It had been many years since he'd been home. Since he'd sat down with his brother in the evenings.

But yet he walked.

So long ago was the past. So much pain it held.

And so he walked, and walked, and walked into the sunset.

He was a farmer at heart. He had loved his crops, more than he loved his brother, more than he loved his god. He loved his wheat, and his barley, and his orchard, they were all he cared for. Not anymore.

His brother was dead, and so were his crops, everything near and dear to him, gone in the blink of the eyes.

Now he roamed the paths of the world searching for a new home, or companions to aid him in his new calling, he was not sure.

He slowly became a living legend, a passing rumor. Of a man who survived a god's wrath. And now he was going to kill that god.

The road did not remember him.

Once, it had. Once, his steps had meant something, worn into the earth beside another set, side by side. Now the dust swallowed him whole, as if he had never been.

He walked until the sun dipped low and the sky burned gold.

Then he saw it.

What was left.

The hill. The broken fence. The blackened bones of trees reaching upward like they were still begging for mercy.

His breath caught.

“No…”

But his feet kept moving.

They always did.

The house stood barely upright, leaning into ruin. He pushed the door open. It groaned, hollow and empty, like the place had forgotten how to be alive.

Inside, there was nothing.

No voices.

No warmth.

Only ash.

His gaze drifted to the corner where they used to sit, two chairs, two plates, two brothers.

Now, just silence.

“You never cared.”

He clenched his jaw. “That’s not true.”

But the memory didn’t listen.

He saw it anyway, his brother talking, laughing, trying… and himself, always turned away. Always choosing the fields, the harvest, the work.

“I was keeping us alive,” he muttered.

“You were keeping yourself alive.”

The words landed heavy.

He knelt, brushing ash aside until his fingers found something small; a rough carving. Two figures. One taller. One smaller.

His brother’s hands had made it.

Now we’ll always be together.

His grip tightened.

The air shifted.

Cold.

Heavy.

“You still breathe because I allow it.”

The voice pressed in from everywhere.

He didn’t turn. “I breathe because you failed.”

A low rumble answered.

“You speak boldly for something so small.”

He stood slowly, the carving in his hand.

“I’ve had time to think,” he said. “I’ll make it count.”

A pause.

Then, almost amused—

“And what will you do?”

He faced the empty doorway, the dying light spilling in.

His voice didn’t shake.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Silence.

Then quiet, endless laughter.

“You, who could not protect them?”

His jaw tightened.

“I couldn’t protect them,” he said. “But I can avenge them.”

The presence lingered a moment longer.

Then—

“Then try.”

It vanished.

The wind returned.

He stood alone in the ashes of his life.

Then turned.

And walked.

Not searching anymore.

Hunting.