The air was thick with the smell of ash, a bitter tang that clung to the back of the throat and left a taste like regret. The city, or what remained of it, lay stretched before Jackal like a corpse beneath a gray shroud of smoke. Buildings leaned against one another, their steel ribs exposed, their windows gaping like blind eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a fire still crackled, a stubborn ember refusing to surrender. The sound was faint, a whisper compared to the symphony of destruction that had played here not too long ago. He stepped over a crumpled streetlamp, its bulb shattered, its post bent at a pitiful angle, as if it had tried to hold up the sky and failed. Each step was a negotiation with the debris - the bones of the city - though he wasn't sure why he bothered. No one else was left to hear his careful tread. The streets were empty of people, save for the ghosts that clung to the corners of his mind, asking questions he couldn't answer.

How did it come to this?

Jackal knew how. The memories were still fresh, raw as an open wound. He remembered the crowds, their faces bright with hope, looking to him for salvation. A speech was made, lofty yet meaningless words about change, justice, and a brighter future. And for a time, the world listened. For a time, it seemed as if the path they had chosen - cutting through compromise, dismantling the old way brick by brick - was the right one. But ideals are fragile things, easily shattered when held too tightly. It had started with small choices, the kind you justify in the moment. A bridge burned here, a line crossed there. Necessary evils, he called them, though the words tasted sour even then. Necessary for what? he wondered now, staring at the jagged skeletons of skyscrapers that scraped weakly at the gray heavens.

Jackal reached what had once been a playground. The swing set stood intact, as if mocking the rest of the ruin. Its chains swayed gently in the breeze, a sound like a child's laughter, faint and eerie. He hesitated, feeling the weight of the silence pressing against his ears, and looked down at the ground. There, half-buried in soot and rubble, was a child's shoe, bright red against the monochrome world. He knelt and picked it up, holding it as if it were made of glass.

"This wasn't what I wanted," he whispered to the empty city. His voice broke the quiet, but was quickly swallowed again.

Wasn't it, though? The question lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy. He had wanted change, yes, but had he not wanted power, too? Power to shape the world into his image, to silence dissent, to force the world to be better - by his definition of "better." Somewhere along the way, the line between idealism and hubris had blurred, and he had chosen to stop looking for it.

Jackal dropped the shoe. It landed with a soft thud, sending up a small puff of ash. He straightened and continued walking, though there was no destination in mind. The city was a labyrinth of wreckage, and he its sole navigator. He passed a burned-out bookstore, its charred pages scattered across the sidewalk like fallen leaves. One page caught his eye - a fragment of a story, its ink smeared but legible: "And so the hero fell, not from the blade of their enemy, but from the weight of their own deeds."

He tore his eyes away, the words searing into his mind like an accusation.

What had he believed he was saving back then? A society worth preserving? A people who deserved a second chance? Or was it something smaller, more selfish? The ruins offered no answers, only twisted reflections. As he continued to walk, he realized that he wasn't just regretting the decisions he had made. He was regretting the person he had become while making them.

The fire in the distance flared briefly, sending up a plume of sparks into the grayness above. It reminded him of a phoenix, but no rebirth was coming here. No ashes would give rise to wings. The city would remain as it was - a monument to his failure. And still, he walked, one foot in front of the other, because stopping would mean admitting it was truly over. He didn't know what he was searching for - redemption, forgiveness, or simply the courage to face himself. But for now, all he had was the road ahead, stretching through the ruins like a scar.

The water fell in a silver scroll, splitting the air with a sound that was less a roar and more a hymn - an ancient voice echoing across the moss-draped stones. Beyond the waterfall, the forest hummed quietly with the murmurs of trees - pine, fir, spruce - leaning in like observers over the emerald glade in which they dominated. Mist rose from the river like a ghost, drifting in curling veils and catching the dim sunlight that fought through the overcast sky.

By the water's edge, a lone rider halted. The chestnut-pelted horse ran its hoof along the damp earth uneasily, its breath steaming in the cool air. The figure on its back, cloaked in tattered leather and shadow, leaned forward. Beneath the hood, his eyes gleamed like gold coins, alive with an insatiable hunger for adventure. He gazed at the falls as if reading an ancient script hidden within the cascade. He dismounted, the sound of his boots striking the stone drowned out by the song of the downpouring torrent. The air here felt alive, charged with some unseen force. The rider knelt and plunged a hand into the icy river. It burned, sharp and clean, a sensation that climbed up their arm and settled in their chest like a young ember.

"Finally," he whispered, his voice unheard to anything but himself.

From his belt, he drew a small iron key, its surface worn by decades of existence. He held it up to the gray sky, and for a moment, it caught the dim light and glimmered. Then, with a motion that felt both deliberate and reluctant, he dropped it into the pool at the base of the falls. The water consumed it, ripples spreading out in perfect circles, breaking against the jagged edges of stone.

Nothing happened.

The rider stood motionless, shoulders rigid and tense, watching the ripples fade into stillness. The waterfall's song of beauty seemed to turn into one of mockery. He turned as if to leave - but then the ground trembled. A low, resonant vibration, subtle at first, growing deeper and louder until the force pulsed in his bones.

The cascade parted.

Not in the way that water parts for stone, but as if the waterfall itself were a curtain, drawn back by massive, unseen hands. Behind it lay a cavern, its entrance unfathomably dark, rimmed with prismatic quartz that caught and fractured light like the edges of a dream. The mist thickened and swirled, wrapping around the rider like a shroud.

They turned to the horse, brushing its neck softly. "Stay here," he murmured.

And with that, he stepped forward, disappearing into the abyss beyond the veil of falling water.