The Crater-God Walks
The world did not greet him gently.
Aethryx Vaelkor—Kael, now—awoke choking on ash.
His body jerked, lungs spasming as molten dust scraped down his throat. He rolled instinctively, shoulder grinding against glassed stone that cut and burned at once. Pain flared—sharp, immediate, real—and for a terrifying instant he did not understand it.
Gods did not wake in pain.
Men did.
His hand slammed against the ground, fingers curling reflexively. Strength answered—but only barely. His arm trembled, muscles screaming as he forced himself onto his side. The motion sent a wave of agony through his chest, where the shattered sigil still burned like a collapsed star carved into flesh.
He coughed.
Blood spilled from his mouth, thick and dark, steaming as it struck the scorched earth.
Kael lay there, chest heaving, staring up at a sky that felt… wrong.
Too far away.
Too vast.
Clouds drifted slowly overhead, torn and uneven, still bearing the scars of his impact. Sunlight filtered through them in pale shafts, illuminating the edges of the crater—miles wide, its walls jagged and blackened, the land beyond flattened as if pressed beneath a god's palm.
He felt small inside it.
The realization cut deeper than any wound.
Power stirred faintly within him—not the roaring infinity he once commanded, but a dull ember buried under ruin and exhaustion. It responded sluggishly, like a limb asleep for too long. When he reached for it instinctively, pain answered instead.
Kael growled low in his throat.
"So this is what remains," he murmured.
His voice sounded wrong too—rougher, thinner, bound to breath and muscle. He pushed himself upright inch by inch, teeth clenched as his body protested every movement. His knees buckled halfway up, and he slammed a fist into the ground to stop himself from collapsing again.
The crater answered.
A low tremor rippled outward, subtle but unmistakable. Dust lifted. Pebbles skittered. The ground listened.
Kael froze.
For a heartbeat, instinct flared—ancient, predatory. Authority almost surfaced. He felt the echo of command rise to his tongue.
Then it died.
The tremor faded.
The world remained unmoved.
His fist tightened until blood ran between his fingers.
Weak.
The word was poison.
He forced himself to stand anyway.
It took longer than it should have. His legs shook beneath him, muscles unaccustomed to bearing their own weight without divine reinforcement. Every step felt measured, deliberate, like a man learning to walk after a lifetime of flight.
When he finally straightened, Kael stood at the center of the crater—scarred, bloodied, cloaked in torn black fabric that barely clung to his frame.
And the world saw him.
At the crater's edge, far above, figures had gathered.
Mortals.
They stood frozen along the rim—soldiers in battered mail, knights gripping spears with white-knuckled terror, mages clutching staffs that trembled in their hands. Banners lay discarded in the dust. Horses screamed and reared, refusing to come closer.
None dared step forward.
Kael lifted his head slowly, gaze sweeping across them.
Fear hit him like a scent.
It rolled off them in waves—raw, instinctive, unfiltered. His remaining eye narrowed as something ancient stirred in his chest, responding to it. The ember flared just enough for him to feel them.
So many heartbeats.
So fragile.
One of the soldiers fell to his knees without realizing it.
Another dropped his weapon.
A mage whispered a prayer that shattered halfway through.
Kael exhaled.
The air bent.
Not violently. Not yet.
But the pressure was enough to make the front line stagger backward, boots scraping as they fought to keep their footing.
He did not advance.
He did not threaten.
He simply stood.
That was enough.
"By the Throne…" someone whispered. "It's still alive."
Kael turned his head toward the sound.
The speaker—a knight with a cracked helm and soot-streaked armor—stiffened as if struck. His body locked, eyes wide, breath hitching as Kael's gaze settled on him.
Kael felt it then.
A strange resistance in the air. Not magic exactly—something heavier. Something opposing him.
He frowned.
Slowly, deliberately, Kael took a step forward.
Pain lanced through his leg, but he ignored it.
Another step.
The pressure thickened. His foot sank slightly into the glassed ground, not from heat—but from weight. The world resisted him, as if unsure whether he was allowed to move.
Authority denied.
Kael's jaw tightened.
So this is how far they cast me.
He forced the thought aside and took another step anyway.
The ground cracked beneath his foot.
A fissure spiderwebbed outward, racing toward the crater's edge. Mortals cried out as the earth shuddered violently, several losing their footing and tumbling backward.
Kael stopped.
Not because he couldn't continue.
But because he understood.
He was not meant to rise yet.
Not here.
Not now.
His gaze shifted past the soldiers, toward the lands beyond the crater—burned fields, shattered roads, distant ruins still smoking from the shockwave of his fall. He could feel the world stretching outward, full of movement, conflict, bloodshed.
A world born to fight.
A slow smile touched his lips.
Good.
Kael turned away from the onlookers and began to walk.
Each step carried him up the crater wall, muscles burning, breath steadying into a measured rhythm. He climbed without haste, ignoring the blood dripping from his wounds, ignoring the whispers rising behind him.
"Is it… leaving?"
"Don't move—don't provoke it!"
"Gods save us…"
Kael reached the rim.
As he crested the edge, his strength finally faltered. His vision blurred, black spots creeping into the corners. He staggered, catching himself on a jagged stone outcrop before he could fall.
For a moment, the world tilted.
Then he straightened.
Kael looked out across the broken land.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, the gods watched.
He felt it—not their presence, but their attention. Thin. Distant. Cautious.
They were afraid.
Not of what he was.
But of what he would become.
Kael turned his back on the crater and began walking into the world of men.
Every step was agony.
Every breath burned.
But with each movement, the ember in his chest pulsed faintly stronger—fed by pain, by hatred, by the simple act of enduring.
This world would break him.
It would sharpen him.
And when he returned to the heavens—
He would not fall again.