The fire crackles.No one speaks.
The bandits are dead or gone, their blood soaking into the mud. The villagers—the starving, hollow-eyed souls who've been cowering under their rule—stare at me like I'm something they can't understand. A ghost. A monster.
I wipe the blood from my hands. "Food," I say.
No one moves. A woman clutches a child to her chest. An old man grips a crude walking stick, his knuckles white.
"I said food," I repeat, sharper this time.
The villagers look at one another, hesitant. Eventually, a boy—skinny, no older than ten—scurries into one of the crumbling huts and returns with a hunk of stale bread. I snatch it from his hands and tear off a bite.
It's hard. Dry. Disgusting.
But I eat. My body needs fuel, no matter how bitter it tastes.
One of the villagers, a wiry man with a weathered face, finally steps forward. "You killed them." His voice is hoarse, uncertain.
I meet his gaze. "They needed killing."
Silence.
Then, a woman speaks, barely above a whisper. "Are… are you a knight?"
I almost laugh. A knight. I was once a god of war. Now, I'm a half-starved wretch, eating scraps in a ruined village.
"No," I say.
Another silence. The villagers glance at one another again, as if deciding something.
Finally, the wiry man nods. "You can stay the night. But come morning, you leave."
I don't argue. I need rest. Need time to think.
Need to understand what the hell has happened to this world.
The hut they give me is barely standing. The roof sags, and the walls are more gaps than wood, but it's better than nothing. I collapse onto a pile of ragged furs, my body aching.
I close my eyes. Sleep comes in fits. Memories churn beneath my skin.
The battlefield. The betrayal. The gods turning against me, their divine spears tearing through my flesh.
I hear the voice of the High Pantheon's ruler, his decree ringing through the heavens.
"Asher Valerian, you are forsaken. Your name shall be erased, your power scattered. Never again shall you stand among us."
I wake with a snarl, my fingers digging into the furs. Forsaken.
No.
I am still here.
I will not be erased.
Dawn breaks.
I rise with the sun, my body stiff but stronger than yesterday. Stepping outside, I find the villagers gathered near the remains of the bandits' supplies. They murmur among themselves, uneasy.
The wiry man from last night—Taron, I think they called him—steps forward.
"You're leaving." It's not a question.
I nod. "Where's the nearest city?"
Taron hesitates. "You're heading to the capital?"
Capital. That means civilization. Means knowledge. If the gods scattered my power, there must be a way to reclaim it.
"Yes."
Taron exhales. "Three days west. But you won't make it on foot."
He gestures, and a boy leads a ragged mule toward me. A pack of supplies hangs from its side—dried meat, a waterskin, a crude knife.
"Take it." Taron's expression is unreadable. "We owe you that much."
I take the reins without a word.
As I mount the mule, Taron speaks again. "What's your name?"
I pause. My name.
Asher Valerian is dead. Forsaken. The gods think they've erased me.
But I will rise again.
I glance at Taron, my voice steady.
"Valerian."
And then I ride west.
Toward my revenge.
New chapter next week,with support I can try to shorten the time