I remember fragments of light at first—ghostly shapes swimming in the corners of my vision, like the afterimage you see when you stare at the sun too long. For a while, I thought I was still lying on that ruined battlefield, half-buried in ash and scorched earth, or lost in some cosmic limbo beyond mortal reckoning. My senses were dulled by a dense fog of exhaustion. It pressed on me so heavily that even the simple act of breathing felt like a monumental task. My body felt foreign and frail, each muscle refusing to respond.

Then came pain, a deep raw ache that lanced through my arms, legs, and chest. Unlike the agony of cosmic fire I’d felt at the end of the Titan War, this was somehow more mundane and yet more intimate, reminding me that I still lived in a body, and that body was battered to its very core. I felt feverish, cold sweat gathering at my temples, trickling down to a pillow or something rough beneath my head. Bits of straw poked at my neck. A blanket, coarse and scratchy, draped across my shoulders.

Whenever I drifted closer to consciousness, I heard voices. Mostly soft, occasionally anxious, but always concerned. Once in a while, the haze would lift, and I’d catch a glimpse of a woman’s face—a blur of warm brown eyes and hair tied back in a kerchief. Her voice was gentle but firm. She’d hush me when I tried to speak, pressing a cup to my lips so I could sip some warm broth or pungent herbal concoction. My throat burned when I swallowed, but I was too grateful for any sensation that wasn’t crushing misery to complain. Then I would slip back under again, into a dreamscape of war and thunder, Titan roars and cosmic nightmares, certain I wouldn’t wake.

I did wake, though. Properly, this time.

It happened at dawn—at least, that’s what I gathered from the pale light filtering through a single, warped window to my left. My eyelids fluttered open, and instead of the swirling illusions or the pitch-black void, I saw wooden beams overhead. Dust motes floated in the early rays of sunlight. It was such a simple sight, and yet it jolted me more profoundly than any cosmic revelation. I’m alive. That realization hammered into my chest, painful and bewildering, leaving me breathless.

I tried to sit up, but the moment I lifted my shoulders, a surge of weakness coursed through me. My arms trembled violently, and my vision sparkled at the edges. Cold sweat erupted along my back. I managed to prop myself on an elbow, only to collapse back onto the straw mattress. Every joint burned as if I’d spent weeks in forced slumber. I lay there panting, furious at my own helplessness, uncertain what exactly had happened after my final strike against the Titan King.

“Take it slow,” came a voice from somewhere to my right. I turned my head with effort, my neck creaking in protest, and saw the same woman from my half-conscious glimpses. She stood near a battered wooden table that held various bowls, mortar and pestle, and a few jars of dried herbs. “Don’t try to get up all at once.”

I swallowed, my throat parched. “Water,” I croaked, surprised at how weak my voice sounded. It barely reached my own ears.

She hurried to my side with a chipped clay cup and guided it to my lips. This time the taste was plain, fresh water, and I swallowed greedily, though it still stung my throat. My gaze flickered over her features: a middle-aged face lined by honest work rather than worry, brown eyes brimming with concern, and shoulders that appeared sturdy from years of farm labor. Calloused hands, I noted, but surprisingly gentle as she supported my head.

“Easy,” she said softly, her voice carrying the same unhurried warmth as the morning light. “We’ve been keeping you alive on herb broth and teas for near three weeks. It’ll take a while before your strength comes back.”

Three weeks. My mind reeled. Three weeks since… what exactly? The Titan War’s final stand? My confrontation with the Titan King? A rush of memories threatened to overwhelm me: the cosmic spear, the rift in the sky, the cataclysm that followed. My arms, once wreathed in unstoppable cosmic flame, now looked painfully thin as they lay on the straw. Instead of bronze skin etched with celestial power, I saw pallid flesh. My veins stood out in sharp relief, and faint, silvery scars traced across my forearms. Remnants of the cosmic energies that nearly tore me apart?

I tried to speak, but emotion and confusion choked me. I coughed and let my head fall back on the pillow, blinking hard to center myself. How could I, Daniel—the demigod who had once soared with wings of cosmic flame—be lying so pitifully in a cramped, rustic room?

“That’s enough for now,” the woman told me. She set the cup aside and placed a hand on my forehead, checking for fever. “At least your temperature’s down. You’re stable, but your body’s still healing from… whatever it is you did. My name’s Yuna, by the way.”

“Yuna,” I repeated, my voice rasping. “I… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, offering a small smile. “We didn’t think you’d make it, honestly. But you were alive when we found you, so we did what we could. Are you able to remember your name?”

I hesitated. Part of me burned to say Daniel, Scourge of Titans, the mightiest demigod to ever walk these lands. But those words felt hollow now. Demigod. That notion stung like salt in an open wound, stirring memories of my cosmic link, which I could no longer feel. “Daniel,” I said at last, my tone subdued. “My name… is Daniel.”

She nodded, relief evident on her face. “Good. At least your memory is intact. Some folks who survive that kind of—” She paused, perhaps uncertain how to classify the kind of wounds I bore. “That kind of ordeal can’t remember anything at all. You’re better off than some.”

Better off? I feel like death, and my entire identity is in shambles. But the last thing I wanted was to show ungratefulness to the person who saved me from certain oblivion. So I forced a tight-lipped smile and managed a slight nod. My eyelids drooped, exhaustion wrapping around my mind like a heavy blanket. Apparently, the simple effort of speaking and focusing was enough to push me to the brink of unconsciousness again.

“Try to rest,” Yuna said gently, noticing my struggle. “I’ll bring Father by a bit later. He’s the one who’s been mixing your poultices, but we didn’t want to crowd you when you’re still so frail.”

She gave my hand a reassuring pat, and for a moment, I felt something warm surge through my chest. Human kindness was a novelty to me. In the era of the Titan War, I’d often encountered mortal gratitude, but that had been overshadowed by their awe and fear of my divine abilities. This was different: she showed compassion not because I was a revered demigod, but simply because I was a bedridden man who needed help. It humbled me more deeply than any cosmic backlash ever could.

I let the darkness claim me again, sinking into a dreamless void. But this time, the void was less hostile—just sleep, unburdened by the nightmares of cosmic destruction.

--

Some hours later, I woke to the smell of something simmering—onions, carrots, perhaps a bit of smoked meat in a thin stew. My stomach growled painfully, reminding me how starved I was. I lifted my head, discovering it was marginally easier than before, although still exhausting. The same straw walls, the same wooden beams. I realized the blanket now pinned me more snugly, and there was a second pillow beneath my shoulders. At some point while I slept, Yuna must have returned and tended to me again.

Voices drifted in from another room, muffled but heated. I caught snippets: “—not sure—” “—what if he’s dangerous—” “—keep your voice down, Father!” I exhaled shakily. A tiny swirl of guilt formed in my stomach. Of course they’d have concerns. Anyone stumbling on a barely alive body near a war-scarred crater would wonder about the circumstances.

A moment later, the door swung open, and Yuna entered, carrying a wooden bowl of steaming stew. Trailing behind her was an older man, stooped at the shoulders but with a sharp, calculating gaze. Wisps of silver hair escaped a ragged cap, and he clutched a small satchel under one arm. His stare pinned me as though evaluating a specimen in need of classification.

“Afternoon,” he said curtly, edging around Yuna to set the satchel on the table. “I’m Ronan. This is my house, and that’s my daughter you owe your life to, so mind your manners.” Despite the bite in his tone, there was concern etched in his features.

I pushed myself up a little more, ignoring the violent tremors in my arms. “I appreciate all you’ve done,” I managed, my voice uneven but sincere. “I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

“Hmph.” Ronan opened his satchel and began rummaging through a series of small glass vials. “We’ll see about that. When we found you near that crater, you were practically covered in burns and cosmic scars. Looked like you’d been to the edge of creation and back, if I believed in that sort of thing.”

My heart thudded. Even in my battered state, I had to maintain some caution. Letting them know exactly who I was—and what I had done—might expose them to all sorts of danger. “I… was caught in the midst of a battle,” I said quietly, choosing my words. “Explosions, powerful magic, that sort of thing.”

A soft snort. “Powerful magic, indeed,” Ronan echoed, shooting me a sideways glance as though expecting me to reveal more. Then he turned his attention to Yuna. “Go ahead, feed him. I need to get a look at those scars after.”

Yuna nodded and moved to my side, carefully placing the bowl on my lap. She knelt beside me, supporting the bowl so I could spoon stew into my mouth without spilling. The flavor was simple but utterly glorious—a comforting warmth that banished the chill in my bones. With each spoonful, I felt some faint spark of vitality returning.

“Easy,” Yuna whispered when I nearly choked from my eagerness. “There’s more if you can keep this down.”

I forced myself to slow, focusing on each mouthful, letting my body remember how to digest. Meanwhile, Ronan slid closer, pulling back the thin blanket so he could inspect my arms. Gently, he prodded at the faint silver lines etched in my skin. When his fingertips pressed too firmly, I winced. Pain radiated from those scars. They were reminiscent of the channels through which cosmic power once flowed, but now they ached like raw nerve endings.

“Remarkable,” Ronan muttered under his breath. He pulled out a small jar of salve, uncorked it, and rubbed a bit onto one of the scars near my shoulder. A cool sensation spread over my skin, dulling the burning to a tolerable level. “Where did you come by such injuries? No normal fire does this.”

I avoided his gaze. “I’m not entirely certain,” I lied, though not entirely—my memories of that final cataclysm were a blur of cosmic flame and raw destruction. “I woke in pain and confusion, not sure how I’d survived.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed deeper, but he nodded slowly. “Well, you’re lucky these wounds didn’t fester. We had to apply poultices several times a day. At one point, you were so feverish we thought we might lose you.”

I took another spoonful of stew, reminding myself to speak calmly and not betray the swirl of turmoil in my mind. My entire being still pulsed with the knowledge that once, I could have commanded cosmic energies to heal myself in moments. But that link was gone—cut off in the Godfall, left behind in a crater of cosmic ruin. So this is mortal fragility, I mused, bitterness gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

“Daniel,” Yuna said, coaxing my attention back to her. “We won’t pry if you don’t want to talk about it, truly. Father’s just protective of this village. We’ve had enough trouble over the years with war parties and roving beasts. He doesn’t want anything to threaten Greylake.”

Greylake. The name rang in my ears. I realized then I had no sense of where in Arcadia I might be. The Titan War had stretched across the entire realm, so for all I knew, I was thousands of miles from the site of my final battle. “I understand,” I murmured. “I promise, I’m no danger to you or your people.”

Ronan huffed but said nothing more, content to let me finish my stew. When the bowl was empty, Yuna supported me so I could lean back onto the pillows. The wave of weariness that followed the meal felt almost pleasant, like slipping into a warm bath. The old man kept poking around my arms and chest, occasionally asking if I felt pain in certain spots, or if I noticed any numbness. I answered as best I could, trying to keep my replies short and neutral.

At last, Ronan replaced the jar of salve in his satchel and stood. “We’ll keep applying these herbs for another few days, then shift to a milder poultice. The scarring might not fully go away, but at least the pain will lessen in time.”

“Thank you.” My voice wavered with genuine gratitude. Humility was new to me—I’d once believed that I needed no mortal’s help for anything. Yet now, these simple villagers had saved my life and continued to give me the care I so desperately required.

Ronan grunted in acknowledgment, then turned on his heel and walked out. Yuna offered me a sympathetic smile, as though apologizing for her father’s brusque manner. “He’s not unkind,” she said gently. “He just worries. We don’t see many strangers out here, and none in such dire condition.”

“I understand,” I said again, meaning it. Then, a spike of curiosity pierced my mind. “Did… did you see others? On that battlefield, I mean, or near that crater? Anyone else?”

Her expression softened. “No. You were the only one. There were a few bodies scattered around—looked like soldiers or… well, I’m not sure. The scene was too grim. We collected what we could for a proper burial, but we never came across anyone else alive.”

Nausea twisted my stomach. So, Alumen and the other lesser gods must have fled or vanished. Mortal soldiers likely retreated, or died in the cataclysm. So I truly am alone. “I see,” I managed, forcing away the knot in my throat. “Thank you for telling me.”

Yuna laid a hand on my wrist. “Try to rest, Daniel. This village is safe. You don’t need to fear another battle here.” She smoothed the blanket over my chest and departed, leaving me with a swirl of unsettled emotions.

I closed my eyes, attempting to gather what little sense I could of the cosmic tapestry. I used to be able to feel it all around me, vibrant threads of power that I could weave into unstoppable spells. Now, there was… emptiness. Or perhaps the faintest static hum at the edge of my perception, like an echo whose source had vanished. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I swallowed them back. In that single moment of searching for the tapestry, I felt more vulnerable and alone than I ever had in centuries of warfare.

--

Time slipped by in a haze of half-sleeps, medicated dozes, and the occasional snippet of conversation. Each day, I found myself a touch stronger. Yuna would visit often, bringing fresh water, stew, or bread. Sometimes she fed me; other times, she guided my shaking hands until I managed it myself. I learned to be grateful for small victories: finishing a meal without spilling half the bowl, sitting upright for more than a minute without collapsing, or speaking a few sentences without my voice cracking.

Whenever Ronan appeared, he’d check my scars and mutter observations about how slowly they were healing, then try a new combination of herbs. I soon discovered that under his gruff exterior lay a wealth of knowledge about healing, gleaned from years of living in a war-torn land with no formal doctors. He asked me questions about the damage, about the sensation I felt in my muscles. I gave him half-truths, haunted by the knowledge that my entire physiology had once been semi-divine. He accepted my vague answers, though not without a few suspicious glances.

On the fifth day of my improved consciousness—assuming I was counting correctly—Yuna returned from a trip to the village well with a small cluster of curious neighbors trailing in her wake. She introduced them to me: a heavyset woman named Bess, who wore flour-stained aprons and ran the local bakery; a lanky farmhand named Reese, who had accompanied Yuna to help carry water; and a bright-eyed boy of about twelve who lingered in the doorway, twisting his cap in nervous fascination. His name was Jacob, apparently Bess’s nephew.

I was propped up in bed, leaning against a sturdy wooden headboard. My arms trembled if I held them out for too long, but I could at least manage to shake their hands—except for Jacob, who hovered shyly until I offered him a small smile. He darted forward, then, with a quick handshake that bordered on an excited grab before retreating. The entire tableau felt both embarrassing and oddly comforting. At one time, entire armies knelt in my presence. Now, a cluster of ordinary villagers dropping by to greet me felt monumental.

“Glad to see you awake,” Bess said, her face beaming kindness. “Heard from Yuna that you were in bad shape. Hope this helps.” She reached into a wicker basket and pulled out a small loaf of warm bread. My mouth watered involuntarily at the yeasty aroma.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, dipping my head gratefully. My attempt at humility still felt awkward, but I meant it. “You’re too kind.”

“None of that ‘ma’am’ business,” she scolded with a grin. “Just Bess will do.”

“Bess,” I repeated with a faint smile.

Nearby, Reese cleared his throat. “I, uh, brought some bandages. In case you need fresh wrappings. We had a bit of spare cloth.” He held out a rolled strip of linen. “Nothing fancy, but it’s clean.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Yuna said, taking it from him. “We’ll be sure to use them when Father changes the poultices.”

Jacob, emboldened by the safe atmosphere, piped up, “Is it true you fought a dragon? That’s what some folks been saying, that you were in a big fight with a monstrous dragon or Titan or something.”

I froze. A swirl of panic and lingering pride twisted in me. “I… might have been,” I said carefully, glancing at Yuna for help.

She shot me a conciliatory look, then told Jacob, “He was caught in a terrible battle, but it’s best not to pry. People who go through that sort of ordeal don’t always want to relive it.”

Jacob nodded, chastised but still wide-eyed. “Right, sorry, miss.”

I mustered a wan smile. Part of me, the old arrogant self, wanted to regale them with stories of how I single-handedly incinerated entire Titan armies. But the rational part—the newly mortal part that recognized my vulnerability—knew it was best to keep such tales quiet. The last thing I needed was a legion of warlords or cultists learning I survived the Godfall. “It’s all right,” I said gently, though my voice trembled a bit. “The main thing is that it’s over now, and we’re all safer for it.”

A hush fell in the small cottage. Yuna broke it by offering the visitors cups of water, and a brief, lighthearted conversation followed about the harvest, the weather, and the local lord’s demand for taxes. All mundane topics that felt shockingly normal to me. I found myself simultaneously relieved and disoriented. Could everyday life truly be so simple in this remote corner of Arcadia, even after the Titan War’s devastation?

Eventually, the visitors drifted away. Bess and Reese had chores to attend to, and Jacob was pulled along despite his protest. Before he left, he cast me a glance that mingled curiosity and hero worship, as though he suspected I might be more than just some random wounded soldier. The thought made me uneasy. I need to keep a low profile, I reminded myself. I can’t risk them finding out everything.

Once they’d gone, Yuna busied herself tidying up. I cleared my throat, summoning courage for a question that had been festering in my mind. “Is this place… truly that far from the fighting? I mean, the war, the Titan threats… it never came here?”

Her motion stilled. She looked over her shoulder, a shadow passing through her warm gaze. “The war touched everywhere, I think. We had a few years of bad raids—monsters and bandits and such. But Greylake is a small village, off the main routes. There wasn’t much to plunder once the farmland was scorched. Guess we were lucky. Or maybe just forgotten.”

I digested her words. Forgotten. In my demigod arrogance, I’d never really considered the small hamlets far from the major arenas of conflict, those that weren’t strategic enough for Titan generals to target. But they’d still endured hardships, borderline famine, fear for loved ones. The idea that they felt “lucky” because they were too insignificant to be obliterated stung me more than I cared to admit. Was that the best that these mortal communities had ever hoped for—mere survival?

“What about rumors that the war is done?” I ventured. “Does anyone believe it? Have they heard about the final battle?”

She shook her head. “There’s talk that the biggest Titan forces have been defeated. We’ve seen fewer monstrous raids recently. But it’s all second- or third-hand news, carried by travelers or merchant caravans when they pass through. We don’t have confirmation of anything. As far as we know, the realm’s still a patchwork of chaos, with shattered armies and leftover beasts wandering about.”

It made sense. The fracturing of the pantheon, the decimation of armies on all sides—there was no unified authority left to proclaim an official end to the war. “I see,” I murmured.

Yuna pinned me with a kind yet inquisitive look. “You must have a better idea than we do, coming from the thick of it. Are the Titans truly gone?”

I hesitated, uncertain how much truth to share. “The greatest threat… is defeated,” I said quietly, choosing each word with care. The Titan King is gone, thanks to me, I added silently. But I didn’t want to brag, not when I was lying in a sickbed barely able to lift my spoon. “I believe the realm will recover in time.”

She exhaled a soft sigh of relief, then stepped closer to tuck the blanket around me. “That’s good to hear, Daniel. So many families have lost loved ones, but if this means they can finally rebuild without fear…” She trailed off, her expression thoughtful. “Greylake’s managed thus far, but people are tired of living on the edge.”

I only nodded, worried I might say something to break that fragile optimism. The conversation lulled, and I found myself staring at my hands, turning them over to trace the ghostly scars. You saved them all, a small part of me whispered. Yes, you cost yourself your divinity, but you saved countless lives. The knowledge should have comforted me, but it felt hollow, overshadowed by the immediate reality of my frailty.

--

Several more days passed in a similar rhythm. By the end of the second week, I managed to stand with Yuna’s help, tottering like a newborn foal on unsteady legs. My once lean, muscled frame was gaunt, every rib visible under my skin. The smallest exertion left me trembling and lightheaded. Yet a stubborn flicker of pride refused to let me remain bedridden any longer. I insisted on walking around the cramped cottage, clinging to the walls and furniture, panting after only a few steps.

On one such afternoon, when the cottage was empty and I was determined to prove myself capable, I decided to walk to the window without assistance. It was perhaps ten feet from the bed to the shuttered window. Yuna had gone out to gather herbs, and Ronan was likely in the shed mixing potions or cursing the damp weather. Summoning what I had left of my will, I pushed off the bed.

Instantly, my knees buckled. Pain shot through my thighs, reminding me just how severely my muscles had atrophied. Biting back a groan, I forced my body upright and took one step, then another. Each was a wobbly lurch. My breath came in gasps, sweat beading on my brow. By the time I reached the window, the room spun. I clung to the windowsill, choking back a wave of nausea.

But I made it. I was upright, gazing through the half-open shutters at the farmland beyond. What I saw was so ordinary that it nearly brought tears to my eyes. Rows of neat, green crops, well-tended despite the lingering scars of war. A few low hills in the distance, dotted with grazing sheep. A winding river reflecting the pale midday sky. Here and there, I spotted villagers going about their tasks: a man guiding a small cart pulled by a donkey, a pair of women chatting as they carried buckets from the well, a cluster of children chasing each other with sticks, shrieking in playful delight. No columns of smoke, no monstrous silhouettes, no cosmic storms tearing the horizon. This is what I fought for, I realized with a sudden, piercing clarity. A life of quiet simplicity, free from Titan terror. And now… I’m one of them—a mortal struggling to stand.

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My arms trembled from clinging to the windowsill. I forced myself to release my grip, determined to remain upright on my own. For one heartbeat, I did. Then my legs gave out. I crumpled to the floor, landing hard on my backside. Pain shot up my spine, and I let out a grunt of frustration. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing Yuna with an apron full of fresh herbs.

“Daniel!” she cried, dropping everything to rush to my side. She knelt, one hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing? You should’ve called for me if you wanted to stand.”

I gritted my teeth, ignoring the hot sting of tears in my eyes. “I… wanted to see… if I could do it myself.” My words sounded childish to my own ears, and shame coursed through me. Once, entire regiments obeyed my every gesture. Now, I couldn’t stand without help.

She helped me to my feet, guiding me back to the bed. “Next time, just wait for me or Father,” she said, not in a scolding tone but with genuine concern. She fussed over me until I lay back on the mattress, my heart still hammering. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

I shook my head. “Only my pride,” I mumbled.

Yuna smiled softly. “Well, that’s something at least.” Then her smile turned sympathetic. “You can’t rush it, Daniel. You’ve been through something… extraordinary. Healing takes time.”

An irrational anger flared within me—anger at my broken body, at the cosmic forces that betrayed me, at the entire pantheon that had left me to rot. But I swallowed it down, forcing a shallow breath. “I know,” I said. “I just… I’m not used to this.” Understatement of the year, but how could I explain the depth of my frustration?

She seemed to sense my turmoil. “Listen,” she began gently, “being mortal can be painful, especially after whatever you went through. But you’re safe here, and we’ll help you get back on your feet. You’re allowed to be weak for a while.”

I almost laughed at that. Allowed to be weak. Once, I believed I was never permitted to be weak, that such a condition was an impossibility in my immortal existence. Now, it was my daily reality. I lowered my gaze and nodded, not trusting myself to speak without letting bitterness slip out. Yuna gave my hand a comforting squeeze before turning to gather the herbs she’d dropped, as though nothing more needed to be said.

--

A few more days trickled by. Ronan began assigning me mild tasks—exercises, he called them—to coax life back into my limbs. He’d have me stretch my arms overhead, rotate my ankles, or slowly raise and lower my legs while lying on the bed. Simple movements that made me break into a sweat as though I was wrestling a Titan spawn. Whenever I faltered, he’d bark at me to keep going, but behind that harsh instruction, I sensed his genuine desire to see me improve.

One morning, we were in the midst of such a routine when a sudden commotion erupted outside the cottage. Muffled shouts, the frantic bark of a dog, the scrape of boots on dirt. Ronan shot me a look, then hurried to the door. My heart pounded. Despite my own helplessness, memories of battle reflexes surged: What’s happening? Is it a leftover Titan beast? Bandits? But before I could swing my legs over the bed, Yuna rushed in.

“Daniel, we need help!” she said breathlessly, crossing to me in a heartbeat. “Bess’s nephew… he cut his arm. Deep. There’s blood everywhere.”

Ronan, at the threshold, nodded grimly. “Looks bad. We can try to stitch it, but it’s a nasty one.”

My pulse quickened. A child’s severe injury? My mind leapt back to the days when such a thing would be trivial. I’d possessed healing magic beyond mortal comprehension, able to knit flesh in seconds. That was gone. Or was it? There might still be a trace left, a small voice within me whispered. The cosmic tapestry is severed, but you might have enough to help, even a little. Without thinking, I grabbed Ronan’s forearm. “Take me to him,” I demanded.

He opened his mouth to argue, but I was already struggling to stand. “I can do something,” I insisted, wincing as I forced my legs into motion. I wobbled, nearly falling, but Yuna steadied me. “Please, let me try.”

A flicker of conflict played across Ronan’s face. Perhaps he recalled how feeble I still was, or maybe he wasn’t sure I could do anything beyond what local herbs and stitches could accomplish. Still, Bess’s nephew was beloved by the villagers, and time was of the essence. “Fine,” he spat, stepping forward to support my other side. “But if you collapse—”

“Then I collapse,” I said, swallowing. “Let’s go.”

They half-walked, half-dragged me outside. Sunlight hit my eyes, and I squinted, unused to the brightness after weeks in dim confines. In the dusty yard behind the cottage, I saw a small group clustered around Jacob, who lay on the ground, clutching his forearm. Blood seeped between his fingers. Bess knelt beside him, pale with worry, pressing a cloth to the wound.

When Bess spotted me, her face contorted with a mixture of hope and doubt. “H-he tripped… cut himself on an axe we left leaning against the fence. Stupid of me. Daniel, can you—?”

“I’ll try,” I panted. Yuna and Ronan guided me down next to the boy. My legs shook uncontrollably, but I planted my knees in the dirt. Jacob’s eyes were wide, tears streaming down his cheeks. The makeshift bandage was already soaked red. I saw the gash along his forearm—deep enough to threaten arteries.

Ronan knelt across from me, rummaging through his satchel for thread and a needle. “We’ll have to sew it up if it’s cut that deep.”

But Bess was hysterical, trembling hands pressed over the wound. “Do something, please! He’s losing too much blood.”

I didn’t respond at first—my attention was locked on the boy’s pallid face. In the old days, I would simply channel cosmic healing, sealing the cut in seconds. But now, the tapestry felt inaccessible, silent. Focus, I told myself, forcing my breathing to slow. Perhaps a vestige of my cosmic reservoir remained. I let my eyes close for an instant, searching within for that faint spark.

At first, there was nothing. A hollow sensation like an empty well. Then, gradually, I found a minuscule flicker—like a single dying ember in an ocean of darkness. I latched onto it, urging it to grow. The memory of cosmic flame stirred, so fragile it threatened to slip away if I so much as opened my eyes too quickly. Gently, I guided that flicker through my arms, letting it gather in my hands, ignoring the searing ache that flared in my scars.

When I placed my palms over Jacob’s wounded arm, a subtle warmth blossomed, faint as a candle flame in a storm. The boy gasped, and Bess recoiled slightly, but Ronan hissed at her to hold still. I exhaled, funneling every ounce of concentration into that flicker.

Slowly—oh, so slowly—I felt the edges of the wound begin to knit. Not seamlessly, as it once would have, but enough to slow the bleeding. It was excruciatingly draining, like trying to lift a massive boulder with shaking arms. Sweat poured down my face, and my vision darkened around the edges. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let go, determined to seal at least the worst of the cut.

The cosmic spark fluttered, threatening to vanish. I willed it to remain a moment longer. In that fleeting second, I sensed the boy’s bleeding halt, the raw edges of tissue closing just enough to prevent further hemorrhage. It wasn’t a miraculous, perfect healing, but it was enough that Ronan could now stitch the remainder without Jacob going into shock.

My strength collapsed. I swayed, stars dancing in my peripheral vision. Someone shouted my name. I couldn’t respond. The flicker of cosmic energy winked out like a snuffed candle, and all that remained was darkness rushing up to claim me. In the distance, I heard voices exclaiming that the bleeding had slowed, that the boy might live. Relief mingled with bone-deep fatigue. I pitched forward, vaguely feeling hands catching me before I hit the ground, and everything went black.

--

I awoke some time later—minutes, hours, I couldn’t tell—back on my straw bed, a cool compress on my forehead. My head throbbed like I’d been struck by a war hammer. A dull ache spread through every limb, reminiscent of the day I first regained consciousness here. The difference was that I felt no improvement from that small act of healing—only depletion so profound it made me wonder if I’d die from the effort.

A figure shifted in the corner, and I turned my head to see Yuna peering at me over a small lantern. “Welcome back,” she said softly.

I licked my lips, forcing words out. “Jacob?”

She smiled, relief evident. “Ronan stitched him up right after you collapsed. The bleeding had almost entirely stopped, so he didn’t lose too much more blood. He’ll be fine, thanks to you.”

A wave of emotion surged up my chest: triumph, relief, and heartbreak all at once. In my prime, I could have healed the boy without breaking a sweat. Now, the attempt nearly killed me. “Good,” I whispered. “I… I’m glad.”

She leaned forward, eyeing me with concern. “What you did… was that some kind of magic?”

I swallowed hard. “A small spark of it, yes. Used to have more, but… it’s mostly gone now.”

Yuna nodded slowly, her expression somber. “I see. Well, we owe you. Bess couldn’t stop crying after you fainted. The child would have bled out if not for your intervention.”

I closed my eyes. Though my entire body screamed for rest, my mind wouldn’t quiet. The cost of channeling that minuscule fraction of cosmic power was higher than I ever imagined. But I’d saved a life. A mortal life, in a village far from the Titan War’s grand battles. Maybe that was reason enough to accept my new limitations.

Yuna must have noticed my lingering distress. She rested a hand on my brow. “No fever,” she observed softly. “You’ll be weak for a few days, but you’ll recover.”

“I’m sorry,” I rasped, unsure why I was apologizing. For collapsing? For not being stronger?

She shook her head. “Daniel, you saved Jacob. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

Tears burned my eyes. I turned my face away, not wanting her to see. Pride warred with gratitude and shame at once. “Thank you,” I murmured thickly, voice muffled against the pillow. “I… I did what I could.”

“Which was enough,” Yuna said simply. “Now rest.”

Her words carried a tone of finality, so I let exhaustion pull me under again. The last thing I heard was the soft crackle of the lantern flame and the sound of her footsteps retreating, giving me space. My dreams drifted between fleeting images: the Titan War’s horrors, the warmth of cosmic flame, and the face of a relieved boy whose bleeding wound had just been sealed. Somewhere in that swirl, I felt my old arrogance break away another fraction, leaving me with a quiet, weary humility that was strangely comforting.

--

When I next woke, night had fallen, and I was alone in the cottage. A single candle guttered on the small table by my bed. My stomach rumbled with hunger. I grunted, shifting upright, noticing the dryness in my throat. Water first. I glanced around and spotted a clay cup on a stool. It might as well have been leagues away, but I was determined to reach it. Bit by bit, I scooted my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the protest of weak muscles. My heart hammered, but I pressed on, eyes locked on that cup.

Shuffling forward, I leaned, nearly losing my balance. My fingertips managed to brush the cup, sending it wobbling precariously. I froze, breath held. After a tense second, it settled upright, though water sloshed close to the rim. Carefully, I guided it toward me, sipping greedily once I had a firm grip. The lukewarm water tasted like heaven, trickling down my parched throat.

Success. A small, meager success, but it made my heart swell with a flicker of pride—this new kind of pride, one born of overcoming mortal fragility. I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly, letting that moment ground me. So this is what it’s like to be mortal—celebrating trifling victories, relying on others, yet still finding ways to move forward.

Tentatively, I tried to reach for the cosmic tapestry again. As expected, the effort felt like grasping at smoke in a dark room. I sensed only the faintest echo. At least I know there’s something left, I reasoned. Even if it’s just enough to help in emergencies. A memory of Jacob’s relieved face reassured me that it hadn’t been in vain.

A brisk wind rattled the shutters, drawing my attention to the window. The sky outside was a deep navy, dotted with countless stars. Long ago, I’d soared among those very stars—at least metaphorically—channeling cosmic energies that spanned the universe. Now they felt impossibly distant, twinkling with indifferent splendor. I inhaled, letting the crisp night air swirl into my lungs, bracing and cold. After weeks indoors, the tang of the open sky felt like a promise, a quiet invitation to rediscover the world.

Just then, the door to the cottage eased open. Yuna stepped inside, a small lantern in hand. She spotted me awake and paused, her face lighting up with a gentle smile. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Wanted some water. I managed to reach the cup on my own.” Perhaps it was silly, but I couldn’t help the hint of pride in my voice.

She nodded approvingly. “Little by little, you’ll regain your strength. Father would approve of that progress.”

“How’s Jacob?” I asked softly, not wanting to rouse the entire household.

“He’s resting in Bess’s cottage,” Yuna replied. “He’ll be bedridden for a bit, but no infection so far. You did good.”

A warm glow filled my chest. I lowered the cup to my lap. “I only had enough to seal part of the wound,” I said. “Ronan’s stitches did the rest.”

“Well, it was enough,” she insisted, stepping closer. The lantern light caught her features, highlighting the care lines around her eyes. “You don’t have to diminish what you did.”

I gazed at her, at the unwavering kindness in her expression, and felt a twinge in my heart. “I… thank you, Yuna. For everything.”

She touched my hand gently. “You’re welcome. You’ve saved a life in this village, and that means more than you know.” She paused, then added, “Come outside with me for a moment, if you’re able. It’s a calm night, and the air might do you some good.”

I hesitated, uncertain if my legs could handle it, but the allure of fresh air was strong. With her help, I rose from the bed. Each step across the cottage was laborious, but the determination I felt overshadowed my weakness. We passed the threshold onto a small porch. A mild breeze caressed my face. The sky was a tapestry of stars, unspoiled by city lights, stretching endlessly overhead.

Greylake lay quiet under the moonlight. I could see the outlines of thatched roofs and hear the distant croak of frogs near the river. My soul felt strangely at peace, as though all the cosmic storms that once raged inside me had settled into a gentle hush. I leaned against the porch railing, letting the evening air fill my lungs.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Yuna whispered.

I nodded slowly, an ache forming in my chest that wasn’t entirely physical. “Yes,” I breathed. “It is.”

For centuries, I’d looked down on mortal life from a vantage of near-immortality, believing it was too small, too fleeting to matter. But standing here, battered and humbled, the world felt precious in a way I’d never noticed before. Each star, each rustling leaf, each breath of wind—fragile and miraculous. The simplest joys, the smallest kindnesses, all gained a new depth now that I understood what it was to be weak, to rely on others, to find significance in a child’s safety or a quiet night sky.

And somewhere in that revelation, I found a seed of acceptance. My wings were gone, my cosmic link severed, but my life wasn’t over. The realm still needed defenders; the war might be over, but its aftermath would pose a hundred new dangers. If I was truly mortal now, or something close to it, then I’d learn to walk this path as they do: step by painstaking step, building friendships and alliances rather than commanding armies through fear or reverence.

Yuna gave my arm a gentle squeeze, as though sensing my inner reflection. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” she said, her voice a comforting murmur. “We’re not wealthy, but there’s shelter and food. Greylake looks after its own.”

I couldn’t find words that fully conveyed my gratitude. All I managed was a humble nod, my throat tight. Looks after its own, she said. Did that mean I was part of this community now, however tenuously? The notion filled me with an odd warmth. Perhaps, I told myself, perhaps I can become part of something simpler, something that doesn’t require cosmic grandeur to have meaning.

My gaze lifted to the moon, a silver disc shining serenely amid the stars. For a fleeting moment, I remembered the final cataclysm: my cosmic spear tearing the Titan King asunder, the rift opening, the raw chaos of absorbing that energy to save the realm. I felt the echo of that unimaginable power—and the emptiness where it once thrummed. But instead of the usual pang of loss, there was a gentle acceptance. I was alive. The realm was alive.

I inhaled, and when I released that breath, it felt like letting go of a final thread binding me to my old life. The Godfall was over. Now, it was time to learn what it meant to live as Daniel, not the unstoppable demigod, but a man with scars and trembling muscles, forging a new path in a post-war world.

Yuna stifled a small yawn, then turned back toward the cottage door. “We should get you back to bed,” she whispered. “It’s getting chilly.”

I nodded, allowing her to guide me indoors. As I crossed the threshold, a quiet resolution took shape in my mind: I will recover, step by painful step. I’ll protect these people if danger comes again, even in my mortal state. And if the realm still harbors leftover evils—Titan spawn, monstrous cults, or anything else—I’ll do what I can to stop them. This time, I’d fight alongside mortals, rather than above them. Perhaps I’d learn what true strength meant when it was tempered by vulnerability and bound by compassion.

Inside, Yuna helped me back to the bed. My legs shook, and my back ached, but I felt more at peace than I had in ages. Tomorrow would bring fresh challenges—the slow, clumsy exercises, the worried glances from Ronan, the hush of the villagers who were still uncertain about my past. But tonight, I could rest knowing that, however diminished I was, I still had purpose. I still had a place in this world.

I settled under the blanket, listening to the sounds of Yuna tidying the table in the next room. The flicker of the candlelight danced across the walls. As my eyelids grew heavy, I pictured the farmland at dusk, the soft glow of moonlight on rolling hills, and the star-flecked sky overhead. My last thought before sleep claimed me was that yes, I’d lost my wings, but perhaps I’d gained something else in the process—something more fragile, more human, and oddly more beautiful.

--

In the following days, I tested myself further. Each sunrise found me determined to walk a few steps more than the day before. I started by making cautious laps around the cottage interior, leaning on any surface I could find for support. My arms trembled, and my heart pounded, but I pressed on, ignoring the cold sweat that trickled down my spine. Yuna occasionally hovered near, fretting that I might stumble. Ronan would mutter that I shouldn’t push too hard, but I caught glimpses of grudging respect in his eyes.

On the day I managed to walk to the doorway unaided, Yuna grinned so broadly that you’d think I’d accomplished a feat of legends. In a sense, for my current body, it was a legendary accomplishment. She guided me to a simple wooden stool outside, where I sat under the sun, letting warmth seep into my bones. A few neighbors passed by, offering cheerful nods. Bess even came over with a small sweetbun, proclaiming it a reward for my “heroic healing.” It was a trifling gesture, yet it lifted my spirits immeasurably.

Jacob, his arm swathed in bandages, ambled by later, still pale but on the mend. He thanked me with a shy smile, then ran off with friends, eager to make up for lost playtime. I found myself wishing a safe and ordinary life for him, free from cosmic horrors. Deep down, I felt a stirring sense of mission—if any vestige of my old power, or old skill, could prevent these small souls from facing another Titan war, I would see it done.

But for the moment, no grand crusade called me. Instead, my days were filled with the slow, laborious tasks of rejoining the living world. Yuna coaxed me to eat heartier meals: stewed vegetables, soft bread dipped in gravy, bits of salted fish if the catch was good that day. Ronan insisted on continuing the herbal regimens, though he hinted that I might soon move on to purely nutritional therapy. Each improvement felt microscopic, but it was progress.

Twilight after twilight, I’d venture just outside the cottage, leaning on a makeshift cane Ronan fashioned for me. The villagers greeted me with friendly waves, and I reciprocated as best I could. A few times, children ran up to me, peppering me with questions about the war or about the “magic glow” they’d heard I had. I brushed them off with half-honest replies, reminding them I was only a tired soldier, not some grand sorcerer. Though an echo of my old self wanted to regale them with demigod exploits, humility whispered that boasting was both unwise and untrue now.

Eventually, the day came when Ronan decided I no longer needed bed rest, scowling as he admitted I was healthy enough to walk short distances without supervision. “But don’t you dare overdo it,” he warned, wagging a bony finger in my face. “You push too hard, and you’ll tear something or set yourself back.”

“Understood,” I said, trying not to smirk at his fussing. Despite his crotchety demeanor, I could tell he was proud of how far I’d come.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the gentle hills, I made my first attempt at a short walk beyond the immediate yard. The sky was a canvas of oranges and purples, the fields awash in the final glow of day. Yuna hovered at a respectful distance, letting me test my strength on my own. I leaned on the cane, step by careful step, feeling the gravel of the path under my boots. My breaths were measured, my heart thudding, but I managed a slow yet steady progress.

When I reached a small rise overlooking a bend in the river, I paused. The scene before me was almost heartbreakingly peaceful: golden fields, a few distant cottages with smoke curling from chimneys, and the glint of the fading sun on the rippling water. Birds circled overhead, calling out in the quiet. If someone had shown me this vision in the midst of the Titan War, I might have scoffed at its insignificance. Now, it felt like the most precious treasure in the world.

I closed my eyes, letting the breeze brush against my cheeks. A memory of cosmic flame flickered in my mind—my wings blazing as I soared above entire armies. That memory was simultaneously distant and intimate, like recalling a past life. I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, focusing on the present. This was my world now: mortal, fragile, and alive.

In that moment, I silently promised myself that if monsters or cultists or any other remnants of the Titan War threatened this fragile peace, I would stand and fight again. Even if I was only half the warrior I used to be, even if every blow cost me breath and blood, I would do it. Because this—this farmland at dusk, these neighbors who shared bread and bandages, children who giggled and teased, simple souls who looked after each other—was worth protecting.

Turning slightly, I spotted Yuna standing a few yards behind me. She wore an expression of quiet pride, hands folded as she watched me. I offered her a faint grin. “I made it,” I said, gesturing to the scenic overlook with my cane.

“You did,” she replied, her voice soft with emotion. “You’ll make it even farther in time, Daniel.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, not just for her observation but for the weeks of care, the unwavering patience in the face of my frustration and gloom. My gaze lingered on the horizon for another moment, drinking in the fading light. Despite everything I’d lost, I felt an unaccustomed surge of hope.

Then, leaning on my cane, I turned back toward the cottage, ready to take each step—however slow, however frail—toward whatever future awaited me in this new life.

--

By the time we returned to the cottage, night had fully claimed the sky. Ronan was inside, fussing with a set of dried plants spread across the table. He glanced up when we entered and snorted in approval. “Didn’t fall on your face, I see.”

I smiled wryly. “Not this time.”

Yuna helped me settle into a chair by the hearth. A small fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. For a moment, none of us spoke. The quiet was comfortable, though, filled by the soft pop of burning wood and the shuffle of Ronan’s herbal wrappings.

Eventually, the old man broke the silence, his voice gruff yet tinged with warmth. “You’ve come far. A week ago, you could barely stand. Now look at you.”

I dipped my head in thanks. “I had good healers.” It was as much praise as I could give.

He grunted. “We did what we could, but it was your stubbornness that got you back on your feet.” Then he hesitated, glancing at Yuna before clearing his throat. “Listen, lad. I want to talk about… what happens next.”

My stomach tensed. “Next?” I repeated.

Ronan nodded, folding his arms. “You’re nearly well enough to fend for yourself. Not that we’re kicking you out,” he added hastily, “but the question is: do you have anywhere to go? Any family or friends who might be looking for you?”

The question hung in the air, loaded with painful implications. My “family” had been the pantheon, my “friends” lesser gods and devout armies. As far as I knew, they were either gone, scattered, or uninterested in finding me. My chest constricted at the reminder of my solitude. “No,” I said at last, voice hushed. “No one that I know of.”

Yuna and Ronan exchanged a glance. She reached out, taking my hand. “Then stay with us,” she said, “or at least stay in Greylake until you figure out what you want to do. The village is small, but you’ll always find a meal here, and folks will welcome your help… or your healing, if you can manage it.”

Her words made my heart twist in an odd mixture of gratitude and hesitation. Could I truly remain here, hiding among mortal farmers, while the realm still harbored monstrous threats? Then again, what was I to do, charge off into the wilds alone in my feeble state? That would be madness. I needed time to regain strength, to decide how best to use what tiny fraction of power I still possessed.

I lowered my gaze, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I… appreciate that. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re no burden,” Ronan said curtly, though not unkindly. “You saved one of our children. That’s more than enough reason for us to offer you a place here. You’ll do your share of chores once you’re able, I’m sure.” He sniffed, as if to say no freeloaders, but beneath that, I could sense he truly wanted me to stay.

I nodded. “Yes. I’ll do what I can. Thank you.”

Yuna squeezed my hand again, smiling. “Good. Now let’s get some supper in you.”

She busied herself ladling stew into bowls, and I found myself watching her, a deep warmth in my chest. This simple act, this communal meal in a humble cottage, felt more meaningful than all the feasts I’d ever attended in palatial halls. There was real kindness here, real connection. Mortals, yes, but strong in a way I’d once overlooked.

I forced back a surge of emotion and focused on the stew’s aroma—onion, potatoes, bits of fish. My appetite had improved in recent days. As we ate, the conversation flowed with surprising ease. Ronan mentioned the next harvest, Yuna talked about the new hemp seeds she wanted to plant, and I listened with genuine interest. Now and then, they asked if I recalled anything more about my past, but I evaded the question gently. Perhaps, in time, I’d share more, but not yet.

After dinner, Ronan retired early, leaving me and Yuna by the dying embers of the hearth. She seemed content to savor the quiet, so I joined her in that reflective hush. The flicker of dying coals cast an amber glow on the walls. I caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror propped on a shelf. The face that stared back looked haunted—cheekbones too sharp, eyes ringed with fatigue, hair ragged—but it was undeniably my own. Daniel, I thought. A mortal man with a second chance.

Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the thatch on the roof. A dog barked once in the distance, then fell silent. Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the scarred remains of battlefields and ruined fortresses, Titan spawn might still roam. Cults might be plotting to harness leftover cosmic energies. And yet here I was, part of a simple domestic scene, nursing my injuries and forging new connections with people who had every reason to distrust a stranger—and yet accepted me anyway.

I leaned back in my chair, letting that realization sink in. This was not the life I had planned for myself, but perhaps it was the life I needed. A slower, human existence where each small kindness mattered, where each step of healing was cherished. Perhaps this is how I begin anew.

Eventually, Yuna stood, collecting the empty bowls from supper. She offered me a sleepy smile. “Get some rest,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll see if you’re strong enough to stand by the table without support. Maybe we’ll try a bit of cooking.”

I chuckled lightly, a sound that felt strangely alien coming from my own chest. “Me, cook? That’s a terrifying prospect.”

She giggled, and the sound warmed me more than any cosmic flame ever had. “We’ll see. Good night, Daniel.”

“Good night,” I replied, my voice soft with gratitude.

Left alone, I gazed at the embers until they became faint red pinpricks against black ash. My mind drifted to the day I might once again walk beyond the village, venture into the ravaged realm, and see with my own eyes what the Godfall had wrought. For now, though, my destiny lay here, among these gentle folk who had rescued me from the brink and given me a reason to keep going.

I rose, leaning on my cane, and made my way to the straw bed one step at a time. Each footfall felt heavier than the last, my body protesting after the day’s exertions. When I finally lay down, I exhaled in relief. Pain lingered, but it was a manageable ache, a sign that my limbs were relearning their strength. I closed my eyes, listening to the hush of the night, a hush broken only by the occasional creak of the cottage settling in the wind.

Slipping into the realm of dreams, I found no cosmic storms or Titan roars awaiting me. Instead, I dreamed of fields ripe with harvest, of children laughing under a midday sun, of quiet hearths and kindly faces. And somewhere within that dream, I felt a small, steady flame—a spark of determination—to protect all of that in my new mortal life, no matter how difficult the road ahead might be.

Such were my first steps in Greylake, a place as unassuming as any, yet offering me a chance for rebirth. The Godfall might have stripped me of godhood, but it hadn’t stripped me of hope. And for the first time in a long, long while, hope felt like enough.