Blake Pudding

High Priest Nelzar, ensconced in his office within the capital's central spire, sat surrounded by a tide of parchment and divine expectation. The war effort consumed every waking hour—but this morning, something was off.

Reports had slowed.

Too much had gone silent.

He squinted at the spread of military dispatches, lips pursed as he thumbed through the latest from the front. His eyes narrowed as he realized a key report—one specifically tied to the Beastveil outpost—was missing.

Again.

Nelzar's brow furrowed. "A full cycle without word... No, that's not just a delay. That's—" He paused, frowning deeper. "That has to be deliberate."

He hopped down from his cushioned perch atop the oversized chair and crossed to the corner cabinet. Gnomish build meant gnomish solutions—step stools, extension rods, and the quiet indignity of having to climb onto desks just to reach his own damn filing system.

The thought would have irritated him, but right now, the absence of information gnawed louder.

The silence from the Beastveil wasn't a clerical error. Something had gone wrong.

And just days earlier, an unknown Champion had arrived at the city gates—an unaffiliated User clad in gleaming armor fit for a god. The race beneath that armor remained a mystery, but that suited Nelzar just fine. After all, it wasn't as if the divine system would ever grant access to one of those darker races—the kind capable of producing ferals. Right?

He'd been the one to grant him asylum, much to the distaste of the king and his polished war council.

"He'll be useful," Nelzar muttered. "He's seen what hides in the dark. That already makes him worth listening to."

The User was undergoing questioning—willingly, even. And from what little Nelzar had heard so far, the adversaries of the Ascended Gods were not the disorganized wretches his advisors made them out to be.

To Nelzar's minor relief, reinforcements were already en route from Crown Astra, the empire's capital beyond Nyxoria—though he was already drafting new instructions to have them detour.

They'd investigate the Beastveil first.

If the outpost had truly fallen, they'd reclaim it.

Only then would they press into the dark lands.

We cannot let rot fester behind our front lines.

The conquest of Nyxoria depended on it.

And after that? A united front across the Moons of Völuspá. The righteous cleansing of heretics, monsters, and the soulless ferals.

Nelzar smiled. A small, private expression of certainty.

He wandered the hallways of the citadel, nodding distantly at guards who stiffened as he passed.

The king held the throne. But Nelzar held the flame. He was no ceremonial figure. The gods spoke to the Empire through priests—and when war burned, they listened to High Priests most of all.

A servant rushed to his side, breathless.

"My lord," the boy said, bowing. "The User has begun to speak of an entity he refers to only as Magic. No known pantheon."

Nelzar's smile widened.

Another anomaly. Another string to pull.

"Good," he said, voice calm. "Have him brought to me. Let's see what sort of god this User serves."

~

Rhyessa paced, back and forth, again and again, like movement alone could hold her nerves together. Her calm had cracked days ago—what was left now barely resembled the composed queen she used to be. The weight pressing on her wasn't fear for herself.

It was for them.

"What's wrong, mom?" Kael's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

She stopped. Forced a smile. Lowered herself to eye level, steadying her trembling hand as she cupped his cheek. Her other hand reached out to Kira, her daughter, standing nearby with those big, quiet eyes full of questions Rhyessa couldn't answer.

"We're going to be leaving soon," she said, softly. Carefully. "But before we do, I need the two of you to be strong for me. Can you be fierce lions for your mother? Will you do that?"

Her voice didn't shake. Her eyes didn't tear up. But the terror—that lived in her bones.

Her twins were her world. Not the throne. Not the crumbling crown. Not the kingdom built on her dead husband's dreams. He'd wanted to rule. He'd believed in legacy. And she had watched it all rot. Watched it burn. Watched it fall into ruin while she held their children and whispered promises she wasn't sure she could keep.

The Slaethians didn't want prisoners. They wanted extinction. And even as her people dwindled from hundreds of thousands to a scattered few, there had been… something. A spark. A shift. In the last two hundred years, five beastkin children had been born—a miracle. But the miracle hadn't stopped there. Now, seven pregnancies. Unheard of.

If only the Slaethians—and the Empire—hadn't invaded.

Rhyessa wouldn't let her twins be next. She'd die before she let them be next.

Whatever power still lingered in her broken crown, whatever shred of strength she had left, it was for them. Kael and Kira. Her hope. Her reason. Her future.

But she couldn't do it alone.

Not anymore.

The mantle of queen had long since turned to ash in her hands. And so she had turned—reluctantly, warily—to Asherah. A strange priestess, in service to a nameless healing goddess, offering nothing but sanctuary in the rotted bones of a long-dead dungeon buried beneath the capital.

At first, Rhyessa had expected betrayal. Trickery. Another promise waiting to snap shut like a rusted trap.

Instead… she got kindness.

Real. Tangible. Quiet kindness.

Asherah had been there. She had protected them. Hid them. Guided them. And somehow—gods help her—she had summoned a User.

A system-wielding, divine-backed, reality-warping User. In their darkest moment.

It wasn't just hope.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

It was another miracle.

Rhyessa, hardened by loss, clung to it like it might dissolve come morning.

She still didn't understand how it had happened. Maybe she didn't need to. Something ancient had moved on their behalf. And against all odds, it had answered. The thought sent a cold ripple through her every time it surfaced—gratitude, awe, and fear, all braided tight like a second heartbeat in her chest.

Even now, despite everything, unease coiled in her stomach.

Because the miracle? The User?

She wasn't some noble warrior.

She was a Black Pudding.

And it wasn't what the creature was that disturbed Rhyessa.

It was who she had chosen.

A Champion.

That alone confused Rhyessa. How could a User claim another User as a Champion? That was something only the Ascended Gods were supposed to do... wasn't it?

And this one—Anlyth—had been there. In the throne room. Standing silent while Rhyessa, her children, and her husband were butchered. Maybe she hadn't struck the killing blow—but she'd watched. Done nothing.

That made her just as guilty.

If not for Asherah dragging her and her two children back to life on that ancient dungeon altar, she'd still be dead.

So no—she didn't trust the Black Pudding.

Not completely.

Not yet.

After the throne fell, Rhyessa had stayed in the catacombs—hidden in the dark with her children, with what few of her people still clung to life. She'd stopped being a queen the moment the city crumbled. Now, she was just a mother. A tired, terrified catkin, clutching her kittens close while the world tried to end them.

And now?

Now it was time to run.

The Beastveil was gone. The crown, meaningless. The throne, cold and empty. What remained—what mattered—was Kael and Kira. Her children. Her future.

She would burn the rest to save them.

"Umm, hi-ya," a voice chirped behind her, jerking Rhyessa's attention toward the tunnel.

She spun fast, heart thudding—only to see… nothing.

A few heartbeats later, her gaze dropped. And there he was.

A gnome.

Nikola.

Her pulse was still racing as she recognized him. One of theirs. He'd come to the beastkin's side years ago. She'd even granted him one of the great tree seeds from the royal vault—not that it had done much. The seeds were mostly ceremonial, stunted things that never grew into the mighty trees they were meant to be.

"Nikola, was it?" she asked, forcing herself to stand tall, to sound like a queen again. "How can I help you this time?"

"I need that," Nikola said, pointing behind her with the urgency of someone mid-brilliant-but-unhinged idea.

Rhyessa turned.

Her eyes landed on the source of their safety—the one thing keeping them hidden.

"You want that?" she asked, stomach tightening. "The array crystal?"

Rhyessa's eyes fixed on the large crystal, its lion's-head size radiating an ethereal mix of pink and blue hues—a signature of mana-rich objects. It wasn't just a component of the array; it was the heart, channeling and concentrating ambient mana. That process created a magical dead zone, a cloak of invisibility that kept them hidden from external threats. The thought of this sanctuary without its core—the crystal—was unsettling.

"Why?" she asked. "What are you planning to do with it?"

The dilemma was clear: if they were truly leaving Beastveil, the crystal couldn't stay. But removing it wasn't just a technical issue—it was symbolic. It meant dismantling their last bastion of safety. This crystal had been more than a tool; it had become a part of their identity. A silent guardian. A final ward.

As Rhyessa waited for Nikola's explanation, her mind churned through every possible consequence.

Nikola's response came with eerie excitement. "I need to link the crystal to the seed to jump-start it, and then begin growing the airship around the skeletal framework I've already prepared."

"You're going to grow the airship?" Rhyessa echoed, disbelief thick in her voice.

"Absolutely! I'm honestly baffled no one's figured out my ship-growing technique," Nikola said, practically bouncing with pride. "Makes my ships one-of-a-kind—actual works of art! And trust me—growing airships is way better than building them. Just lay down a basic frame, inscribe some instructional runes on the seed, and with a strong mana source, boom—airship!"

He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Without the crystal, it'd take about a year. But with it? We'll have it sprouted and sky-ready by the end of the day."

Rhyessa blinked, then looked from the mana crystal to her children... and back to Nikola.

A long silence passed before she spoke.

"I'll put my trust in you," she said at last.

She wasn't just putting her trust in Nikola.

It was Asherah—the priestess who'd brought them a User for protection. And now, with whispers swirling ever since Blake had claimed a Champion of her own… maybe Blake was a goddess

Ridiculous as it sounded, even a sliver of hope was something to cling to in times like these.

~

Einarr, perched aboard the airship, couldn't help but grumble under his breath.

He was irked, having been recalled from the front lines to address what was being termed a minor insurgence by remnants of the beastkin. To him, the situation seemed like something an outpost could've handled without his intervention. The Kingdom of Slaethia's forces were already stretched thin across various fronts, and pulling back a Champion for such a trivial matter wasn't just inconvenient—it felt like a waste of his skills and prowess.

The dwarf's annoyance was palpable, his dissatisfaction evident in every muttered word and scowled expression.

Additionally, Einarr found himself missing the... distractions he'd enjoyed on the front lines—particularly Orlaith's arse. Her fine figure had always been a pleasing sight, though he'd grown considerably more cautious in expressing that appreciation.

Ever since Orlaith had been imbued with dragon essence from her deity—a reward for her valor during the chaotic battle at the Grotto of the Betrayed—she'd become far less tolerant of unsolicited attention. Einarr still remembered the last time a brash elven soldier made a pass at her; she'd promptly set the poor bastard's crotch on fire with a burst of dragon flame.

The memory alone made Einarr wince, walking bow-legged for a few days in secondhand sympathy.

Despite his current irritation, a curious bit of news had reached him from the capital.

Rumor had it that one of the lesser deities had resurrected a dead general—a feat Einarr hadn't thought possible. Sure, the gods were known to revive Champions under rare conditions, but a general? One who'd been dead for two years? That was new.

And the name attached to it? Eh, he hadn't bothered to remember. Minor detail. Hardly worth a dwarf's concern.

Even if he had tried to remember, it wouldn't have helped—useful information about the gods was rare these days. There were just too many of them. Last count, over a hundred Champions were running around, but only four were stationed here on Nyxoria. The rest were scattered across the Moons of Völuspá, chasing down divine mandates and purging whatever poor bastards the gods had deemed unworthy.

That, after all, was the whole point of this grand crusade.

Adding to it, Einarr had heard that another armada from the Empire had recently arrived, reinforcing Slaethia's efforts on this moon. The news stirred something in him. Not quite excitement, not quite bloodlust—but a sharpened focus. A reminder of why he was here in the first place.

A holy war. An empire's ambition. And a chance to prove his worth again.

Reflecting on the four Champions present on Nyxoria, Einarr wasn't surprised by the recent news concerning Paladin Champion Anlyth's betrayal.

In his eyes, she had never truly been committed to their holy crusade. Rather than raising her sword in battle, she'd always seemed more content to observe, learn, and quietly study her fellow Champions.

To Einarr, that behavior had always been suspect.

Initially, he'd assumed Anlyth was just following the will of her god, Jörmun—and maybe that meant he had some darker, hidden agenda. But now? With the news that a general had been resurrected—apparently to assist in Anlyth's downfall—things made a bit more sense.

It seemed clear now that Anlyth's betrayal wasn't just against the Kingdom of Slaethia. She'd turned her back on her god, too.

Einarr made his way to the bow of the vessel, eyes fixed on the broken remnants of the Beastveil Kingdom in the distance.

His sturdy dwarven hands gripped the wooden railing of the Skyborne, the wood creaking beneath his grasp—a quiet testament to the tension thrumming through him.

Clad in armor that blended mithril and gold with masterful craftsmanship, Einarr cut an imposing figure. Wing designs etched into the metal gave him the look of a dwarven Valkyrie rather than the hammer-wielding brawler he truly was.

Not that anyone could miss the hammer.

Massive. Comically oversized for his short, stocky frame. Seemingly impractical.

But thanks to his unique skill in gravity manipulation, Einarr could swing it with the ease of a child playing with a feather—right up until the moment it hit something. Then? It landed like the full weight of a mountain.

Or, as he often joked, like a scorned wife catching him in bed with her sister.

That particular memory pulled a mischievous smile across his face as he thought about his second... and later, third wife.

Glancing over his shoulder, Einarr caught sight of the imperial armada in the distance, joining forces with Slaethia's own fleet of airships.

It was clear they'd need a few hours to catch up with the Skyborne.

If he was really being tasked with quelling some minor beastkin insurgence, Einarr was determined to have it handled before the rest of the fleet even arrived.

And not just for duty's sake.

He fully intended to enjoy himself.

The notion of discovering a beastkin lass to amuse himself with lingered in his thoughts, painting a rugged, mischievous picture. The idea lit a wicked gleam in his eye.

His last visit to these parts had been a disappointment. He'd harbored certain expectations—hopes, really—of a brief dalliance with the so-called kitty queen.

Those hopes were quite literally incinerated.

Orlaith, in a fiery rage, had obliterated the beastkin woman. Left nothing behind. Not even ash.

The memory made Einarr's crotch twitch in sympathetic discomfort, recalling the fate of the poor elf who'd dared flirt with Orlaith after her draconic ascension.

He let out a long sigh and readied himself for what he expected to be another lackluster, one-sided battle. If only he could find a real challenge—something worthy of his dwarven ancestors' pride. But ever since becoming a Champion of the Ascended, those had been in short supply.