Laugh
Laughter was not a sound he remembered making.
In the halls of Citadel, silence had always been his command.
Every whisper, every chuckle, every sigh had been swallowed
by the weight of his presence.
To laugh was to lower oneself.
And Pride… never bent.
But now—
surrounded by muddy boots, cracked pottery, and children who didn't know fear—
he found himself… amused.
It started with a chicken.
An old man dared him to chase it through the village square,
claiming that “even gods can’t catch this demon bird.”
He didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
He simply stood, removed his cloak, and stepped into the dirt.
Three seconds later,
he was flat on his back,
feathers fluttering triumphantly above him.
The crowd roared.
And then—so did he.
It was a rough, strange sound,
like rusted hinges creaking after centuries of stillness.
But it was laughter.
Real.
Unfiltered.
His.
And in that moment,
a crack appeared not in his mask—
but in the fortress that had long imprisoned his soul.
That night, he sat beside Ashen near the campfire.
Ashen didn’t say much.
Just handed him a bowl of soup and looked at him sideways.
“You laughed,” the boy muttered.
“Didn’t know gods had lungs.”
“They do,” he replied.
“We just forget to use them.”
They ate in silence.
Not sacred silence.
Not heavy.
Just the kind that happens when people are full—
and free.
And though stars burned above them just as they always had,
for the first time in eons,
he didn’t feel above them.
He felt…
part of them.
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