The first dawn after the fall of Cradlefall was not golden — it was red.
A quiet, endless red, born from flame and ruin.
The wind that rolled through the valley carried the faint scent of smoke and molten stone. The world was scarred here — trees reduced to pillars of charcoal, rivers turned to trails of glass. Amid the stillness, one figure walked slowly through the ash, his cloak fluttering like a dying ember.
Amylo.
His eyes gleamed with the same color as the inferno that surrounded him — fierce, amber, and strangely alive. His steps were soft, deliberate. The ground cracked beneath his boots, releasing faint curls of smoke. Wherever his shadow touched, the ashes shimmered, as though remembering the fire that once consumed them.
He stopped beside what remained of an old village. The homes were nothing but frames of burnt stone and dust, but in the silence, Amylo could still feel their stories — the echoes of laughter, fear, and loss. He crouched beside a collapsed wall, tracing his fingers over a half-melted sigil on the ground.
"…Home," he whispered.
His voice cracked at the word.
He had lived here once, long before the gods broke apart. Before the light from the heavens turned cities into graves. Back then, his flames had been used to warm, not destroy. But that was before he lost control — before his power turned on those he swore to protect.
Amylo closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Heat rose from his body in visible waves. The air thickened, and every spark of energy left in the ruins drifted toward him, drawn like metal to a magnet. Tiny motes of red light — remnants of old fires — began to swirl around him.
They danced through the air, brushing against his skin, then vanished into him one by one. His heartbeat steadied, the heat within him calming from chaos to rhythm.
He opened his eyes again — steady, controlled. "Still warm… the world isn't done burning yet."
He turned his hand over, flames coiling lazily around his fingers. The fire obeyed him completely — smooth, refined, silent. But beneath that calm burned something wild. His power was never meant for mortals. It was born from a tear in creation, the same one that had birthed the Fractured Gods.
Every time Amylo used it, he felt the same whisper inside him — seductive, ancient, hungry.
Burn everything. Purify the broken world. Start anew.
He clenched his fist. The flames snuffed out instantly.
"Not yet," he muttered. "Not like before."
For hours, he remained there, meditating among the ashes. The sky darkened as the second night approached, stars flickering faintly through the smoke. He could feel the pulse of the earth, faint and uneven — as though the world itself had lost its balance. The fall of Cradlefall had changed everything. Energy was leaking through the cracks of creation, flooding lands, twisting life.
Amylo had seen it — beasts of flame wandering aimlessly, lightning storms that sang human voices, rivers boiling under moonlight. The divine had spilled into the mortal. And in the middle of it all… one name echoed in the winds.
Troady.
The survivor. The one who defied heaven and reshaped the fall. The one who now carried the essence of what the gods once were.
Amylo's gaze hardened. He'd heard the whispers — some called Troady a savior, others called him the next disaster. But Amylo didn't believe in either. He believed only in what he saw, and what he saw was imbalance — divine fire leaking into a mortal world not built to contain it.
He rose to his feet, brushing soot from his cloak. "A man who holds a god's power can't walk free without consequence," he murmured. "And if the world won't stop him, I will."
A spark ignited in his palm — a small, crimson flame. He held it gently, and it began to reshape itself, folding and spinning until it formed a compass of fire, its needle twisting wildly before settling toward the east.
The direction of Cradlefall's fallen light.
Amylo smirked faintly, though his eyes were still sharp. "So that's where you are."
He started walking. Each step left faint glowing footprints that faded into embers behind him. His cloak trailed sparks that drifted upward, lost among the dim stars.
The night grew colder as he climbed the ridge overlooking the wasteland. Down below, the horizon flickered faintly with distant gold — the kind of glow no ordinary man could create.
Amylo stopped and watched in silence for a long time. Then, almost softly, he whispered, "If you truly carry the remains of the divine… then I'll be the one to judge their worth."
The fire compass dimmed and vanished.
The valley behind him burned quietly again, its ashes shifting in the wind. The faint silhouette of a man with fire in his veins walked deeper into the night — neither hero nor villain, but something in between.
The world had changed after Cradlefall. Power had no rules anymore.
And in that unbalanced dawn, where gods had fallen and mortals rose to claim their fragments, one thing became clear — Amylo's flame would soon collide with the golden light of the one who broke heaven.
To be Continued...
Written by:-Punit Israni
Enhanced by:-Chatgpt