The first morning beyond the ruins didn't come gently.
It crawled in slow, like the world itself was holding its breath. Pale, fractured light bleeding through the skeletal treetops, filtered in ragged shafts by scorched branches and a mist so thick it tasted like old smoke. The sky hung bruised and heavy overhead, the horizon cracked with faint gold and ember-red streaks—less sunrise, more the lingering aftermath of a firestorm the gods forgot to extinguish.
But it was morning.
The first I'd seen beyond Draal in… I don't even know how long.
In the ruins, time's just another corpse no one buries.
But here, outside the empire's grave, the sun still fought to rise.
Barely.
The forest around me creaked with old life. Not welcoming, not safe, but breathing—trees blackened from forgotten burns, vines curling along their cracked roots like scars. The mist drifted low across the clearing where I'd made camp, curling around a shape sprawled nearby, chest rising in faint, unsteady pulls.
The horse.
It was still alive.
Against logic. Against odds. Against the damn forest.
I knelt beside him as weak dawnlight cracked through the branches. His coat was a mess—dried blood, ash stains, ragged patches where claws had torn skin and muscle. The bandages I wrapped last night held, but barely. His ribs showed sharp under the battered frame, hooves cracked, legs trembling from every breath.
But his eyes were open.
Dark. Sharp. Defiant.
Good.
I ran a hand down his neck, fingers brushing coarse fur stiff with blood and soot. He flinched slightly, but didn't pull away.
"Stubborn," I muttered, checking the bandages again. "I like that."
The sun crawled higher, bleeding faint warmth across the clearing. The pack sat at my side—the crown buried inside, pulsing faintly against the canvas like coals pressed into my spine.
It never shut up.
Not in words. Not exactly.
More like a pressure, threading under my ribs, whispering through marrow.
I could feel the call again. Faint. From the horizon beyond the treeline. Roads unwinding like scars across the world, cities forgotten by gods, ruins older than the empire, older than memory itself.
Everything beyond Draal waited.
The crown wanted me to follow.
But first… him.
The horse tried to stand again—legs shaking under his own weight. His hooves scraped across the ground, nearly buckling. I caught the bridle, steadying him, boots sliding through loose ash and moss.
"Easy," I muttered under my breath. "We'll stand when we're ready."
The beast huffed, ears pinned back, eyes narrowing, but he stayed upright this time. Head high. Gaze steady.
Still bleeding. Still shaking.
But standing.
I pulled the last of my stale rations from the pack, tearing a chunk of bread, offering it toward him. His ears flicked, nostrils flaring. Suspicion warred with hunger for a heartbeat.
Hunger won.
His teeth snapped the bread from my fingers, grinding it down with a faint snort.
That same defiant fire simmered beneath the exhaustion—the kind you didn't fake, didn't earn overnight. The kind that survives burning cities, ash-choked forests, and all the gods' best attempts to bury you alive.
I tilted my head, studying him properly for the first time.
Lean frame, battered but built for distance. Scars old and new across his flanks. One ear notched, eyes sharp as cut glass, coat a dull black streaked with soot. The kind of animal meant to run—not kneel.
A survivor.
Same as me.
"You look like hell," I muttered, brushing ash from his mane, voice low. "But then… so do I."
He nudged my shoulder faintly, breath warm, stubborn.
My lips twisted at the edges—a faint, dry smile breaking through the grit and fatigue.
"You need a name," I said after a moment, the words lingering in the cold morning air. "Something that'll outlast what's coming."
The trees creaked, wind curling through the clearing, heavy with smoke and the faintest, distant scent of civilization—or what passed for it beyond the Dead Zones.
My hand rested against the horse's neck, fingers threading through his matted mane, eyes drifting toward the faint glow cracking across the horizon.
The old stories whispered of one thing that never bowed to gods or kings.
One force that carried war, ruin, empire, and legend alike across the bones of the world.
The storm?
The fire?
No.
The wind.
The thing that never stopped moving.
That never stayed caged.
I ran my hand along the horse's scarred neck, voice quiet, sure.
"Agro," I whispered. "You'll be Agro."
He snorted once, faint but sharp, as if agreeing.
The sun climbed higher, bleeding across the ash-streaked sky, gold and crimson spilling over the jagged treetops.
Agro straightened beside me, legs unsteady, but standing now, head lifted, eyes locked to the same distant line of the horizon that gnawed at my bones.
The road waited.
Old cities. Old scars. Forgotten gods.
The crown pulsed again—a faint, molten hum beneath my ribs, its whispers twining through my thoughts like embers caught on wind.
I should've buried it.
Should've buried myself with it.
But I didn't.
And now… the horizon dared me.
Dared us.
My fingers curled around the reins, the faintest edge of defiance cutting through the fatigue as Agro shifted beside me, still breathing, still bleeding, still standing.
Like me.
We turned toward the world beyond the ruins.
And we walked into the first real dawn together.
**Author's note**
"This chapter was a bit of a slow burn, mainly focusing on Agro and the main character. And yes—the name is from one of my favorite games, Shadow of the Colossus."