This was bad.

  Not the dramatic, explosive kind that at least came with clarity. This was the quiet kind—the sort that settled into your bones and whispered that you had already made a mistake, and the consequences were simply taking their time.

  Orestis disliked surprises. After a thousand years, he had learned that surprises were rarely gifts and almost always punishments wearing novelty disguises. He liked his disasters slow, predictable, and entirely his own fault.

  Drawing the attention of a god—any god—was never a good thing. Only idiots believed otherwise, and most of them were already dead. Or prophets. Usually both.

  Gods, once interested, developed habits. They meddled because they were bored. Or because they’d decided the world needed saving. Or—far more insultingly—because they thought you needed to ‘grow as a person’. And when you declined their generous spiritual guidance, that was when the smiting began.

  To be fair, random smiting had once been a perk. Back when Orestis had been immortal and actively searching for death, divine wrath had been a welcome distraction. At least the gods tried something new every time they failed.

  But that was then.

  Now he had a far more delicate plan: old age first. Then infirmity. Then death. In that order. Preferably without lightning, prophecy, or a glowing halo over his head. He still had no idea who was responsible for that last one.

  Why did they take an interest so soon anyway?

  Rumors of miracles were common. A dime a dozen. Every village had at least three miracle workers: one liar, one drunk, and one person who’d misinterpreted a coincidence.

  Last time, he’d siphoned divine energy for decades before any god bothered to notice—and that was only after he started drawing power like an unsupervised child in a treasury.

  Then again, last time he’d been holed up in his laboratory, committing theological theft quietly and in private.

  This time, he was in a village. A small one, which was worse. Small villages treated gossip as currency and miracles as community property. He had cast one spell—in the privacy of his own home, even—and enthusiasm had drowned subtlety before the afternoon ended.

  That had been the error. Not the spell. His mother.

  He had assumed the excitement would fade. That he could misdirect, dilute, and eventually erase the rumors. He’d drafted three separate approaches for pacifying his mother, ranging from patient explanation to strategic distraction.

  All useless now. A god was involved, and gods did not forget.

  The residue from his working would be unmistakable—like muddy footprints in a cathedral. Whoever was watching had already examined it—which was why they were examining him now. No doubt they were also forming conclusions. And conclusions, in divine minds, tended to become instructions.

  Depending on which god this is, I either need to be humble, impressive, or bleeding. Let’s hope for option one.

  The ideal outcome was to be left alone entirely. But Orestis was not delusional. Best case: supervised observation. Worst case: recruitment—which had to be avoided at all costs.

  And under no circumstances could he let them glimpse his true intent. Several gods he could name offhand would find it hilarious to strike him down moments before his long-awaited death, just to see the look on his face. Ruining centuries of effort for a punchline was very much in character for them.

  He’d considered restarting. Killing himself, waking up in that bed, trying again with better operational security. But choosing speed over consequence was how things kept going wrong. And he had just decided to stick this through; giving up at the first sign of trouble felt like the wrong precedent to set.

  So. Let’s see this through.

  It wouldn’t be long now. Gods never did their own legwork; they preferred to send messengers, saints, and inquisitors.

  Or the occasional henchmen.

  ***

  The knock came just after noon.

  Polite. Measured. The sort given by someone who expected the door to be opened.

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  Orestis felt it again—a faint pressure at the back of his skull, like a thought that wasn’t his brushing against the edge of awareness.

  So… They’re here.

  His mother was already moving. “I’ll get it,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Hope in her voice again. Always hope.

  Orestis stood as the door opened.

  Three figures waited outside. They wore no armor. No ceremonial excess. Just layered robes in off-white and pale gold, clean enough that dust seemed to avoid them on principle. Each bore a small sigil stitched over the heart—not ostentatious, but unmistakable.

  Priests of Demerius. Orestis felt a scowl tug at his expression.

  It just had to be them.

  If one had to be noticed by a god, Demerius was among the least objectionable. He was famously hands-off. Rarely involved in mortal affairs.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t apply to his temple.

  Demerius was popular precisely because of his indifference. In mortal terms, that translated to power with no real oversight. The Temple of Demerius had become the local hegemon—confident, entrenched, and deeply offended by anything it couldn’t control.

  A lazy god with an ambitious priesthood. Wonderful.

  The lead priest inclined his head. Not a bow. A concession.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “We hope we’re not intruding.”

  “Not at all,” his mother said quickly. “Please—come in.”

  Of course she invited them in.

  They crossed the threshold and the house changed. Nothing visible. Nothing audible. It simply… acknowledged them. A subtle shift in the air that told Orestis they carried more than just authority.

  They moved toward the kitchen—the site of his mistake—with unhurried certainty. His father walked alongside them, shoulders squared, wearing the expression of a man torn between pride and anxiety.

  The lead priest’s gaze swept the floor, then slowed. His eyes didn’t settle on cracks or stains. They hovered just above the space where divine sigils had burned themselves into existence.

  Ah, Orestis thought. You can see the echoes.

  That wasn’t something you could do without significant divine power at your disposal. High-ranking, then. Or competent enough to be dangerous—which, in temple hierarchies, was often worse.

  His gaze settled on Orestis. “You must be the child.”

  “I am,” Orestis said.

  The priest’s eyes flicked down—taking in his height, his bare feet, the way he stood too straight for his age—then back up.

  “How fortunate,” he said mildly. “We were hoping to meet you.”

  Behind him, the second priest—a woman with sharp eyes and a scholar’s posture—unrolled a narrow strip of parchment. She didn’t read from it.

  Props, Orestis noted. She already knows what she’s going to say.

  “We received word,” she said, “of an unauthorized manifestation of sacred power within the district.”

  His mother stiffened. “Unauthorized?”

  “A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” the lead priest said warmly. “These things happen. Miracles inspire excitement. Excitement inspires… interpretation.”

  His gaze returned to Orestis. “We’re simply here to ask a few questions.”

  Petros cleared his throat. “My son hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  The priest smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Of course not. Intent is rarely the issue.”

  So that’s what this is.

  They weren’t here to punish. Not yet. They were here to catalogue.

  He could work with that.

  The scholar-priest stepped forward then, her voice mild, practiced, the sort used to coax confessions out of the honest. “To begin, could you tell us which god you prayed to for the miracle?”

  A reasonable question. All they knew was that he hadn’t drawn on their god’s power. And Demerius obviously wouldn’t have told them. He was not the sort to involve himself in explanations. Or guidance. Or effort of any kind.

  “I didn’t pray,” Orestis replied.

  There was a pause. The third priest—a silent figure with a shaved head—shifted his weight slightly. The air tightened.

  The lead priest tilted his head. “Then how did you use divine power?”

  “I reached for it. It was… available.”

  The pause stretched, longer this time, while the scholar’s quill scratched softly against the parchment. “Remarkable,” she murmured.

  The lead priest nodded. “You understand,” he said slowly, “that divine power is not a communal resource.”

  “I understand,” Orestis replied. “I also understand that most gods disagree.”

  That earned him a look—one of interest rather than outrage.

  The lead priest clasped his hands behind his back. “You speak very confidently for a child.”

  Orestis met his gaze without blinking. “You speak very carefully for someone who doesn’t yet know what they’re dealing with.”

  Silence fell. It was measured. Evaluative. Not hostile.

  The priest smiled again—wider, practiced. “We would like you to visit the temple. At your convenience, of course. Merely to ensure everything is… in order.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Orestis said.

  Thinking about it was a courtesy. Refusing outright would be an escalation.

  Then he felt it. The gaze of the deity—distant and steady until now—sharpened. It was nothing dramatic; the weight simply increased, as though something vast had leaned closer.

  It was a clear message: Demerius wanted him to go. The priests, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice the change.

  “Please do,” the lead priest said. “We’ll return soon.”

  They turned to leave. At the threshold, the priest paused.

  “Oh,” he added pleasantly, “until then, we ask that you refrain from further miracles.”

  The door closed. And the house exhaled.

  “They were so polite,” his mother whispered, pale and shaken.

  “Yes,” Orestis said, staring at the door. “They usually are.”

  He could still feel Demerius watching.

  An invitation to a temple meant very different things depending on who extended it. From mortals, it was politics. From a god, it was leverage.

  A god’s temple was the only place they could speak to mortals without cost. Orestis had no interest in such a conversation—especially not with a god famous for never speaking at all. However, the lingering weight at the edge of his awareness made one thing clear: ignoring this would only make it worse.

  If Demerius ran out of patience, he wouldn’t come himself. He’d tell his priests to fetch. And if a god known for his indifference broke his silence over one boy, the temple would never leave him alone.

  Orestis grimaced.

  So much for keeping a low profile.

  Looks like he’d have to pay the temple a visit.