Torian stood on the edge of the tall grass, a woven crown of wildflowers in his hands.
The wind was soft, brushing through the trees like a living thing. Above him, the sky was gold and blue, with soft clouds stretched wide over the ridge that marked the northern end of the village. Smoke rose gently from chimneys behind him. Chickens clucked. Someone was chopping wood. All of it hummed like a memory — like something that would echo forever even when it was gone.
He placed the crown on his sister's head.
"Queen Eysa of the Hill," he said with mock solemnity.
She beamed, barely nine years old, her tangled brown curls spilling over her eyes. "You may kneel."
Torian grinned and bowed low. "What's my punishment, Your Highness?"
She tapped his shoulder with a stick like it was a scepter. "You must catch two frogs before dinner or be exiled to the shadow tree forever."
"Unfair," he muttered. "Royal tyranny."
"Frogs!" she shouted, sprinting down the slope, crown bouncing on her head.
Torian followed after her, boots thudding against dirt. His wooden practice sword bounced against his back as he chased her down into the marshy edge of the clearing, the smell of moss and wet bark surrounding them.
For a moment, that was everything.
Just the two of them laughing, the trees, the dirt, the sun. The village behind them alive and safe. For thirteen years, this had been Torian's entire world — narrow and full of wonder. It had no warlords, no soldiers, no blackened flame. It had soup at dusk and whistles from rooftops and long days hauling firewood with his father. He had never seen a battle. Only scars.
When they returned home, his mother had already lit the hearth.
The smell of stew met them at the door. Sera — her dark hair tied back, apron dusted with flour — turned from the pot and pointed her spoon. "You're late."
"Royal business," Eysa announced, holding her head high as she stepped through the doorway with muddy shoes.
Sera glanced at Torian with a raised brow.
"She made me chase frogs," he explained.
Sera chuckled, wiped her hands, and kissed her daughter's head. "Royal business indeed. Wash up, both of you."
Torian set his wooden blade beside the door and moved to the pump. Arel was already there — sleeves rolled, arms scarred from a life he didn't talk about.
"You let her win again," Arel said without looking up.
"She's faster than she looks."
"Or you're slower than you think." Arel handed him a cloth.
The two of them washed in silence. Beyond the fence, a hawk circled lazily overhead.
"Smoke's rising again near the pass," Arel murmured.
Torian followed his gaze. A faint, dark line curled upward from the far tree line — far enough to be dismissed, but close enough to raise questions.
"I heard it was just trappers," Torian offered.
Arel didn't answer. He scrubbed his hands, slow and thoughtful, then dried them with care. His face always seemed calm, but there were times — like now — when that stillness became distance. Like his thoughts were in another world.
"Eat what your mother makes," Arel said at last. "Even if it's burned."
Torian smirked. "She'll hear you."
"I hope she does."
That night, the four of them sat together by the fire.
Sera served them stew with fresh bread from the baker's stone oven. Eysa told a long-winded story about a rabbit that escaped her grasp by leaping onto a rock that "definitely moved," which she insisted meant the rabbit was part wizard. Arel nodded along, amused, while Torian tried to sketch a map of the nearby hills on a scrap of hide.
Later, when the sun dipped below the pines and the stars rose soft and slow, Arel unwrapped a bundle from beneath the bed.
It was a blade — a real one.
"I was going to wait until you were older," Arel said, kneeling beside Torian, "but the world doesn't always wait."
The sword was old but well-kept. Leather-wrapped hilt. Simple crossguard. A single Spiral rune near the base of the blade, scratched in as if someone had done it long after forging.
Torian stared. "Is it yours?"
"It was given to me," Arel said. "Now it's yours."
"But I don't even—"
"You will. One day." He placed it gently across Torian's lap. "For now… just keep it safe."
Torian didn't sleep that night. He stayed awake by the window, watching the wind move the treetops, listening to his sister's soft breaths. His hand rested lightly on the blade by his bed, and in his heart, something ancient and quiet began to stir — not power, not fire, but awareness.
As if the world was leaning in, holding its breath.
And waiting.
The morning arrived slow and quiet, almost suspiciously still.
Torian helped haul water from the stream while Arel went to the Elder's hall. The wind had changed again—no longer carrying birdsong, but something drier. It tasted like dust. Smoke still rose on the horizon, darker now, but no one in the village would say what it meant. They didn't have to.
Everyone was watching the tree line.
Near the baker's steps, an older boy with red scars across his forearms whispered to his friend about black-armored riders seen weeks ago down by the salt road.
"They take whole towns," he said.
Torian passed them without slowing.
He returned home before noon and found his mother preparing travel packs. Dried meat, bread, waterskins.
"Are we leaving?" he asked.
"No," she lied.
Sera tied off a satchel with shaking hands and tried to smile. "Just being careful. In case your father says we must go. You remember the west trail?"
Torian nodded, the knot in his chest growing. "Where is he now?"
"With the Elder. Speaking for the village."
She moved to him and placed her hand on his cheek. "We'll be fine. Whatever happens, stay close to your sister. If I say run, you run. No questions."
Torian wanted to ask why. Why now. Why today.
But something inside him already knew.
⸻
By afternoon, the village stood at the edge of unraveling. People walked with urgency. Packs were quietly loaded onto carts. Tools vanished from doorways. A strange quiet settled — not peace, but anticipation.
Arel returned just before dusk, his face grim. He went straight to his old satchel beneath the bed and pulled out the blade Torian had held the night before. No words. Just the scrape of leather and steel and the soft whisper of old fabric being tied around a waist.
Outside, someone shouted.
Torian ran to the window. Beyond the fence, the chickens had scattered. The village hounds barked wildly. Then—hooves.
They came over the ridge like a shadow bleeding across the light.
Dozens of them. Maybe more.
Riders in blackened armor, marked with the red Spiral brand across their chests. Their helmets were horned, their faces hidden behind iron masks. Behind them rolled siege carts and spiked wagons. The grass beneath their horses' hooves blackened as they passed.
People screamed. Some ran. Some stood frozen.
Torian's mother grabbed Eysa. "Go. Now."
Arel took Torian's shoulder. "Listen to me—"
But before he could speak, a voice boomed across the square. Cold. Sharp as metal.
"By order of Lord Malvorn," the voice called, "this village is forfeit. Debts unpaid. Resistance is death."
Arel's grip tightened. "Out the back. Take your sister—"
The first torch hit the rooftops.
The fire spread fast—dry thatch and fear doing most of the work. Riders dismounted and drew curved blades, walking with slow purpose. They weren't looters. They weren't raiders. They were enforcers. Cold. Trained. Cruel.
Sera pulled Eysa by the hand. "Go! Torian—run!"
He didn't want to.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to help. He wanted to scream.
But he obeyed.
They tore out the back of the house and bolted down the alley between the sheds. Eysa tripped and scraped her knee. Torian pulled her up. "Come on, come on!"
Through smoke, he saw the fields beyond. Safety. Trees. If they could just reach—
A scream froze him in place.
He turned.
His home was burning now. Flames curled around the windows. Their door hung open. Arel stood inside, sword in hand, blood on his arm. He looked directly at Torian—and reached out with his free hand.
"RUN!" he shouted.
Torian ran to him.
He sprinted through the chaos, dodging the bodies in the square, breath coming in gasps. His father stood tall in the doorway, arm still outstretched, waiting for him.
He was halfway there when it hit.
⸻
A sound like wind, like thunder, like the sky itself tearing.
From behind the armored line, one of the siege carts launched its payload — a massive, flaming rock wrapped in iron spikes. It screamed through the air.
And struck directly into their house.
The explosion wasn't fire. It was destruction — pure, roaring, final. Wood, stone, and flame blew outward in a single wave. Torian was lifted off his feet, hurled backward like a doll. He crashed into the dirt and slid, ash and cinders rolling over him like a second skin.
Screams filled the air.
Then silence.
Only fire remained.
And ash.
Everything was gray.
Gray air, gray ground, gray sky smothered by smoke. The fire still burned in scattered patches, glowing dimly through thick waves of ash that rolled like fog across the square.
Torian lay half-buried beneath the broken remains of a supply cart, shielded only by its shattered frame and the thick, cold ashes piled over him like snow. He didn't move. Couldn't. He was too dazed to tell whether minutes had passed or hours.
His ears rang. His arms trembled. He blinked, but the world didn't change.
Something warm trickled down the side of his face — blood, maybe. His side ached with every breath. He tried to sit up but could barely lift his head.
Then memory returned.
He remembered running.
He remembered his father, reaching from the doorway.
He remembered the fire.
And then the wave of horror came in full.
His breath quickened, sharp and broken, as he twisted onto his side and pulled himself from under the cart's ruin. Ash poured off his shoulders in sheets. He looked around in disbelief, eyes wide, heartbeat rising in his throat like it might choke him.
The village was gone.
Where his home had stood, there was now only a crater of blackened rubble, embers pulsing dimly inside the wreckage. Pieces of wood jutted from the ground like bones. The hill-tree was scorched to a skeleton. The fields were ablaze. Some houses still burned in silence.
Bodies littered the ground.
He recognized the blacksmith's daughter near the well. The Elder lay motionless, his cane still in hand. A horse twitched in the dirt nearby, its belly ripped open. The sky above them was smoke and flame.
But it was the silence that truly broke him.
No more laughter.
No more footfalls or bread ovens or frogs in the grass.
Just the windless quiet of death.
Torian stumbled forward, one foot dragging, eyes wide. He crossed the square in slow, halting steps, past a torn banner and a toppled fruit cart. Ash stuck to his face and neck. His tunic was torn, singed at the edges. His arms were covered in soot.
"Father?" he whispered.
There was no answer.
He stepped closer to the remains of the house, but the heat was still too great. The doorway where Arel had stood was gone. Just smoldering stone and melted hinges. His family had been inside.
Mother. Sister. All of them.
His legs gave out.
He dropped to his knees in the ash, eyes staring into flame that didn't warm him. His fingers dug into the dirt. His shoulders trembled, but no tears came. They couldn't. He was too far gone. His voice wouldn't even rise.
He didn't scream.
He just shook, alone in the wreckage of everything he loved.
Above, ash fell like snow.
And then — footsteps.
Not many. Distant. Measured.
The soldiers were returning.
He crawled backward beneath the cart again, limbs heavy with shock and fear. He covered himself with ash, desperate to disappear. The firelight above flickered against armored shapes as they moved through the remains, checking bodies, searching for anything left worth taking.
He held his breath.
A boot paused near the cart.
He closed his eyes.
But then it moved on.
After a long time — maybe minutes, maybe hours — the silence returned. The soldiers were gone. Or finished. Either way, they didn't see him.
When Torian opened his eyes again, the fire was lower.
The square was empty.
The only sound now was the pop of distant embers.
He crawled out again, shaking, gasping like something half-born. He stood slowly, body aching, ribs tight. Around him was only death.
He took a single step forward.
Then another.
And the wind came back.
Soft.
And cold.
It curled through his torn tunic, brushed his scorched face, and carried with it the last scent of his home — not the fire, but the stew from the night before, the memory of bread, the touch of his mother's hand, the echo of his sister's laugh.
Gone.
All of it.
He looked to the sky.
It was black now. And far away.
He didn't know where he would go. Only that he had to move.
So Torian — thirteen, barefoot, ash-covered and alone — walked out of the ruins without a single word.
Behind him, the village that once held everything he loved burned down to nothing.
Ahead of him, the wild waited.
And somewhere beyond the trees… something ancient was watching.