Darkness used to feel like home.
It wrapped around me the way the deepest ocean does—heavy, endless, absolute. No sound. No light. Only the weight of existence pressing inward until even thought became still.
For a long time, I believed that was the end.
My body had shattered.My name had been erased.My legacy reduced to ruins and whispers carved into stone.
The world I protected burned—and then went silent.
I accepted it.
I chose it.
And yet…darkness did not keep me forever.
Something reached through it.
A sound.
At first, it was distant—faint vibrations, like pressure shifting in deep water. Then warmth followed. Not the violent heat of collapsing stars or the burning edges of a dying nebula, but something gentler.
Human.
Waves brushing against a wooden hull. The creak of rope. The low murmur of a man's voice. Laughter, uncertain and alive.
And then—
Hands.
Careful. Rough with work, yet trembling slightly as they held me.
A woman's touch followed. Softer. Warmer. Steady in a way that spoke of endurance rather than strength.
That was when I understood.
I had been reborn.
Not as a god.Not as a guardian.Not as a weapon forged for war.
But as a child.
I cannot speak.
I cannot command the skies or tear the sea open at will. I cannot rise as I once did, crowned in light and terror. My body is small now—soft, fragile, unfamiliar. My limbs respond slowly, clumsily, as though they belong to someone else.
Even breathing feels… new.
And yet—
I am aware.
More aware than they realize.
I see the way their eyes linger on me, searching for danger and finding none. I feel the hesitation in their hands—the fear that I might break, or worse, be something that should not exist.
They do not know who I was.
They do not know the worlds I walked across like stepping stones. The monsters I erased from history. The civilizations I shielded until my own name became a curse whispered by kings.
They do not know how many stars I watched die.
How many times I chose destruction so that something fragile could survive.
It is… strange.
They do not bow.They do not kneel.They do not chant my name in reverence or fear.
They simply hold me.
They feed me with shaking hands. They bathe me in warm water, whispering softly as if afraid to disturb my sleep. They sing songs that carry no power—no ancient resonance—yet calm something within me far more effectively than any divine hymn ever did.
They call me Euryale.
Softly.
As if it is just a name.
Not a title etched into the fear of empires. Not a name that once caused the skies to darken and armies to scatter. Just… a name meant for a child.
And somehow, that hurts more than oblivion ever did.
And yet—
For the first time in thousands of years, I feel something unfamiliar.
Peace.
I test myself sometimes—instinctively. A gentle touch against a wooden toy. A subtle pull of air toward the open window. Nothing violent. Nothing destructive.
Even so, it leaves me exhausted.
My power is a shadow of what it once was.
And that is… acceptable.
This time, I do not need to stand at the edge of existence, holding everything together with blood and fire. This time, I am allowed to be small.
To rest.
They do not remember what happened to our world.
But I remember.
I remember my final breath.
I remember choosing to burn—choosing to become ash so that others might live just a little longer.
And now, I am here.
Cradled in warmth. Wrapped in cloth. Watched over by two gentle souls who have no idea they are raising a being who once held creation in his hands.
They call me their child.
And for now—
That is enough.