They came not for justice, but for smoke and screams.
And by dawn, there was no village left to remember.
---
The wind carried the stench of iron long before the flames touched the wood.
That night, the sky wore no stars. The clouds hung low, smothering the moonlight like the shroud of a funeral veil. The soil itself seemed to hold its breath. No beast stirred, no owl hooted. The dogs of the village—half-starved mutts, usually restless—lay still with their ears pinned flat and their eyes toward the western ridge.
Rael, asleep in a shallow grain pit behind his grandfather's hut, was roused not by noise, but by heat.
It started as a whisper: the shift of air, the way darkness flickered against the walls of his eyelids. He opened his eyes to see smoke curling into the sky—thick, dark, rolling.
Then came the silence—so heavy it pressed against his chest.
And then, like a hammer through glass, the first scream.
---
The Kingdom of Irminheir had no use for precision. When a western village dared to rebel—cutting down a tax envoy and hanging his body in the square—they did not send troops to that village alone. They sent fire to its neighbors, to the allies of its neighbors, to any land that might shelter a whisper of disobedience.
The message was simple:
The shadow of rebellion will be scorched before it grows teeth.
Rael's village had no name. It had no wealth. It had no walls, no weapons, and no soldiers. It sat in a crook of low hills, nestled beside dying farmland and a half-dry stream.
But it was close.
Close enough to burn.
---
The soldiers of Irminheir did not speak as they descended. No horns. No commands. Only the rhythm of marching boots and the hiss of oil-soaked torches. They swept into the village like a tide, black-helmed and faceless beneath their visors. Each bore the insignia of the High Flame—four swords crossed over a burning sun.
They moved from house to house, setting rooftops ablaze before the screams even started.
One family tried to run. Arrows took them down before they reached the treeline.
Another tried to fight. An old farmer with a woodcutter's axe was gutted in front of his son.
A child begged at their feet.
He was kicked into a fire.
---
Rael ran.
He didn't know where his legs were taking him—only that he had to move. The smoke was thick now, choking every breath. Sparks rained from the rooftops like red snow. He passed Mera, the herbalist, her clothes alight, spinning and howling as she collapsed. He stepped over the corpse of Behrin, the old drunk, whose neck had been opened so cleanly his head barely clung to his shoulders.
He turned the corner of the smith's shop and saw his home.
And saw it already burning.
---
His mother was screaming.
Her voice rose like a broken bell through the flames, calling a name—Rael's name—but it faded into the roar of collapsing beams.
Soldiers surrounded the front of the house. One dragged Rael's sister, Nayen, by her hair, lifting her like a doll. Another kicked his grandfather to the ground and buried a sword in his chest. His mother lunged with a knife—a rusted kitchen blade—and slashed across the throat of one soldier.
She didn't make it past the second.
A spear impaled her from behind, lifting her off the ground before she crumpled like rags in the fire.
Rael froze.
He wanted to scream. To charge. To die. But his legs locked, and his breath vanished, and all he could do was fall.
He collapsed into the mud beside the storehouse wall.
And didn't move again.
---
The fire raged all night.
Villagers were dragged out of hiding, beaten, tied, and thrown into piles. Some were set aflame. Others were left half-alive for the crows. The screams dwindled, one by one, until the only sound left was the wind hissing through hollow frames.
By dawn, the village was gone.
And the soldiers departed, leaving behind only ash.
---
Rael awoke covered in soot and blood.
He didn't know how long he'd lain there. His face was caked in dried mud. His lips were cracked. Smoke still drifted from embers around him.
He moved.
Barely.
His arms shook. His legs twitched.
He crawled toward the remains of his home. The front beam had collapsed. One of the walls was still glowing. He reached the doorway and saw—
Nothing.
They were gone.
Nothing left but bones and blackened flesh.
His sister's doll sat in the mud, half-melted.
Rael picked it up.
Held it.
And wept.
---
He buried them with his hands.
The dirt was hard. His nails tore. He had no tools. No prayers. No words.
Just rage.
Not the fire-hot rage of vengeance. But the slow, grinding, splintering hatred that eats from within. The kind that poisons sleep and sharpens breath.
He didn't scream. He didn't swear revenge.
He dug. He placed what was left of them into the earth. And he sat beside the shallow graves until the rain came.
---
That night, lightning struck the tree behind the smithy.
Rael stood beneath it, bare-chested, cloak burned to ribbons, arms cut and blistered. Rain plastered his hair to his face. The doll was tucked into his belt.
He stared up at the sky—not in prayer.
In defiance.
Something inside him cracked open.
The boy who'd hidden grain to feed the village died with that fire.
What remained was not yet a man.
But it would become one.
---
Days passed.
No other survivors came. No rescue. No pity. The surrounding lands feared association.
Rael walked.
East, toward the river. South, toward the trader roads. North, into the cliffs.
Anywhere that wasn't here.
He walked barefoot, eating roots and bark, speaking to no one.
He slept with his back to stone and his hands curled around a rock.
He avoided soldiers.
He watched the wind.
And he waited.
---
Rumors traveled faster than truth.
By the end of the month, whispers spoke of a boy who survived the Purge of the Nameless Village.
A child of smoke. A spirit of ash. A survivor who had looked death in the eye and walked away.
They called him:
The Red Ghost.
---
In the burned heart of a forgotten land, a legend began.
Not of a chosen one.
Not of a king.
But of a boy left behind.
And the fire he carried inside.