The Faithful Dead

Three hundred years ago, the gods died. All of them. In the same week, across every pantheon, every tradition, every scrap of faith humanity had ever organized itself around. The lights went out.

The marks didn't.

Every person born with a divine mark — a blessing pressed into skin at birth by a priest channeling their patron god — still carries one. And here's the part that should be impossible: they still work. Prayers still get answered. Healings still happen. Warriors still feel that familiar warmth before battle when they touch their marks and ask for protection.

Nobody knows who's answering.