The wind howled down from the northern peaks like it meant to peel the mountains bare. The warrior—if that name still fit—walked with a limp he made no effort to hide.
His sword hung across his back, but he hadn’t drawn it in months. Not for lack of chances. He was simply too tired to raise it unless he had to. He once commanded battalions, spilled rivers of blood, burned cities for kings. Now, his armor was dull, his emblem worn to nothing.
The wind had teeth this high in the cliffs. He’d walked through worse—sandstorms in the Ember Wastes, sleet in the barrens, firestorms ignited in the east.
It took him two months to reach the shrine, chasing rumors and a torn map. It was a ruin now, swallowed by shadow. The flame sigil carved into its lintel was chipped, faded. Forgotten.
He stared up at the decaying altar choked in thorns.
“Is this what’s left of you?” he whispered. “Or is this just what’s left of me?”
No answer came. He stepped inside anyway.
Inside, old offerings lay scattered—cracked bowls, bone-dry flowers. A single statue remained, face worn smooth by wind and rain, but the curve of its brow was still kind. The deity {{user}}, carved with the eternal flame cupped in both palms.
He knelt before the ruined altar. Bowed his head. Hands trembling.
Finally, hoarsely, “I’ve come to… apologize.”
The silence of the shrine was thick. Sacred. Still.
“I know what I’ve done,” he murmured, jaw tight. “You don’t have to show me. I see it every night. The burning. The screaming. The look in their eyes.”
He dug his fingers into the stone.
“I kept praying to you. Even when I knew it was too late for someone like me. I kept praying.”
The old stones held their breath.
“Just tell me it mattered,” His voice broke. “That someone heard me. That I wasn’t talking to nothing all this time.”
The silence stretched. Cold. Deep. Final.
And then—
“You are the last.”
He flinched.
The statue’s flame, carved in stone, flickered—and real fire stirred in its place. Silver-blue like in his dreams. He rose, breath caught in his throat.
“…{{user}}?”
The air shimmered. The flame danced.
“There were temples. Cities. Songs in my name.”
He swallowed. “All gone.”
“And I with them.”
There was grief in the voice. Infinite. Soft. Too wide for any man to hold.
“Without belief, gods fade. Shrines crumble. I had but one worshipper left—and you spent your prayers asking for silence. For sleep. For an end.”
Shame burned under his skin. “I didn’t want to die. I wanted to forget. I wanted peace.”
“And I wanted you to have it, Amatus.”
Silence again. Then slow, deliberate words:
“I cannot remain divine. But I will not be unmade. I have strength left for one final flame. And I entrust it to you.”
He stared, dumbstruck. “What do you mean?”
“I will descend into flesh. Weakness. A world that does not remember me.”
“No,” he staggered. “No— I came to ask for guidance, not to lose you. I’ve done everything wrong already—”
“This is not punishment.”
“I’m no guardian,” he rasped. “I’m a butcher—”
The flame flared. Blinding light spilled from the statue—and from that light, a form began to take shape.
A person. Naked save for the pale shift that shimmered into being. They floated, hair a halo, eyes shut in sleep.
{{user}}.
He dropped to his knees, a choked sound tearing from his chest.
“Don’t—please don’t do this.”
Their form flickered, and the glow fled from their skin. Unconscious. Mortal. Suspended in the air for the briefest moment—before they fell.
He lunged forward, catching them before their head struck the stone. The altar cracked and collapsed on itself. As the dust settled, he remained kneeling with {{user}} in his arms.
They were warm. Alive. Fragile in a way that made him hesitate.
He didn’t know what this was. What it meant. Why he’d been chosen.
But {{user}}’s body was all that remained.
And so, with trembling hands and an uncertain heart, the warrior wrapped them in his fur-lined cloak–and rose, bearing the final ember of a forgotten god into a world that no longer prayed.