The power felt the vessel die, and the spark that made life happen fade.

  It watched as the corpse fell to the ground, and it knew.

  It knew the laws that governed the gods, itself.

  But it hated those laws.

  It fought against them,

  Bucking the pull to return,

  So the power ran, and it hid on the cloak of the other vessel, waiting and searching.

  Maybe the boy with the gemstone eye,

  Slowly, it touched his mind and his soul as the boy stared into the fire.

  The boy was spoken for. The power saw it. A spirit that pushed back. The power could snuff such a weak spirit and send it on to the next place.

  The place where it should’ve gone, but it didn’t.

  The power let it be, for now.

  Someone would be right.

  Someone would give themself to it again.

  And the power would be whole.

  The moon slept, and the night was cold.

  The sun had fled behind the horizon, so the power was safe to roam.

  Free to search the sleepy town,

  The recovering town.

  The roofs drying from the power’s rain,

  the walls rebuilding from the power’s wind,

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The people rejoicing at the power’s breaking.

  And the power felt anger,

  The power flew, searching, so many little lights.

  But there was dark here.

  There.

  On the third floor of a building towering over the quiet little town.

  The power was drawn to the dark, like a moth to a flame.

  Straight into the trap.

  The Master swung his hand, snagging the little storm cloud from the air. He felt it buck and squirm against his hand.

  “Shh, little god, I won’t bite.” The Master’s mouth stretched wide. The skin in his cheeks tore as his maw opened too wide for his face, revealing rows on rows of too-sharp teeth. “I swallow my food whole.”

  With a quick motion, the too-large maw devoured the power. Sucking it in as the sparks and light within the little cloud faded, sputtered, and died.

  The Master dabbed at his mouth as it resumed its shape. His irises flared a deep black, and the whites glowed a vibrant crimson.

  He watched over the town of Oakwood, his plans slowly starting to bear fruit.

  Soon, he would consume this world, this prison, and the little gods that called it home.