Azarion followed Sera through the wasteland, the silence between them broken only by the crunch of dry earth beneath their feet. The desolation around them seemed endless, the air heavy with ash and the remnants of something ancient, long forgotten. It was a world in decay, but Azarion could feel faint traces of power buried beneath the surface, like embers waiting to ignite.
Sera moved with the precision of a seasoned survivor, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Azarion, still adjusting to his mortal form, lagged slightly behind. His body ached from the fight with the beast, but the fire of determination burned within him. He was no stranger to hardship, even as a god.
"You'll need a weapon," Sera said, breaking the silence.
Azarion glanced at her, his pride bristling at her tone. "I'll manage."
She stopped abruptly and turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "No, you won't. That thing back there was a scout. There are worse things out here, and if you want to survive, you'll need more than arrogance."
Azarion clenched his jaw but said nothing. She was right, much as he hated to admit it. The beast had been unlike anything he'd encountered, even in his time as a god. Whatever corruption had spread across this land was beyond mortal or divine origin.
Sera pulled a rusted sword from a pack slung across her back and held it out to him. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."
He took the weapon reluctantly, testing its weight in his hand. It was crude and unbalanced, but it would have to do.
As they resumed their journey, Azarion's mind wandered. The power he had felt during the battle lingered at the edge of his consciousness, like a whisper in the dark. It wasn't much, but it had been real—a fragment of what he had once been. If he could tap into it again, perhaps he wouldn't have to rely on scraps like the sword Sera had given him.
The two reached the ruins of what looked like a small settlement. Crumbled stone walls and broken wooden beams jutted out from the earth, the remains of a life that had been wiped away. Sera motioned for Azarion to stay quiet as she crept forward, her bow at the ready.
Azarion followed, his senses alert. There was something unnatural about the air here—a stillness that felt alive, watching.
Sera crouched near the entrance of what had once been a temple. Its stone archway was cracked, and strange symbols were etched into the walls. Azarion's eyes narrowed as he studied the markings. They were ancient, older than anything he had seen in this mortal world.
"You recognize this?" Sera asked, her voice low.
Azarion nodded slowly. "These are runes of the old pantheon. My pantheon."
Sera raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting him continue.
Azarion ran his fingers over the symbols, his mind racing. The runes spoke of a great betrayal, of power locked away in the depths of the earth. His heart quickened as he realized what it meant.
"This place… it's a vault," he said, his voice tinged with urgency. "A prison for something powerful."
Sera frowned. "Powerful enough to help us, or powerful enough to kill us?"
Azarion turned to her, his expression grim. "Both."
Before Sera could respond, a low rumble shook the ground beneath their feet. The runes along the temple walls began to glow faintly, a sickly green light pulsing from the cracks.
Sera cursed under her breath, backing away. "What did you do?"
Azarion didn't answer. He stepped forward, drawn to the energy emanating from the temple. It called to him, familiar yet foreign, like a forgotten melody from his past.
The rumbling grew louder, and the ground split open before them. A wave of heat and darkness surged upward, forcing Sera to shield her face. Azarion stood firm, his mortal body trembling but his will unshaken.
From the fissure emerged a figure cloaked in shadow, its form shifting and writhing like smoke. Two glowing eyes fixed on Azarion, and a voice echoed in his mind, cold and piercing.
"You… the fallen one. Why have you come here?"
Azarion's grip tightened on the hilt of the rusted sword. He could feel the being's immense power, a reminder of the divinity he had lost. But he refused to falter.
"I am Azarion," he said, his voice steady. "And I have come to reclaim what was taken from me."
The shadowy figure let out a low, guttural laugh, the sound reverberating through the ruins.
"Then prove yourself, exiled god. Show me your worth, or be consumed."
The air around them grew heavier as the shadow coalesced into a monstrous form, towering over Azarion. Sera stepped back, her bow raised, but her hands trembled.
Azarion raised the sword, its dull blade gleaming faintly in the eerie light. He had no power, no divine strength, but he had something the gods could never take from him: his resolve.
With a battle cry, Azarion charged forward, ready to face the first true test of his mortal life.