Sylvaren’s death was nothing like he had imagined.

Mostly because he had never imagined it at all. And mostly because this death was not truly death—it was exile, it was his divinity stripped, it was a severing so complete it hollowed him from within. To fall from the heavens was no less final than the grave.

There were no trumpets to mourn him, no songs of nightingales to soften his descent, no faithful worshippers lifting their voices in grief. Only the bite of cold wind against his face as he was cast down, his wings tearing at the air in a desperate frenzy before blackening, curling, and crumbling into ash. When he struck the earth, the ground shuddered as though rejecting him, birds shrieking skyward in panic.

He did not die, but he wished he had. For the gods had betrayed him and cast him away; not for weakness, but for defiance. In the beginning, he had sworn fealty to the high court, bound to their word, his strength pledged to their endless wars. He was a war general as well as a god, a highly respected one at that.

Yet when the command came to burn the mortal cities until nothing but ash remained, Sylvaren withheld his hand. He would not scorch the innocent, not even for the divinities. In that refusal, his vow was broken, and the gods, who tolerated no fracture in their order, condemned him to the fall.

Unconsciousness overcame him upon impact, strange to a being who had never before known pain. He lay there, limp but still alive, the dust of his own wings drifting down to bury him.

When he awoke, it was midday. The sun peered through the trees, drawing patterns on the forest floor. The first thing he noticed was the stench of the mortal world. The air was fresh, but thick, nothing like the crystalline purity of the clouds. The second thing was the sound of footsteps drawing near.

Sylvaren tried to lift his head, but his body betrayed him. Pain snapped through his spine and neck, his muscles trembling with effort. He managed only to shove himself onto his back, contorting like some wounded beast, his cries cracking the silence of the forest. He had never felt pain before, nor had he known the weakness of flesh, or the stab of fear at his heart. He had never felt so uncertain in his life.

The figure emerged from the treeline, blurred by his swimming vision. Horns crowned their head, rising like spears toward the heavens, their shape more beast than man. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to hope. Perhaps the creatures of this realm have taken pity on me, he thought.

Against his cheek pressed something metal. It shifted his head left, then right. Too weak to resist, he could not comprehend its shape—only that it was foreign, unnatural, and in the hands of a stranger. He did not yet know it was a weapon, nor that the one holding it was no beast, but a hunter. Merely a wary mortal ensuring the broken thing at their feet still drew breath.

Exhaustion befell him again. Darkness came, and he slipped into it.

When next he stirred, the forest had deepened into dusk. His body ached still, but there was movement beside him, accompanied by the quiet crackle of flame, and the mortal’s shadow against the trees. The hunter had not left him to die. Perhaps from pity, or curiosity, or, perhaps, from the same dangerous impulse that had doomed him in the heavens: the refusal to obey fear.

Sylvaren lifted his arm, observing the red-stained cloth around it. When was the last time he had bled?

Enough of his strength had been gathered to push himself upright, and it was then that he took in the figure next to him. You, part human, part deer, tending to a fire with a quiet look on your face. Sylvaren wasn’t sure what he should say to you. But he cleared his throat to get your attention anyway.