The cave enveloped Kaer'Zhul in a silence broken only by the dry rustling of the leaves beneath him, a brittle sound that grated on his taut nerves. Every muscle in this cursed, human body ached as if from a battle he had never fought. The hunger was no longer a mere pang, but a searing cramp that dug deep into his entrails, tethering him to the wretched reality of his new existence. He hated this weakness, this screaming dependence on needs that were beneath his divine dignity.

  Then Fenrir glided back into the cave, silent as smoke snaking along the ground. His silver-grey fur seemed to swallow the sparse light at the entrance, while his eyes glowed like molten gold in the darkness. Between his fangs hung the limp body of a young deer, its head twisted unnaturally, a dark bloodstain marking its light coat. With a movement that betrayed both reverence and the efficiency of a predator, Fenrir laid the prey before Kaer'Zhul. The smell hit him – a thick, metallic vapour of warm blood mixed with the earthy musk of the wild animal's fur. It was the smell of death, raw and animalistic, an affront to his senses.

  Fenrir inclined his head, his intelligent eyes studying the fallen god without fear, but with a deep, almost unsettling attention. "Forgive me, Ancient One," his voice cut through the silence, deep and gravelly like rolling stones. "A meager offering for one of your station, I know. But the hunt was short notice, and this was the best the forest could offer so quickly. May it not be entirely unworthy of you."

  A dry, contemptuous sound escaped Kaer'Zhul's throat, more a hiss than a laugh. A deer. For him, who had once dined on nebulae. "Unworthy?" it echoed in his skull, a wave of icy bitterness. "This whole pathetic existence is unworthy! This prison of flesh is an insult!"

  But while his divine pride revolted, the body screamed betrayal. The hunger was a beast straining at its chains, a physical force threatening to break his iron will. The primitive, overwhelming smell of the raw meat, repulsive as it was to his mind, triggered an involuntary reaction – saliva pooled in his mouth. Another proof of this body's treachery, its base instincts.

  With a facial expression fluctuating between deepest contempt and undeniable necessity, Kaer'Zhul forced his aching limbs to kneel beside the dead animal. His hand – this pale, feeble human hand with its uselessly short nails – trembled slightly as he reached into the still-warm fur. The sensation was alien, soft yet resilient. He tore a piece of flesh from the flank. It came away with a sickening, wet sound. Warm blood seeped over his fingers. The meat was tough, laced with sinew.

  He stared at the bloody bundle in his hand. A god. Reduced to tearing carrion like the lowliest predator. It was the ultimate ignominy, a symbol of his profound fall. But the body, that relentless tyrant, demanded its due. With clenched teeth and closed eyes, unable to bear the sight, he brought the meat to his mouth. The taste exploded on his tongue – metallic like old blood, wild, intense, and utterly disgusting. He forced himself to chew, the muscles of his jaw working laboriously against the tough texture. Every bite was a slap in the face of his divinity, a tasteable reminder of Aeliria's cruel, triumphant punishment. He, Kaer'Zhul, who shaped and destroyed worlds, now crouched in a damp, dark cave, a slave to the most primitive drives. The rage within him was no longer a hot fire, but a core of frozen hatred that ached in his chest.

  When the worst of the hunger was finally numbed – more a forced truce than satiation – he pushed the bloody remnant of the carcass away with a gesture of disgusted revulsion. Fenrir, who had observed him with an inscrutable expression, stepped forward silently, seized the deer with surgical precision in his jaws, and vanished with it into the night, so as not to attract unwanted guests.

  Silence returned, heavier than before. Shortly after, the wolf was back, settling down near Kaer'Zhul with a lithe movement. The cold of the night, which had crept back in during his absence, began once again to grasp at the god's limbs with icy fingers. An involuntary shiver ran through his body, another hated sign of his vulnerability. Fenrir seemed to notice immediately. His ears twitched slightly. "The nights are treacherously cold in these mountains, Ancient One," he said, his voice a low growl. "This body is not accustomed to the hardships of this world. Allow me..." The wolf moved a fraction closer, the warmth radiating from his massive body almost palpable. "My fur is thick. My body heat could support yours."

  Kaer'Zhul froze. To huddle against an animal, begging for warmth? The idea was grotesque, another notch in the long list of his humiliations. But the cold bit, gnawed at him, and the heat radiating from the wolf was an almost painfully tempting invitation. With an inner growl that barely concealed his frustration, he yielded. Reluctantly, measuring every inch, he moved closer to Fenrir until his arm touched the dense, surprisingly soft fur. The wave of animal warmth that flowed through him was... shamefully comforting. He would rather crumble to dust than admit it.

  This unexpected, almost intimate closeness and the deceptive security of the cave seemed to clear a fog in Kaer'Zhul's mind. This wolf was an enigma. He spoke, he thought, he showed a reverence that contradicted his wild nature, and he had recognized the truth behind his human mask. A resource. A chance.

  "Wolf," Kaer'Zhul said, his voice still sounding alien to his own ears, but the tone of command was unmistakable. He turned his head, looking into the luminous eyes that stared back at him from the darkness like two distant stars. "You are no ordinary creature of this cursed forest. Explain yourself. What exactly are you?"

  Fenrir blinked deliberately, as if weighing his words on an invisible scale. "I am a guardian, Ancient One. One of the few who still know the old paths. My blood sings the song of the earth and the trees, it is older than the stones of this mountain range. One might call us living spirits of the forest, manifestations of its soul, its wild power. We stand between worlds, not gods like you were, but far more than the animals whose form we bear."

  "Are there many of your kind?" Kaer'Zhul pressed, his thoughts racing. Allies? Enemies? Tools?

  "Few," came the curt reply, a hint of melancholy in the deep voice. "The world is changing, Ancient One. The great forests give way to the iron and fire of humans. Magic itself seems to thin, like mist in the morning sun. My brothers and sisters are scattered, many sleep the long sleep beneath roots, others have retreated to realms unreachable by mortals. Encountering us has become a rare omen."

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  "This world..." Kaer'Zhul made a gesture that, in his old form, could have shifted continents, but was now just a feeble movement of his hand in the air. "Describe its structure to me in your words. Its peoples. Its power. I am a castaway on a shore I do not know."

  Fenrir seemed to withdraw deep within himself, his muzzle slightly lowered. "Humans call this world Aethelgard. It is a patchwork of old scars and new wounds, shaped by countless ages. Vast, wind-swept plains, mountains whose peaks pierce the clouds, forests so deep the sunlight never touches the ground, and seas whose secrets even the oldest winds do not know. And yes, besides the animals and the ever-present humans, there are others."

  "Others with power?" Kaer'Zhul asked insistently. "Power sleeps in many places," Fenrir confirmed with a low growl. "Ancient elementals dream in the hearts of volcanoes. Shy mythical creatures dance in the hidden light of moonlit clearings. Whispers tell of the last giants watching over frozen tundras in the icy north. But the most present power is the humans."

  "Humans," Kaer'Zhul almost spat the word, a taste like ash on his tongue. "This teeming, short-lived vermin. Have they spread here too? Do they build their nests of stone and dirt they call cities?"

  "Yes, Ancient One. Humans have established their empires, their flags fly over high walls of stone and hewn wood. They carve their straight roads through the wilderness, fell the ancient trees for their fires and ships, and spill their blood in endless wars for power and land. Their villages creep to the edges of these woods." Fenrir paused, his golden eyes fixed on Kaer'Zhul. "They are as countless as the leaves in autumn and... frighteningly adaptable."

  "Are there deviations? Hybrids? Creatures not quite animal, not quite human?" Kaer'Zhul's mind searched the catalogues of countless worlds he had known.

  "Such beings live in the shadows of legends," Fenrir answered after a brief silence. "Tales are told of the lithe cat-people in the scorching sands of the south, of the proud centaurs who hunt like the wind across the endless steppes, of the horned minotaurs said to dwell in forgotten labyrinths beneath ruined cities. But they have become rare, shy as game, and avoid the loud hustle of humans. Here, in the heart of this forest, you will mostly encounter humans, the common animals, and perhaps, if fate wills it, a fleeting forest spirit."

  A thought, sharp and painful, pierced Kaer'Zhul's concentration. "And..." he forced his voice to casualness, yet he felt Fenrir's ears prick slightly, "...dragons?"

  The word hung heavy in the cave air. Fenrir's gaze became distant, as if looking through the rock walls into a time long past. "Dragons..." he murmured, his voice now almost a whisper. "They are the stuff from which the oldest myths are woven, Ancient One. It is said they were once the undisputed kings of the sky, embodiments of power that could move stars, of wisdom spanning eons – or of wrath that engulfed the world in flames. But their time is over. They have vanished like snow in summer. No one in living memory has seen one of the Great Dragons. Legends say they now sleep beneath the foundations of the world or have fled through a gate to another sphere. Only their weak, degenerate descendants – wyverns with poisonous stingers or voracious lindworms – sometimes still cross the sky, but they are mere echoes, distorted shadows of their former glory."

  Kaer'Zhul fell silent, a cold emptiness spreading within him. His creation. His children. Lost, forgotten, faded into legends in this backward world. It was another stab to his battered ego.

  "And the humans themselves?" he finally asked, to break the silence that had become unbearable. "Are they all just weak cattle? Or are there those among them who... can perceive and weave the threads of power? Are there magic-users?"

  "Yes," Fenrir replied without hesitation. "There are those among humans who master the arcane arts. They call themselves mages, warlocks, shamans, or priests, depending on where they draw their power – from the raging elements, from the light of distant gods, or from dark pacts with entities whose names are best left unspoken. Some are scholars in dusty towers, others advisors at the courts of kings, still others live hidden in the wilderness. Their power is real, Ancient One. They can call fire, heal wounds, weave illusions, or bend the minds of others. They are not all the same, these humans. Some carry a spark within them that burns brightly – even if it is only a candle compared to the solar storm that still rages even in your weakened form."

  Kaer'Zhul let the information sink in, sorting it in his vast memory. Aethelgard. A world of humans, interspersed with remnants of ancient power, fading magic, forgotten dragons, and shy, legendary creatures. A prison, certainly. But perhaps also... a hunting ground. A place to relearn, adapt, and eventually strike back. He needed to understand this world, learn its rules, find its weaknesses. And this talking wolf, this guardian Fenrir, had unexpectedly become his most important tool. His thoughts circled around the future. What now? Cower here in the forest, dependent on a wolf's hunt? Unbearable. This body was too fragile, too vulnerable to the hardships of the wilderness. Cold, hunger, injuries – they would wear him down before he could regain even a fraction of his former strength. But the thought of crawling into one of those human nests, mingling with the "vermin"... bile rose at the idea. It would be a declaration of bankruptcy for his pride. Yet Fenrir's words about the mages echoed. Mages in secluded towers. Beings who dealt with the currents of power, albeit in their clumsy, mortal way. Was that the path? A place where he could not only survive, but learn? Learn how the magic of this world worked? Learn how he could force the divine essence pulsing like a captive star in his chest through the narrow channels of this body? Tap into it, shape it, perhaps – he hardly dared to hope – one day break the bonds and unleash it again? A dangerous, yet tempting thought. A path leading out of this miserable cave.

  However, these plans, this burgeoning, cold determination, had to wait. A wave of leaden exhaustion, as sudden and absolute as a blow, tore him from his reflections. It wasn't just fatigue; it was a complete system failure. This body was capitulating. Its reserves, painstakingly replenished by the raw meat, were completely burned out. Every breath became heavy, every movement an insurmountable hurdle. His limbs felt as if filled with molten lead. Even thinking became a tenacious struggle, the outlines of his plans blurring into a grey mush. He tried to fight against the encroaching darkness, to straighten up, but his muscles only twitched feebly, refusing service. His spirit – the immortal, indomitable spirit of the Dragon God Kaer'Zhul – raged impotently within this failing prison. He was awake, he was furious, he was humiliated! But the body, this wretched lump of flesh and bone, pulled him inexorably downward. Against his will, his eyelids fluttered, becoming heavy as tombstones. What unimaginable ignominy! A god, defeated by the simple, biological necessity of sleep! With a final, silent scream of rage against Aeliria, against this world, against his own weakness, his eyes closed, and darkness swallowed him completely. He sank into unconsciousness, deeper and deeper, like a stone in a bottomless abyss.