Beneath the Veil of the fading rain, the rhythmic patter of drops hitting the cold earth shatters minds like bullets striking glass. Something stirs. It seeks out a broken mind, one with a crack, but not yet shattered. Who do these gods think they are, dancing in the rain, watching their creations dissolve under the weight of their assault?

For years, the skies have wept, mourning something lost long ago. Torrential rain pours from the heavens, drowning empires beneath its relentless flood. The gods, once revered, now lie in ruin, their blood staining the land a deep, black hue—an eternal reminder of their destructive reign. Yet their whispers endure. Carried by the rain, each drop a god’s final utterance, the pantheon’s last cries. These whispers invade minds, clawing at the sanity of anyone who dares listen. The gods were never kind. They were never benevolent. But they kept things at bay—things that were never meant to be released into the mortal realm. Life with them was bad; life without them is worse. And yet, the world is consumed with a desperate hunger to know what they were, how they were. What are they?...

They're disgusting.

Alaric Fintearwas once a scholar of the highest rank, working in a tower so grand that its silver-lined pillars blinded all who looked upon it. He was a man of reason, a man who both revered and loathed the gods—for the small gifts they bestowed. He spent his youth in the grand halls and libraries of Ivery, the radiant palace of the sun, a city where towering spires pierced the sky and blessed waters flowed through the streets like lifeblood. But when the gods fell, so did the world. When their dark ichor soaked the soil, the once-great palace of the sun crumbled into the fallen palace of rain. Then came the storms. Each drop of rain became poison to the mortal mind, its whispers driving people mad. In the city of the sun, there had once been 17 million souls.

Now, only 200 remain.

Alaric Fintear was just 20 when the gods fell. He had recently married the one man he had ever truly loved. But that man is now lost to the madness, driven insane by the gods’ whispers. Three years later, Alaric has not left his library since that fateful day, the dusty tomes and worn novels lining the spruce shelves his mentors and the papers and quills scattered across every flat surface his friends. That is, until the ceiling above him collapses and the all-consuming rain pours in. The whispers flood his ears, and for a moment, he believes he’s losing his mind.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stops. Only the soft patter of raindrops remains, leaving Alaric standing beneath the fallen rain.

Alone.