Chapter 2: The Weight of Forgetting
Morning came slowly to Eldhollow, as if the sun itself hesitated to rise. Mist clung to the ground, curling around broken fences and tired homes. The villagers moved in quiet patterns, stealing glances at the stranger who now sat by the riverbank.
He felt their eyes.
Not with fear alone—but with expectation.
The lost god dipped his hand into the water. It was cold, yet his skin did not flinch. The river responded to his touch, rippling outward in perfect circles. He pulled his hand back quickly, clenching his fist.
I must be careful, he thought. Whatever I am… it should not be seen.
But power, once stirred, does not like to sleep again.
Lyra approached, carrying bread wrapped in cloth. She sat beside him without asking permission, her presence grounding in a way he did not understand.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"Neither did you," he replied.
She smiled faintly. "Hard to sleep when the world feels… louder."
He knew what she meant. Since his arrival, Eldhollow felt different. The air carried a pressure, like the moment before a storm. Even he could feel it building—an invisible tension pulling at his chest.
"I think something is calling me," he admitted quietly.
Lyra stiffened. "Calling you from where?"
He looked toward the distant mountains, their peaks hidden behind dark clouds. "From somewhere I should remember."
Later that day, the ground trembled.
At first, the villagers thought it was an earthquake. Then the screams began.
From the edge of the forest came a sound like stone grinding against bone. A massive shape emerged between the trees—twisted, ancient, wrong. Its body was carved with symbols older than language, glowing faintly as if awakened by his presence.
The lost god felt it instantly.
Recognition.
"This is my fault," he whispered.
Lyra grabbed his arm. "What is that thing?"
"A consequence," he answered.
The creature charged.
Guards raised spears that snapped like twigs. Fear spread faster than fire. Without thinking, the lost god stepped forward, placing himself between the monster and the village.
His heart pounded—not with fear, but with resistance.
No, he told the power rising within him. Not yet.
The creature swung its claw.
Pain exploded through his body as he was thrown backward, crashing into the dirt. The villagers cried out. For a moment, everything went quiet.
Then he stood.
Slowly.
Unharmed.
Silver light leaked from the cracks in his skin, like starlight trying to escape. His eyes burned with something ancient and unyielding.
"Enough," he said.
The word echoed—not in sound, but in existence.
The creature froze, then shattered, collapsing into ash that scattered on the wind.
No one spoke.
The lost god looked at the villagers, at Lyra, at the trembling world around him. His hands shook—not from weakness, but from restraint.
"I don't want to be worshipped," he said. "And I don't want to be feared."
Lyra met his gaze. "Then don't be," she said. "Just… don't run."
High above, beyond the sky mortals could see, ancient eyes opened.
Chains of memory strained.
And somewhere in the heavens, a forgotten name began to stir.
The god was still lost—but the world had found him.