The silence was heavy.
It wrapped around Doran—thick and unmoving—like the golden air itself had frozen in grief.
He was on his knees, head bowed into the dirt, hands clutching at his temples. His scream had already been swallowed by the stillness. His throat burned. His body trembled.
The only sound was the faint, crackling hush of gold-covered debris settling—like the world itself was exhaling its final breath.
"This isn't real," he muttered. "This isn't real… This isn't…"
But the lie tasted hollow.
He forced his head up, blinking through tears, desperate to find something—anything—to prove this was all some fevered dream. That this wasn't happening. That someone… anyone… might still be breathing.
Instead, he saw them.
Two children, no older than eight or nine, caught mid-motion in a game of chase. One leaned forward, arms outstretched, laughter frozen on their face. The other had just turned to glance back, mouth open in joy, feet barely touching the ground.
Their expressions were perfect.
So full of life.
So utterly, terribly wrong.
They were gold.
Every detail—every fold in their clothes, every strand of hair, even the dust kicked up in their footsteps—was rendered in glistening, eternal metal.
Time hadn't just stopped. It had been sculpted.
Doran's stomach turned. He staggered to his feet, boots scraping hard against the stone as he stumbled backward.
And then he saw them.
A father and daughter.
The man had thrown himself over her, arms wrapped tight in a final, protective embrace. Her small face, half-buried in his chest, peeked out with wide, terrified eyes.
They too were gold.
A monument to love in the last heartbeat before the world ended.
Doran's breath hitched. The golden village stretched endlessly in every direction—glowing, silent, still.
A world not dead… but something far crueler.
He stood alone.
And it felt like the sky itself collapsed upon him.
A bitter taste welled in his throat. His knees buckled.
He hunched forward and vomited violently onto the scorched earth.
His whole body trembled with the force of it—part nausea, part grief, part terror too vast for words.
He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, spitting weakly into the dirt.
Then—
A voice.
Smooth. Detached. Almost amused.
"Took the body of a mortal, I see."
Doran froze.
The voice came from nowhere. No direction. It slithered into his ears from the edges of the world, as if whispered through a veil he couldn't see.
He raised his head slowly, eyes unfocused, heart pounding.
The air shifted.
Pressure—wrong, foreign—rose from below, coiling around his legs like smoke made solid. Hues of blue, purple, and sickly green twisted upward, wrapping around him like serpents of light.
He couldn't move.
What is this?
Why can't I…?
Terror flooded him. His limbs locked. His body dropped like a puppet with cut strings, collapsing into the dirt as the aura gripped tighter.
He gasped for breath, but it came thin—strained, like breathing through cloth. The world pulsed and warped at the edges of his vision. Even the gold seemed to shimmer under the weight of the presence.
Then—footsteps.
Polished black shoes appeared in his line of sight.
A man, tall and composed, dressed immaculately. Tailored black slacks. A faint shimmer of blue and gold along the cuffs. He stepped lightly through the dust, stopping inches from Doran's face.
Doran's eyes fluttered—wide, but dazed.
The man knelt.
Only half his face caught the light—but what Doran could see turned his blood to ice.
A manic smile stretched across his face, too wide to be human. His skin was pale, unblemished. Unmoving.
But it was his eyes that struck hardest.
Swirls of purple and green spiraled endlessly within them—like whirlpools of madness, alive and infinite.
Doran couldn't look away.
"The pain is suffocating, isn't it?"
The voice was like oil poured across velvet.
Doran tried to speak, to move—anything—but the aura held him fast. His body refused him. His voice was a ghost inside his throat.
The man crouched, posture casual. One hand rested on his knee; the other flicked dust from his trousers.
He tilted his head. Smiled wider.
"You should learn to smile through the pain."
That grin cut across his face like a blade.
Doran stared into the abyss of that gaze—and felt it staring back.
"This is TRUE humor," the man mused. "I had thought you were the one I was looking for."
A sudden, manic laugh burst from his throat, echoing off the golden ruins like a joke shared with corpses.
"HaHaHaHaHaHaHaHa—!"
Doran laid limp, cheek pressed into the dirt. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind barely holding on.
He stood, brushing his pants like someone finishing a chore.
"My name is Daegryn, heir to the Lord of Decay."
The smile returned—wicked and unshakable.
"Maybe it was fate that spared you from what your little friends endured," he mused. "Or maybe—"
He leaned in close, spirals flaring in his eyes.
"—it's punishment."
Doran's heart pounded.
His blood screamed.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
But he could feel.
A deep, molten fury bloomed in his chest.
His fingers clawed into the dirt.
His teeth clenched.
And with breath ragged and voice raw, he growled—
"I… will… kill you."
Daegryn stopped.
Turned.
Brushed the dust from his sleeve.
"Oh?"
He smiled, utterly pleased.
"Come find me in the Land of Gods. I've got a bird to catch."
He turned away, the aura pulsing one last time before fading—but its presence lingered, thick and suffocating, like smoke after fire.
"I appreciate a bit of fight," he added, without looking back.
"I'm eager to see why fate let you live."
Doran stared after him, eyes wide, breath unsteady.
And then—
A flicker.
At the edge of his vision, something moved.
A single orange feather, drifting downward.
Vibrant against the ruin.
Unbothered by the golden decay.
It twirled gently… then landed just before him.
The aura faltered.
Only slightly.
But Doran felt it.
Air rushed back into his lungs like fire. His chest heaved. The pressure loosened—even if only for a moment.
Daegryn paused.
He didn't turn fully. Just enough.
His posture stiffened.
Then he smiled again.
Wider.
Sharper.
"There you are," he whispered.
A whisper thick with joy.
With hunger.
And without another word, he vanished.
All that remained was a cloud of black mist—
Drifting in Daegryn's wake like the shadow of something that should not exist.
The aura retracted.
It slipped away like a tide dragged violently back into the sea.
The colors—purple, green, blue—faded to nothing, swallowed by the silence that followed.
Doran lay on the ground.
His chest rose and fell in ragged, desperate heaves—air finally filling his lungs, sharp and electric, like breath after drowning. Every inhale seared like fire.
He stayed there.
Still.
Gasping.
As if he'd just returned from the edge of death.
The earth beneath him was warm.
His skin burned.
His muscles felt torn apart and crudely reassembled.
But his mind focused on one word.
One name.
Daegryn.
He lifted his head slowly—dirt and tears streaking his face. His eyes scanned the golden ruins, the twisted silhouettes of homes and people and memories…
But there was no trace of the man.
No aura.
No sound.
No presence.
Only the bitter echo of what had just transpired—
And the hatred it left behind.
"I'll find you."
The words rasped from his throat, barely more than breath—
But beneath them burned something sharp.
Not grief.
Not sorrow.
Not even fear.
Vengeance.
His fists clenched in the dirt, fingers curling against the ruined earth.
He was still broken.
Still weak.
But not shattered.
Not yet.