I walked.
Always.
The world had shifted while I endured.
Villages had sprouted where once only ruin stood.
Fields scratched at the dry earth.
Thin walls rose against winds they could never tame.
I did not linger among them.
I passed —
silent,
worn thin,
barefoot on broken stones.
Dust clung to my skin.
My eyes were dulled, empty.
I carried no weapon.
No burden.
No voice.
When they spoke to me,
I did not answer.
When they shouted,
I did not flinch.
So they gathered.
Men from the village,
armed with sticks, ropes, and jagged bone.
Fear sharpened their movements.
Rage dulled their caution.
They struck.
They beat me down into the dust.
Blood slicked the stones beneath my hands.
I did not resist.
There was no reason to.
They bound me.
Dragged me across the dirt,
past hollow faces,
past children who stared with wide, uncertain eyes.
They cast me into a pit —
a hole dug for refuse,
for diseased beasts,
for things too broken to be useful.
They called me slave.
Or something close enough.
I did not understand their words.
But I understood their eyes.
They saw me as waste.
Time dissolved.
Days passed —
or perhaps it was longer.
They made me haul stones.
Clean fouled water.
Chase scavengers from their scraps.
I obeyed.
Not because I feared them.
Not because I hoped.
Simply because there was nothing else.
But strangeness breeds fear.
And silence breeds resentment.
They found me strange.
Then useless.
Then a threat to the fragile order they barely clung to.
One morning,
they dragged me from the pit once more.
An order barked,
sharp and certain.
I understood.
I had outlived my use.
They led me to the arena.
A rough circle of scorched earth.
Charred stones marking the boundaries where screams had long since faded.
I was not alone.
Five others stumbled beside me —
their faces hollow,
their bodies broken.
Vagabonds.
Criminals.
The unwanted.
Around the pit,
the village gathered.
Faces blurred by dust and hunger.
They laughed.
They jeered.
They waited.
The cages opened.
Two beasts slinked into the light —
monstrous shapes twisted by hunger and time.
Jaws wide.
Eyes yellow and hollow.
The condemned cried out.
One ran.
Another collapsed to his knees, whispering to gods that had long since abandoned them.
I remained standing.
The beasts lunged.
The first tore a man apart before he could even scream.
The second crushed another's skull between its jaws.
The crowd roared.
One of them turned on me.
Teeth found my shoulder.
Claws tore my side.
Bones cracked under the assault.
I fell.
I bled.
And then —
I returned.
Flesh stitched itself anew.
Bones realigned.
Breath surged back into hollow lungs.
I rose.
No rage.
No sound.
I simply stood,
stitched back together,
as if the ruin meant nothing.
The crowd fell silent.
The weight of it pressed down heavier than any scream.
A child dropped his fig.
An old man let his staff slip from his fingers.
A whisper.
A name.
A ripple through the stunned mass.
Anor'Ven.
The name grew.
Rose.
Became a chant.
They fell to their knees.
One by one.
Some wept.
Some laughed.
Torn between awe and terror.
They thought the god had returned.
The god of half-remembered murals,
of broken songs,
of whispers buried in the dust.
The god who did not die.
The god who always returned.
But I did not see their faces.
I did not see their raised hands.
I looked only at the sky.
Empty.
Cold.
Silent.
I did not bless them.
I did not speak.
I did not lift my hand.
I turned away.
And I left.
Let them believe.
Let them kneel.
Let them pray.
I was no longer there for them.
I was no longer there for anyone.