Free will was born from collision, not compassion.
When order and chaos tore creation apart, the wound that remained was humanity. Fate called it an error; Voris called it a scar—the line where the divine script tore and refused to mend. Out of that tear came choice: flawed, blind, magnificent.
Humanity inherited what angels could not endure—the right to err without annihilation, the ability to choose without knowing why. Every act of mercy, every betrayal, every prayer uttered in doubt was a reminder that perfection had failed. To choose, even wrongly, is to proclaim independence from prophecy. Free will is not freedom—it is consequence made conscious. It is the echo of that first rebellion, carried in mortal blood.
And so, the gods perished chasing absolutes, while humans survived by embracing uncertainty. Their wars ended; ours began—the war to live without instruction, to find meaning after the divine fell silent—a broken script, yes, but finally our own to write.