The storm had died, but its echo still lingered in the trembling leaves and broken soil. Smoke curled from the charred remains of what once was—a battlefield, a village, or perhaps both. The air smelled of iron and wet earth, and among the scattered corpses and burnt weapons, one man stirred.
Aarvian.
His body was bruised, blood crusting along his forearms, the remnants of divine markings faintly visible beneath torn skin. His eyes fluttered open, and for a brief second, the sky above him shimmered—split by golden light—as if the heavens recognized something buried within him. Then it was gone. Just gray clouds and the soft murmur of dying rain.
He sat up slowly, every motion weighed with exhaustion. His mind was a void, stripped of everything—his past, his purpose, his power. Only pain remained. Pain, and a memory he couldn't quite reach. A woman's laughter. A crimson cloth fluttering in the wind. The sharp sting of betrayal.
His fists clenched.
A whisper passed through his mind, faint but ancient—like a verse torn from the Rigveda itself.
"Within ash lies fire; within silence, thunder."
He gasped, hand clutching his chest. A heat surged beneath his ribs, crawling up his spine. The soil trembled beneath him as faint golden runes began to pulse around his body. The storm clouds swirled, lightning flickered—and for a heartbeat, he remembered something. A vast throne of flame. A thousand warriors kneeling. A woman reaching out to him with tears in her eyes.
Then darkness.
The surge snapped.
He fell to his knees, panting.
From the treelined, a shadow stirred—a cloaked figure, watching. Eyes like burning sapphires followed his every move.
"Still alive…" the figure murmured, lips curving into a knowing smile. "So, the Fallen God breathes again."
Aarvian rose slowly, eyes narrowing though he could see no one. The weight of unseen gazes pressed upon him. Instinct told him to unleash what burned within, to summon the force that once made even gods kneel. But… he didn't. Not yet.
He straightened his posture, hiding the tremor in his hand. "Who's there?" he demanded, though his tone lacked the divine command it once carried.
No reply came—only the wind, whispering secrets through the trees.
He took a deep breath, pushing down the strange power surging within. Whatever this world was—whatever he had become—he needed to adapt. To survive. To act weak until strength could be reclaimed.
Because if betrayal had cost him his world once, it would never happen again.
"Even gods fall—not because they are weak, but because they trust."
~Sky Dragonmire