[VILLAGE OF ELOREN]
The darkness of the room was broken only by the pale light of the moon, which entered through the slit in the window like a silver thread laid across the worn wooden floor.
The mayor of Eloren lay on the bed, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
Sober.
His breathing was deep, heavy, as if each breath were pulling something from within him by force. Cold sweat slid down his temple—not from heat, but from memories. From things that refused to leave.
In the corner of the room, hanging crooked on the wall, was a portrait.
An old painting, the colors faded by time, painted by a hand the mayor no longer remembered. The frame was cracked. But the image was unmistakable.
His wife. His son. And himself.
The man slowly sat on the edge of the bed, eyes locked onto the painting as if waiting for the figures to move, to come back to life just long enough to accuse him.
His jaw clenched.His teeth ground together.
"Damn you…" he muttered.
He stood abruptly. His bare feet struck the floor with force. His shadow dragged across the wall as he stepped toward the painting.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then, with a swift motion, he turned the frame to face the wall.
The thud was dull. The painting slid slightly, resting against the baseboard.
Without a word, he left the room. The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended into the cellar.
The scent of old wood, mixed with the dampness of stone, rose to meet him. Below, among barrels of wine and dust-covered crates, lay his collection—the only inheritance he had allowed himself to keep.
He ran his hand along the wall until he found the lamp. He lit the flame.
The flickering light danced over the lined bottles. Reds, dry blends, aged fermentations—wines from a time when he had once been another man.
But now, all he wanted was to forget.Forget the faces. The promises. The deaths.And the eyes of the girl who still looked at him as if there were a man left beneath the rot.
He grabbed a bottle and opened it with bare hands. Didn't bother with a glass.
The wine spilled over his lips—hot, bitter.
And he descended one more step, deeper into the cellar.
The cold stone floor groaned beneath his heavy steps, and the scent of aged wine mingled with mildew and a rage he had never learned to bury.
The bottle clinked against his calloused fingers. Each gulp burned his throat, but it was never enough to silence the memory. Not even close.
"They took everything from me."
His mind slipped back years, before the village, before the invisible chains that now bound him to this miserable place.
"I was a free man."
But freedom hadn't survived the weight of a banner.
The Kingdom of Cronos had come like a storm: golden standards, speeches of order, soldiers armed to the teeth. They said it was integration. A favor. A blessing.
A lie.
They crushed everything that didn't kneel. And his brother—that damned idealist, as he called him now—had refused to bow.
He was killed like a dog. In front of his wife. In front of his daughter. In front of him.
"Fool," he growled between his teeth, taking another swig.
The wine ran down his chin, but he didn't wipe it.
"And then… they gave me the girl. As if she were a gift. As if I owed them something."
The rage flushed across his face. A dry, fevered red.
"Daughter of the man who dragged me into this hell."
He remembered the makeshift trial, the "offer" made by the supervisor of Cronos.
"You are blood. You are loyal. Take care of her. Being mayor will be your reward. Your… redemption."
Redemption?
A joke.
Now he was forced to be the face of the kingdom that killed his family. Forced to care for the child who reminded him, every day, of the cowardice it took to survive while his brother died standing tall.
"She has the same eyes."
He closed his own for a moment. His hand tightened around the bottle's neck. He nearly shattered it then and there.
"Why did she have to live…?" he whispered, voice thick with alcohol and resentment. "Why not her…?"
He took another step into the darkness. The steps descended farther, into a part of the cellar no one else used. Where the cold was deeper.Where he could forget.
Forget who he was.Forget who he had lost.Forget who that girl kept making him remember.
The steps ended at a floor of uneven, damp stone, heavy with the scent of old wood and spilled wine. The flame of the lamp swayed, casting long shadows on the curved cellar walls. The place was larger than it seemed. Older than the house itself.
The mayor moved slowly among the shelves of bottles, tired eyes scanning the dusty labels as if searching for a lost name, a forgotten year.
Finally, he stopped before a bottle buried beneath thick dust. He yanked it free and bit off the cork, spitting it aside. Took a long swig—nearly choked.
The wine ran down his chin, staining his tunic with the same dark red he tried so hard to forget.
Beside the largest barrel, wedged between wooden crates, rested the axe.
It was old, yes—the iron worn at the edges, the handle chipped in places—but still sharp enough. Large, heavy, broad-bladed... yet in the thick, calloused hands of the mayor, it looked like a toy.
He picked it up with ease. As one handles something familiar. As one handles a habit.
The blade gleamed beneath the flickering light.
He spun it slowly through the air, watching the distorted reflection of his own face along the curve of the metal.
And then he murmured, between gulps and clenched teeth:
"Maybe it's time… isn't it?" Another swig. The wine burned. The axe weighed heavy. "Time to end this cursed thing once and for all." The words echoed through the cellar—low, sincere, without hesitation. "No one cares about her. No one will come for her. And if I erase her… then nothing of my brother remains in this world."
He raised the axe. Just a little. Just to feel the weight.
"She carries his eyes. Those damned eyes that look at me like they still expect… justice. Like I'm supposed to be someone."
Another drink. Another step toward the dark.
"Maybe the world's lighter with one less burden."
He stood still for a moment. Breathing heavy. Axe in one hand. Bottle in the other.
Meanwhile, Lyara dreamed. And in her dreams, the world was not rotten.
Lyara ran through open fields, the wind dancing in her golden hair and her bare feet brushing against the soft grass. There were flowers, blue skies, and a light laughter she hadn't heard in years—her own. She wasn't alone. A young man walked beside her. Tall, with intense eyes, a firm expression, and strong arms. He held her hand with certainty, as if promising a new beginning, far from walls, far from fear.
She smiled in the dream. Rael. Even without knowing his name… she felt him. They ran. Away from everything. Away from that house. Away from that prison.But then… the wind stopped.
The sky darkened.The ground trembled beneath her feet.
And she woke.
Her body shot upright in bed with a sharp, tense gasp. Her breath still rushed, as if she had truly been running. Sweat traced down her back.
Something was wrong.
The room was colder than it should have been. And too quiet. As if the sounds of the village had vanished, swallowed by a thick silence.
She heard her own heartbeat, rapid and loud. The crumpled sheet in her trembling hands clung like a second skin.
A creak.
Outside the door.
Her eyes turned toward it. And for a brief moment—too brief—she thought she'd see the boy from her dream there. Tall, kind-eyed, a steady presence.
But what emerged…
Was him.
The mayor.
Her stepfather.
Sober. Hollow-eyed. Expression unreadable.
And in his right hand… something gleamed under the flickering lamplight.
A weapon.
Not a tool.Not a cane.Not an excuse.
Intention.
"Uncle…?" Lyara's voice barely came out. "What… what are you doing here?"
He stepped forward. Then again.
And she felt her instincts scream.
Like when water spills just before the flood.Like when you know the monster has crossed the threshold.
He was there.
In the doorway.
The weak light behind him cast a distorted shadow—monstrous. Broad shoulders. Chest heaving with barely-contained rage. And in his right hand—the axe.
His eyes were glassy. There was no clarity in them.
Only wine.Only hatred.Only old bitterness bleeding from every word.
"You," he growled, pointing a thick, trembling finger. "You ruined everything."
Lyara shrank back until she hit the headboard, hands shaking, heart pounding.
"U-uncle?… I didn't do anything…"
"Lies!" he spat, storming into the room with heavy steps. "You did everything. That face. Those eyes. Every damn day you remind me of him."
The girl swallowed her sob, words caught in her throat.
"Your father…" he went on, eyes wild, staring at her like she was a mirror, "…left me alive just to torture me. The people think I'm strong? That I command? They don't see! No one sees I'm just a wretched dog still bound by the chain he tied around my neck."
Lyara tried to rise from the bed, but his hand came first—brutal and firm—pressing her back down with his stare.
"You should've died with them!" he roared.
He raised the axe.
Lyara screamed.
The blow came down—heavy, swift, precise—right where she had been a second before.
But she leapt.
Instinct. Fear. Pure desperation.She rolled off the bed at the exact moment the blade split the wood, splinters flying across the room like shrapnel.
She ran.Barefoot. Trembling. Heart pounding like a war drum in her chest, tears burning her eyes.
Down the hallway, she screamed for help that would never come.No door opened.No neighbor heard.
Alone.
Until she crashed into something—solid.Warm.Alive.
A tall, silent figure, hooded—Rael.
She froze.
For a heartbeat, the image fused with her dream.
His eyes did not leave the brute behind her, the man with the axe and madness in his breath. Rael's hand gently rested on her hair—just for a second—and it comforted her, briefly.But immediately afterward, she felt it.
A presence.A heat too great to stand near for long.
She stepped back from him—just a few steps—enough to see clearly.
Something terrible was about to happen.
"W-wait… d-don't do this…"
But Rael wasn't listening.He wasn't hearing.He was feeling.
And he could feel the blood beginning to boil.