edge of the land, I’d have to add more watch towers further out. Maybe I could rig up some sort of alarm system to alert me if enemies were approaching without having to always be watching the skies? I’d have to investigate that.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    With no further jobs to waste my time on, I turned my attention back to Cixilo.


    He was unloading his griffin, clearly intent on staying. What a frustrating, strange mortal. I couldn’t puzzle him out. He claimed to merely be a scholar, and said he wanted to help me, but could I trust him?


    I shoved away that little voice whispering not to trust anybody. Cixilo had done nothing to show he was anything but what he said. He’d been honest with me. When had I become so paranoid? Did dungeons always live in fear of being betrayed? It sounded exhausting. It felt exhausting.


    I’ll do it.


    Cixilo let out a surprised yelp and dropped the pack he was holding. He whirled around, a hand clasped over his heart. I could hear it beating faster. Then his shoulders relaxed. “Warn me next time, wouldn’t you? It is going to take me a while to get used to disembodied voices sneaking up on me.”


    Sorry.


    He picked up the pack and shook off the dust, then slung it over a nearby rock. “Very well. Since we don’t have time to waste, would you mind directing me to your core?”


    I hadn’t even considered I would need to give Cixilo access to my core. An innate instinct told me not to let anybody near my core. I pushed through the spike of anxiety. Follow me. I hadn’t thought those words through. Uh, I mean… walk around the back of the temple and I’ll make you a path.


    ***


    Cixilo stood in my core room. I hadn’t decorated the chamber - I’d hardly been expecting guests - so it was simply an empty stone cube with my core sitting on a pedestal in the center. Every instinct told me to make him leave immediately. They told me that having people near my core was innately wrong. My core glowed a dull red colour, despite my best attempts to keep a handle on my spiking panic. It made the walls look as if they were carved from dried blood.


    Cixilo, seemingly unperturbed by the light show, produced the god core shard from his inventory and stepped towards my core. “With your permission?”


    Go on. What I wanted to say was hurry up, but that was my anxiety speaking.


    Cixilo cradled the shard like a baby. He took one step, then another, and he was in reach. He carefully placed the piece of not-obsidian on the apex of my core.


    I didn’t have to consciously absorb it. The moment crystal touched crystal, it sank into my core, like not-diamond and not-obsidian had both become liquid. It was an unnerving thing to see, something that seemed to break every rule of how solids and liquids worked.


    Once it was consumed, the god core shard dissolved into inky liquid that spread through my crystal, leaving a discoloured streak in its wake. It felt cold, followed by hot, and then a deep sense of wrong. My core wasn’t meant to look like that, feel like that. The red light grew brighter and brighter.


    Get it out. Get it out! I begged Cixilo.


    Cixilo’s eyes widened in horror.


    Mortals vomit when they feel sick, but there were no muscles for me to contract, and no stomach to empty. I couldn’t do anything to relieve the nausea except pray to long dead gods that it would pass.


    My vision had started to turn white at the edges. The red light grew brighter and brighter. The red light was me, wasn’t it?


    I had the presence of mind to throw open the door and transform the stone beneath Cixilo’s feet into a ramp that pushed him out onto the grass outside. I slammed the door behind him. It was barely in time. The red light became all consuming, chasing away the shadows and filling the room with searing heat.


    I was sure, deep down, I was about to die.