Ascension of the Exiled

The world was silent.

Azarion awoke to the eerie stillness of an unfamiliar land. His first sensation was a crushing weight upon his chest, not of armor or divine burden, but of something far more oppressive—a mortal body, weak and frail, barely able to support itself. His once golden skin was now pale, the divine glow that had once illuminated the heavens gone. His hands, once capable of bending the very fabric of time, trembled as he touched the cold earth beneath him.

A gust of wind blew across the barren expanse, but there was no relief. The sky, a dull shade of gray, seemed to swallow the light, and the air reeked of burnt ash. The land around him was desolate, the remains of charred trees and cracked stone stretching endlessly in every direction. He was no longer in the Celestial Realms, no longer among the gods he had called kin. He was cast down—exiled.

Azarion's mind raced as the memories flooded back in a torrent: the betrayal, the cold hands of the gods as they sealed him in chains of starlight, and the overwhelming light that had pulled him from the heavens. He had felt the very essence of his existence shatter as he was cast into the void, and then... nothing. Only this desolate wasteland.

His chest tightened. His divine power was gone.

He reached out, instinctively trying to call upon the infinite energy that once flowed through his veins, but nothing happened. Not even a flicker.

"Damn them..." he muttered under his breath.

Slowly, with great effort, Azarion pushed himself to his feet, feeling the weight of his new mortal body. His once majestic form, so full of strength and power, now felt like a cage—fragile, vulnerable. The realization hit him with the force of a thunderclap: He was no longer a god.

A rustle sounded in the distance.

Azarion stiffened, his senses alert despite his weakened state. He tried to focus, reaching for the remnants of his godly senses. He could still feel the pulse of energy in the air, faint and fleeting, but enough to warn him that something—someone—was approaching.

A figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby ruined structure. A woman, tall and cloaked in tattered gray robes, her face hidden beneath the hood. She carried a bow slung across her back, and a dagger at her side, though her stance was calm, as if she had no need to prove her strength. Her eyes, however, gleamed with an intelligence that only the sharpest of mortals could possess.

"Who are you?" Azarion's voice was rough, hoarse from the strain of his first words since his fall. He made no move toward her, not yet trusting his fragile form.

The woman studied him carefully, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. "A wanderer," she said simply. "I could ask the same of you. You don't look like someone who belongs here."

Azarion's jaw clenched. He knew well that mortal eyes could see little of what he once was. He was nothing now, a mere echo of the power he once commanded.

"I was cast out," he said, his voice colder now, filled with the weight of the eternity he had lost. "I am Azarion. A god, once."

The woman raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "Well, Azarion, if you really were a god, you'd be dead by now. There's no room for deities in this world anymore. Only survivors."

Azarion's gaze hardened. Survivors. The word tasted bitter on his tongue. The gods who had betrayed him had been too swift in their judgment, too certain of their victory. But this world was different. He could sense it in the air—something had changed since he had fallen. Mortals had grown stronger, the lands corrupted by some unnatural force.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low growl.

The woman spun around, pulling an arrow from her quiver in one fluid motion and nocking it to her bow. Azarion's eyes narrowed as a creature stepped out from the shadows—massive, with glowing red eyes and monstrous claws that scraped against the earth.

It was a beast, but not like any Azarion had seen before. Twisted, grotesque, a fusion of metal and flesh, its form shifting unnaturally with every step. It was not of nature, not of the divine, but something darker. Something... wrong.

"Run!" the woman shouted, firing her arrow at the creature's chest. It struck true, but the beast didn't falter. Instead, it let out a guttural roar, charging at them with terrifying speed.

Azarion's body tensed, but he could do little. His divine power was gone, leaving him as fragile as the mortal woman beside him. But something stirred within him, a spark of defiance, a flicker of the might he had once commanded.

"I'm not running," he muttered to himself, stepping forward, his gaze fixed on the advancing beast.