It began with silence.
A silence too sharp, too sudden.

The birds stopped singing.
Even the wind held its breath.

Then came the screams.

He was tending the apple tree when he heard them.
Not the playful yells of children—
but raw, frantic screams that tore through the morning air like knives.

Villagers running.
Smoke rising.
The bell in the watchtower rang—a sound no one had heard in decades.

He didn’t move at first.
Reflex held him still.
Long ago, he would’ve summoned flame or lightning.

But now…
he walked.

Step by step, through the smoke and shouts,
toward the chaos.

What he saw made his breath still.

A creature—twisted and cracked, like it had been sculpted from pain itself—
was tearing through carts and walls.
Eyes like melted gold.
A jaw that never stopped whispering the same phrase:

“Where is the Fallen One…?
Where is Pride?”

Children cried in corners.
Ashen’s mother bled from her arm, shielding others.
The guards—few and untrained—were already down.

He stood there.
Just stood.

His heart pounded—not from fear of the beast,
but from what it demanded.

It came for him.
For the him that no longer existed.

The villagers looked at him now.
Eyes wide.
Some recognizing… something.
Not the man who fixed roofs.

But the one who once broke worlds.

He stepped forward.

The creature turned to him, sensing something ancient in his bones.

“You reek of the Old Fire,” it hissed.
“The sin they couldn’t purge.”

He said nothing.
But he did raise his hand.

Not to strike—
but to shield.

A wall of invisible force shimmered between the creature and the villagers.
Not divine.
Not godly.
Just… will.
And memory.

The creature lunged—
and the former god stood his ground.

That was the moment the village learned:
he had not abandoned his power.

He had simply chosen
not to use it…
until he must.