The world was burning.
Not with fire, but with silence.
Somewhere far above the clouds, where even gods dared not speak, a figure stood still as a mountain. Cloaked in black, crowned in nothing, he gazed down at the kingdom that once called him hero.
His name was long forgotten by those who cheered for others. His deeds, buried beneath medals never offered. His voice had once been soft—full of dreams, full of hope.
But hope is a fragile thing.
The wind carried whispers now. Not of prayers, but of fear.
Not of his kindness, but of what he had become.
A boy once summoned to save this world had died.
What remained was something else. Something the stars would not name.
And as the shadow of his cloak stretched across the sun, even time dared not move