Silence was peaceful.
For a time.
Drake watched from beyond reach as the world continued without him. Gods claimed independence. Demons declared supremacy. Mortals adapted—because mortals always did.
Empires rose.
Empires fell.
Faith twisted.
Truth diluted.
Drake felt no regret.
But he felt something unfamiliar.
Curiosity.
Mortals lived knowing they would end.
And yet they laughed.
They loved knowing it could be taken from them. They built knowing it could be destroyed. They hoped without certainty.
Gods could not understand that.
Demons mocked it.
Drake… respected it.
"Perhaps," he thought, "I have only ever watched from above."
For the first time since existence began, Drake considered limitation.
Not as punishment.
As experience.
He began to seal himself—not entirely, but enough. His awareness narrowed. His authority folded inward. Power condensed into something dormant, unreachable unless absolutely necessary.
Creation did not resist.
It remembered him too well.
Drake reached toward the mortal world—not to descend as a savior, not to be worshipped, but to be born.
The transition was not violent.
It was quiet.
Cold air burned his lungs. Gravity pressed down with unfamiliar weight. Sound rushed in without order—crying, shouting, breathing.
Pain followed.
Sharp. Immediate. Real.
Drake screamed.
Not as a god.
But as a child.
Hands wrapped him in warmth. A heartbeat—fast and frightened—pressed him close. A woman's voice trembled with relief. A man laughed softly, exhausted and overwhelmed.
Drake did not understand the words.
But he understood the emotion.
Years passed.
Slowly.
Drake learned hunger. Fatigue. Frustration. He fell, scraped his knees, failed at simple things. His parents laughed when he sulked and scolded him when he was careless.
They were ordinary.
And somehow… extraordinary.
His father crafted tools that broke and repaired them anyway. His mother healed with hands that shook and never turned anyone away.
They loved without expecting eternity.
Drake learned restraint without effort.
At night, he stared at the stars he had once placed himself and felt something settle inside him.
This life was fragile.
That made it precious.
When his parents died—peacefully, years later—Drake held their hands and felt something he had never named before.
Loss.
Gods feared destruction.
Mortals lived inside it.
At sixteen, Drake stood at the edge of his village, a simple pack on his shoulder, the world stretching wide before him.
Somewhere far away, thunder rolled without clouds.
Drake did not look up.
"I will live quietly," he decided.
"As a human."
And with that choice, the first arc of his true journey began.