While Armand had been enjoying his newfound freedom—and nearly losing it—the new god he had created continued upon its path, flowing through the planes of existence until it appeared within a world of silver mist.

  The newborn god-soul was writhing in pain. Normally, Armand could simply repair himself, but without pure soul energy, it was agony. However, he was in luck; the silver energy didn’t heal his injury, but it filled the void, acting like a brace to prevent further damage to a broken limb.

  Only then could the silver soul finally take in its environment. It felt like being underwater, including the inability to breathe, but luckily that was not needed here. He floated within the silver void for a while but found himself constrained to a somewhat small area. The environment was serene, but it was not quiet; he could hear an endless murmuring. It was maddening. He looked around, but he was alone within the silver mist.

  He tried to focus on just one of the voices, but it was too quiet compared to the cacophony of sounds flooding his non-existent ears. What felt like eons passed as he was barraged by the verbal onslaught.

  He felt something reach out to him. It was warm and gentle in nature, so he didn’t hesitate and reached out in turn. The silver world faded, and before him sat an old woman at a table with a tea set.

  “Come and sit, child…” She waved to the silver orb, which in turn floated over. “That will not do,” she tisked as she reached forth a wrinkled finger and tapped the orb. Armand’s soul began to shape itself into his original form—well, almost.

  He transformed into the old him, the lost child who had stumbled upon a dungeon so long ago. She looked at him lovingly, and only then did he recognize that look. “The Grand Mother?” The words flowed out of him.

  “Indeed, child.” The old woman looked him over. “Drink, child.” She poured some crystal-clear fluid into a cup and placed it before him. He didn’t hesitate, recognizing what it was: distilled, purified soul power.

  He wove the energy into the cut in his soul and it was swiftly repaired. “Thank you, Grand Mother…” he said, his voice even sounding like the whelp he used to be. She patted his head.

  “Mother is more than fine,” she said with a smile. She transformed from an old woman to a young one—in fact, her age seemed to be constantly fluctuating—but behind her loomed the massive figure of her draconic form. “Anything for one of my blessed.”

  “Mother, then,” Armand said, bringing a smile to her face. “Why can I understand you? Could you talk before?” Curiosity got the better of him once again. She chuckled at his excitement.

  “That was because you were not a god,” she replied. “One of the stipulations of the ancient contract between worlds is that we were to lose our ability to speak directly to mortals.”

  “Does that apply to all gods?” Armand asked.

  “Yes. You, too, are bound by the contract of godhood. Anything you say or speak will be in the god’s tongue; it was part of ascension,” she happily answered.

  “Why only the gods?” He had, after all, had several discussions with elementals, demons, and angels.

  “Because we can hear all of our worshippers, since their prayers carry the faith that sustains us,” she nodded. “You see, we gods essentially know too much, and thus, to prevent us from revealing that information, we have essentially been cursed.”

  “What about me?” Armand asked. After all, he was in a way a clone of the original Armand.

  “Try reaching out to the other portions of your soul and you will understand,” she answered.

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  So the little goblin god tried exactly that. He reached out; it felt like trying to play tug-of-war with spider silk, but the connection was there. He saw his main body summoning and creating hordes of iron constructs. He could read that body’s thoughts: the worry for the elves, the fear of the Goblin King, but also an equal desire to slay him.

  The silver soul tried to send information, but nothing happened. The dungeon master's body just stood for a moment as if dazed, then went back to work. He stood there aghast at the situation.

  “Now you see…” The Grand Mother picked up her cup and took a sip; hers was filled with a silvery fluid. “Let me top you off…” She poured a similar liquid into Armand’s empty cup.

  “What is this?” the goblin god asked.

  “Concentrated faith, of course…” she said once again with that smile. “Now drink before it goes cold.”

  “Never refused a lady,” the goblin murmured as he took the cup and sipped. It tasted like all of his favorite foods blended beautifully into one vessel of warmth and comfort. “My goodness…” he couldn’t help but exclaim.

  “That is the nature of faith, child,” she replied. “It is what we desire so much that all we can do is hope to have it or see it come to fruition.”

  “Can I see the others?” Armand asked. He missed the God of Fishing and the God of Knowledge, and he hoped to see them and finally get to talk with them.

  “In time, my child, but you should return to your own godspace…” Armand went to ask another question, but she held up a finger as she finished her next sip. “You may be needed, so wait patiently just like the rest of us.”

  Before he could comment or protest, he was sent away and returned to the silvery space. So this was a godspace… Armand couldn’t help but look over the environment again. Maybe I can adjust it just like her, he began to wonder.

  He imagined his chair by the fire, and a hearth of purple flames sprung forth along with his comfy chair. The goblin god sat down and watched as more of his home sprang up around him and a copy of his precious book appeared on the side table. It was much more like home.

  So he waited and watched. He watched his knight clone arrive on the scene and watched the final battle between him and the Goblin King. He shared much of the same feelings as his main body: helplessness as the final battle progressed. He watched his mortal foe light ablaze and charge at both the knight and its precious cargo. Armand the god tried to will with all his power, but nothing happened.

  The newly born god watched Fenrir bravely charge forth and take the blow meant for his clone. Then he watched, inevitably, as the old wolf’s soul was swallowed.

  Then he felt it. A voice rose amongst the endless sea of murmurs. “I pray that my master finds safety and no longer needs my kind…” It was sweet and forlorn—the voice of a bodyguard passing in the line of duty. Fenrir had prayed, and unintentionally, he had prayed to him.

  That prayer was like a lifeline, one that Armand the god could manipulate. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he began to pour out an endless flow of faith that rained into the mortal realm.

  Armand the construct felt a revitalization, his spell circuits being fueled by the excess faith. It wasn’t like mana; it didn't feel natural, but that was the least of his worries as he poured all of the energy into the soul-severing magic. A purple, clear blade formed. If he could smile, he would have, as he brought the blade down on the Goblin King’s soul and severed it in twain.

  Deep within the mass of red, he saw him: Fenrir.

  However, a new problem occurred—the faith power was running out. He had enough to move, but the souls before him began to be pulled toward their respective planes of existence, and he was left with a choice: trap the soul of his mortal enemy, or rescue one of his oldest companions.

  The choice was surprisingly easier than he expected. He plunged his remaining arm into the soul mass and pulled out the wolf’s soul. Pulling out the remaining bottle from his cavity, he placed Fenrir’s soul within it.

  The Goblin King continued to scream and writhe from having his soul split apart, but without the power of faith in the area, the screeching halves were pulled down into the earth and presumably to the Abyss.

  It was over. Glordon the Goblin King was dead. While the tyrant's soul had escaped his grasp, Armand had recovered the missing half of the Priestess's soul and even saved a dear companion.

  He looked back at the forest. It was in a dismal state, trees shattered and split apart. Small flames had now become roaring fires. But he couldn't do anything but power down now that the mana and faith had truly ran out. All he could do was clutch the cavity in his chest and enter hibernation.