He awoke to silence.
Not the oppressive, deadened silence of ash and ruin—but something else. A calm. A stillness. The weight in his chest was gone. The air no longer burned in his lungs. For a long moment, he simply lay there, unmoving, letting it all wash over him.
Grass brushed against his skin. Real grass. Soft, dewy, cool to the touch. He stared up at a sky he couldn't believe was real—blue, wide, endless. Clouds floated gently by, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, light did not hurt his eyes.
He sat up slowly, wincing. Pain ran through his side. His arms bore scars—new and old—his chest wrapped in ash-stained cloth and dry blood. But it didn't matter. It was quiet. No roars, no screams, no burning sky. Only the sound of wind through trees and the distant call of birds.
He took a deep breath and nearly cried.
The world around him was vast and green. Trees, not blackened and skeletal, but tall and swaying, lined the hills. Wildflowers grew in patches, bright and unaware of any darkness. A small river trickled nearby, its water glinting with sunlight.
Was this a dream?
He reached behind him. The axe was still there. Heavy. Familiar. Out of place.
It rested against the grass, massive and dark, its double-edged blade chipped and blackened with use. It didn't belong here. Neither did he.
He stood, carefully. His legs trembled beneath him, and his back ached from years of strain, but he stood. His shadow stretched long in the morning light. For a moment, he watched it. He had not seen his own shadow in years.
He walked.
No goal. No destination. He just moved, one step after another. Each footfall pressed into soft earth instead of scorched stone. Trees gave him shade, birdsong gave him rhythm. His body still ached, but his mind began to loosen.
Hours passed—or maybe only minutes. He couldn't tell. Time was strange here. Kind, even.
Then he heard it.
A voice.
"Hey!"
He froze. Instinct surged. He gripped his axe.
From between the trees, a figure emerged. Human. Or something close. A young man, clothed in leather armor and a green cloak, carrying a bow over his shoulder. He looked surprised—maybe even afraid.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the man said, raising his hands.
He didn't reply. His grip tightened on the axe.
"You're injured," the stranger said, more gently. "You look... half-dead."
Still, silence.
The man took a step forward. "Can you speak?"
His mouth opened. No words came.
The man frowned. "Alright. Let's just... start with this. Do you need help?"
He hesitated.
And then, slowly, he nodded.
The stranger smiled, cautious but kind. "Come on, there's a village nearby. You can rest there. You look like you've come out of a war."
He didn't answer. But he followed.
Each step was slower now. His strength was fading. The calm was catching up to him. He had spent so long fighting, never stopping. Now that he had, the pain came all at once.
They walked for maybe a mile before the dizziness set in. His vision swam. The trees around him blurred.
Then the world tilted.
He fell.
Darkness crept back in, but it was not cruel this time. It was soft. Gentle.
He dreamt of the axe. Of the hellhounds. Of the colossal beast with mountain-breaking wings. He saw their eyes. He heard their growls. He remembered every moment of death. Every strike. Every breath taken just to survive.
Then he saw the light.
And the relic.
And the storm it unleashed.
And a voice.
One he had never heard, but somehow recognized.
"You are not done yet."
He awoke in a bed.
Warm sheets. A wooden roof. A small room lit by morning sun through a paper screen window. Birds sang outside. The smell of bread and herbs wafted in.
He blinked slowly.
His axe leaned against the far wall. Cleaned. Oiled.
His chest was wrapped in fresh bandages. A bowl of cool water sat beside the bed.
There was a knock at the door.
"You're awake?" It was the same voice. The stranger.
He sat up, groaning softly. "Where... am I?"
The words scratched their way out of his throat. It had been so long.
The door opened. The stranger entered, smiling. "You're safe. This is Eloran. A village near the forest edge. You were half-dead."
He looked down at his hands. Still scarred. Still his.
"What... is this place?"
The man shrugged. "Peaceful, mostly. You'll be safe here. For now."
He nodded slowly.
The axe called to him. It didn't belong here.
And yet... neither did he.
But for now, he was breathing.
And for now, that was enough.