Age of Gods

Mark – Present Day

The morning came slow and quiet.

Dawn filtered through the cabin window in thin gold lines, catching the dust in the air and the curl of woodsmoke that lingered from last night's fire. Outside, the forest yawned. Wind in the trees and the distant splash of the creek below the hill.

Mark blinked his eyes open, the blankets had tangled around his legs from restless sleep. The cot creaked beneath him as he sat up, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. Every joint in his body ached. Not from age, he wasn't old enough to claim that excuse, but from years of breaking and healing, over and over again.

He stood, barefoot on cold wooden planks, and stretched until his spine popped. The scars on his back tugged tight.

The silence held, and he let it.

Crossing the small room, Mark paused at the window. The clearing outside was still dew-slick, the grass thick and wild, long overdue for a trim. Birds fluttered through the branches beyond, and in the distance, the faint silhouette of the mountains rose like sleeping gods themselves—untouched and disinterested.

He liked it that way.

Behind him, the small bundle of blankets near the fireplace gave a faint snore. Miu.

Mark smiled.

He padded into the kitchen space, if it could be called that. A wood-burning stove. Two cupboards. A chipped pan. And a kettle that had seen more of the war than most soldiers.

He set to work without a word.

Eggs. Bread. A pinch of wild herbs. Most importantly bacon from the smokehouse. The way it cooked, sizzling over the open flames, was its own type of magic. He moved with quiet precision, a habit long drilled into him from years when loud noise could mean the death of you and your squad.

As the smell filled the room, Mark leaned on the counter and watched the smoke rise.

He thought of the aftermath of the war.

Not the battles. Not the blood. But what came next?

The shattered cities. The broken families. How the gods pulled back from the world and left mortals to treat their wounds. The silence of temples that had once echoed with divine song. The emptiness that followed victory, if victory was even the word he would use.

He thought of the ones who hadn't made it.

Of Jorah, sacrificing his life to hold back Hephaestus at the retreat of Morook. Of Kess, the elven archer, slaughtered in front of her people by Ares after the elders foolishly surrendered.

Of the goddess with ice in her eyes and silver in her hair, Artemis.

He hadn't seen her since their final battle.

Hadn't spoken her name in months.

And still, sometimes, she haunted him more than the ones he'd buried.

The bacon hissed in the pan, snapping Mark out of memory.

He plated the food, careful to keep the egg yolk whole on Miu's. She liked to poke it and call it her "egg treasure," insisting it tasted better that way. He slid her plate near the warm edge of the hearth, close enough that the heat would keep it from cooling before she stirred.

Then he took his own plate, settled at the table, and let himself relax.

He took a sip of his coffee, letting the warmth travel through him. Looking out the window, he watched a small squirrel climb a tree. Its movements were sporadic and unpredictable, much like his thoughts.

There was a small groan from the nest of quilts, followed by a muffled cry.

"…Mark…?"

He turned slightly, a smile forming as he watched her struggle to get up. "Good morning, sunshine."

Miu's arm flopped out first, followed by her tousled head. Her hair was a blond mess of tangles, and her green eyes were puffy with sleep. She blinked up at the ceiling as though uncertain whether she'd truly woken up or just landed in another dream.

"You made breakfast," she murmured, sniffing the air.

"You say that as if I don't do it every morning for you."

"You burnt my toast yesterday."

"Lies and slander, I dare say. I demand a retrial." Mark says, using his best judge impersonation.

Miu snorted and sat up, the 11-year-old dragging her quilt with her like a cloak. She padded barefoot to the hearth and plopped down cross-legged before her plate, inspecting it with the seriousness of a priest.

"Egg treasure," she whispered, reverent.

Mark chuckled. "Figured I'd tempt the gods."

She gave him a serious look, one too old for her young age. "No more gods. Just bad people."

That silenced him faster than any blade could.

She said it so casually, not even realizing how deep the words cut, not out of cruelty, but because for her, it was the truth. Her village had been faithful to the gods. Her parents had believed. Still, that didn't stop their slaughter.

He decided not to correct her.

He never did.

They ate in quiet. The nice, warm type of quiet that didn't need filling.

When they were done, Miu dragged a stool to the corner of the room and began fussing with her paints, trying to mix pine ash into a murky green that would match the moss outside. Mark watched her for a while. She had an artist's patience, and stubbornness that reminded him of someone long gone.

The fire cracked. Miu laughing softly to herself as her color finally came together. Mark leaned back in his chair, the quiet settling again like dust.

Then, three soft knocks at the front door.

Mark straightened.

Miu looked up, eyebrows raised. "are we expecting someone?"

"No."

She stayed seated, instinctively huddling further into the corner as Mark had taught her to do. Mark moved to the door with slow, practiced care, one hand near the sheathed knife hanging from the wall. He opened it—.

And froze.

Nyx stood in the doorway, hood down, her cloak trailing bits of dew and road dust. She looked no different than the last time he saw her—ageless, quiet, eyes like midnight after a thunderstorm. She gave him a soft smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You going to let me in, it's cold out here after all?"

Mark blinked, then stepped aside. "You're supposed to be lying low."

"I am, depending on who you ask." She glanced down at Miu, who was already running toward her with a grin. "Hello, little star."

"grandma!" Miu squealed and wrapped her arms around the goddess's leg before vanishing into her room to retrieve a dried flower she'd been saving for her.

"I'm not that old, you little shrimp," Nyx hollered after the little girl, earning a snort from Mark.

While they were alone, Mark folded his arms. "What brings you here, master? I thought you were looking for something when you left."

"I was, but something happened; my informant on the inside was forced to make a move," she said, glancing toward the hearth, changing the subject. "Place looks the same. I thought you were going to send the little one somewhere safer?"

He nodded. "I'm the closest thing to family she has left after Ares killed her parents. I couldn't leave her, so I decided to take her in."

Nyx's face softened. "Of course you did, you big softie."

They stood in silence a moment longer before she looked back at him, the weight of her visit settling in the air like snowfall.

"I wouldn't come if it wasn't important."

Mark sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "It always is."

"There's an old temple," she said quietly. "South of here, about 80 kilometers as the crow flies."

"What's waiting for me?"

Nyx hesitated.

Then, "Someone who is going to need your help, and who will despise every minute of it."

That was all she gave.

But it was enough.

He saw the flicker in her expression. The urgency she didn't voice. And in the pause that followed, Mark felt something tighten in his chest. A name whispered behind her words—unspoken.

He remained silent for a couple of minutes.

Finally, he nodded once, slowly.

"When do I leave?"

"Tonight," Nyx said. "Before Olympus has too much time to act"

She was quiet for a moment, watching as Miu ran around the room looking for something. "I need to head west today, but with any luck I shall return within a fortnight".

Miu found what she was looking for just as Nyx turned toward the door again, rushing over and placing a blue flower in the goddess's hand. "For luck," the girl whispered.

Nyx touched her hair. "Thank you, my little star."

Then she was gone, swallowed by the road and the rising wind.

Mark stood in the doorway for a long time, the sky bleeding orange as the sun rose across the horizon.

He should've felt fear.

Instead, he felt… excited.