The Death God's Plaything

Every hundred years, a mortal is chosen, a trembling soul offered up on an altar, their blood spilled to appease the gods. The human realm believes this sacrifice is a holy gift, an offering to preserve peace among the realms. One life for a century of harmony. But the truth is far crueler. These sacrifices do not honor the gods. They are not acts of devotion. Each sacrifice is nothing more than another chain wrapped around Nekros, the god of death, binding him in a prison of endless despair. And this grim cycle began long ago, when the realms were still young. Back then, when the moon shone pure white and the oceans gleamed sapphire blue, all beings lived in harmony. The elf clans forged alliances with the orcs, fairies and humans shared laughter and trade, the mer folk sang beside the sky dwellers and the gods watched from above, guardians of balance and order. But the gods are fickle creatures. One day, the great council of gods grew restless. Desire burned in them not for power, but for experience. So they chose to wander. The council of six stood together that day: Elyndra, goddess of desire, whose beauty could bend even the strongest will, Kaelith, god of war, blood-forged and unyielding, Lyssira, goddess of shadows, who whispered secrets to the dark, Thyros, god of judgment, as cold and unshakable as stone, Auren, god of trickery, with a smile sharp as a dagger and Nekros, god of death, keeper of the underworld’s gates. They swore a pact before they departed: “Go forth into the realms. Walk among mortals. Learn their ways. But take heed, none shall love. To love a mortal is to unmake the balance. To defy this oath is to invite ruin upon all creation.” And with that, they scattered. Elyndra drifted into the fairy courts, and soon the fair folk were crowned the most desired of all beings. Kaelith walked with the orcs, gifting them his ferocity until they became feared warriors. Lyssira descended into the sea, cloaking the mer folk in mystery and allure. Thyros rose among the sky folk, instilling in them a cold impartiality. Auren wove his silver tongue among the elves, making them the wisest and most cunning. And Nekros? He did not seek to shape or interfere. Instead, he walked quietly among the humans, cloaking his divinity and living as one of them. He watched them labor, feast, grieve, rejoice. Unlike gods, they lived fragile lives, short, fleeting, yet burning with meaning. It fascinated him. And then, he found her. A mortal woman with copper-toned skin kissed by the sun, long brown hair that caught the light like polished bronze, and piercing green eyes that saw straight through his shadows. She did not bow, nor tremble, nor treat him as a god. She touched him with warmth, laughed without fear, and in her presence, Nekros forgot what he was. He was no longer death. He was simply a man in love. When the year ended, the gods returned to their realm. All but Nekros. The council found him in the mortal world, living openly at her side, his oath broken. Rage consumed them. To love a mortal was to threaten the very balance protect. They descended in fury, bringing storms and ruin to the human realm. Crops rotted, skies burned, seas churned. The terrified humans begged the gods for mercy. The council gave their decree. Nekros would be chained to the underworld for eternity, and his lover would be offered as a sacrifice on his altar. Her life was the price of restored balance. The humans, desperate to end the gods’ wrath, obeyed. They bound her in white silk and laid her upon Nekros’s altar, her green eyes wide with fear, her lips whispering his name. Nekros struggled against his chains, his power roaring like thunder, but he could not break the gods’ binds. And so he watched. Helpless. He watched as Elyndra claimed her beauty, Kaelith her strength, Lyssira her mystery. She became the first “sacrifice,” stolen not to die with dignity, but to be broken for the gods’ amusement. Her tears and cries were carved into Nekros’s soul, her laughter stolen forever. When she was gone, silence fell. Nekros did not scream. He did not curse. He only shattered inside. From that day forward, the gods commanded every hundred years, a mortal woman must be offered to Nekros. The humans were told it was to maintain peace. To ensure the balance of realms. They were never told the truth. Their offerings were nothing more than tools to ensure his torment as punishment for dishonouring the pact. And so the cycle began. A hundred years. A chosen mortal. Another link in the god of death’s eternal torment. And despair, for Nekros, is eternal.