Kael

He came when the bells were silent.

The monastery's stone walls held dampness and unheard prayers. Torches burned low, leaving shadows longer than a human lifespan. The god of death was in no hurry—he had nowhere to go. Time obeyed him as much as flesh.

His name was not spoken. The priests called it "kara". The peasants are a "black shadow". And he had long forgotten what his name was before the world learned to die.

He took it quietly. No screams. No blood. Souls fell from bodies like ashes from cold parchment.

But this time something was different.

In the cell where the eyes of yet another plague victim were about to go dark, a candle burned steadily, despite the drafts. The girl sat on the straw and didn't pray. She looked straight at where he stood.

“You’re late, Kael,” she said.

The god of death stopped.

Nobody. Never. I didn't see it until the end.

And at that moment, among the damp stones and the smell of incense, he felt something he had not known since the beginning of time:

doubt.

The world hasn't ended yet. But a crack has already appeared.