He left the Citadel before dawn.
No one watched him go.
No one followed.

There were no banners.
No farewell rites.
Just the soft wind tugging at the hem of a nameless cloak.

He had no destination.
Only a direction: away from who he had been.

His steps were unsure.
Not because the path was unclear—
but because, for the first time,
he had not shaped the path beneath him.

Villages no longer knelt.
Children did not recognize him.
Even the statues carved in his image had been repurposed—
turned into fountains, gardens, or broken apart for stone.

He passed a former temple where his name had once echoed like thunder.
Now, it was a quiet market.
A child sold fruit from what used to be the altar.

He bought an apple.
The child did not know him.
Did not bow.
Just smiled.

And that smile—unburdened by fear or worship—
was more honest than a thousand songs ever sung to him.

That night, he slept beneath an old tree.
No guards.
No divine barrier.
Just stars—indifferent and ancient.

And for the first time in an age,
he dreamed without fire, without mirrors, without thrones.

In the dream, he stood before a lake.
It did not reflect him.
Not because it was broken,
but because it didn’t need to.

And for the first time,
he smiled back at nothing.

Somewhere far away,
Ashen wrote a single line in his journal:

“He is no longer Pride.
And that… is how this begins.”