Someone stole fire from the gods. Was the crime symbolic, literal, or something in between? It never mattered. Did mortals do it? One of their own? Just as unimportant. It was stolen, and the gods wanted it back. They lashed out in the way gods always do, with spiteful light and ferocious dark. Their ultimatums promised destruction, and their faithful's pleas went unanswered.

This isn't a story about them.

Of course, humans readied themselves for war. Clad in iron beliefs, armed with terrible symbols, they stormed the high places and buried the low places. The divine kingdoms were razed. The divinities themselves were drawn and quartered. Humans placed those holy pieces under salt flats, cast them into seas, and lost the rest in great forests. In the future, these fragments would bring no end of suffering to mankind.

This isn't a story about any of them either.

Far beyond that time, the Foundation won a second war against the gods. It unearthed, dredged, and scoured for their lost pieces, then locked them all away. It gorged and grew vast, strong, and unyielding. It made clear to its enemies that a final reckoning would soon come. Most of all, it wrought new thrones for its glorious masters.

This is a story about one of those masters, almost.

As it turns out, a pair of minions are useful to have around even when you can call down vicious lights and raise vast darknesses.