Nox drove his fist into the tree, splintering bark and bone alike. The trunk groaned, a jagged crack splitting upward as a massive branch snapped free, crashing through the undergrowth in a spray of leaves and dirt.
"Look at that," he growled, shaking blood-flecked knuckles, his grin feral. "I'm getting stronger."
Juro swept dark hair from his eyes, his smirk thin and sharp. "Louder, you mean. Keep that up, and someone's gonna hear us."
"They won't. We're too deep in these woods. Nobody's stupid enough to come this far."
They didn't train out here for kicks. Their strength was a secret, one their parents had beaten into them to keep buried. Nox could still see his mother's face—pale, eyes wide—not with fear for him, but of him. Or maybe of what the world would do if it learned what he could do.
Out here, in the tangled dark of the forest, they could shed that weight. Out here, they could be raw, unbridled.
The sun bled low now, smearing crimson across the treeline, shadows clawing long and jagged.
"We gotta move," Juro said, voice tight. "Before someone notices we're gone."
They turned toward the village—and froze.
The air reeked, sharp and wrong. Smoke, thick with the stench of charred flesh and molten metal, clawed at their throats.
Nox felt the heat before he saw it, a pulse against his skin like a living thing.
The horizon wasn't just red. It was alive with flame. Their village burned, a roiling inferno that devoured homes and spat embers into the bruised sky.
Silhouettes writhed in the firelight—hulking, horned, grotesque. Not beasts Nox knew. Claws glinted like wet knives. Fangs flashed, slick with blood. Their shadows twisted, monstrous and hungry, stretching across the blaze.
And there, in the heart of the chaos, stood a man. Red hair blazed like the flames around him, his face a mask of ice—expressionless, eyes cold as frost on a grave. His hand gripped Nox's mother by her silver hair, yanking her head back, her face contorted in pain but defiant. She was alive. Barely.
"Mother!" Nox's scream tore from his chest, raw and desperate.
He charged, boots pounding dirt, the world a blur of fire and rage. Juro faltered, his gaze snapping toward his own home—swallowed in flame, the roof caving in with a scream of collapsing timber. His parents… He staggered a step toward the ruin, heart pounding, hope guttering like a candle in a storm. The heat seared his face, the smoke stung his eyes, and the truth sank in like a blade: they were gone. No one could survive that.
Juro's knees nearly gave. Grief clawed his chest, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. He wanted to collapse, to let the fire take him too. But Nox—Nox was still fighting, still alive. Juro swallowed the ache, forced it down like bitter poison, and turned toward his friend. Nox needed him. He'd save Nox's mother or die trying.
Nox plunged into the inferno, a roar in his throat. He crashed through the horned beasts, fists smashing bone and cartilage, blood spraying hot across his face. A claw raked his arm, tearing flesh to ribbons. He didn't stop. For a moment, he believed he could reach her, could tear her from that red-haired bastard's grip.
There were too many.
A beast slammed into him from the side, horns gouging his ribs, claws ripping through muscle. He hit the dirt hard, tasting blood and ash. Teeth sank into his shoulder, tearing sinew, hot agony blooming. Another shadow loomed, claws raised—Juro barreled into Nox, shoving him clear. The blow meant for Nox caught Juro instead, a claw slashing across his chest, blood soaking his shirt in a dark bloom.
They scrambled up, back-to-back, breath ragged, surrounded by a maelstrom of fire and death. Nox's fists dripped red; Juro's hands shook, slick with his own blood.
They fought like boys who'd rather break than die.
It wasn't enough.
The ground quaked, a low rumble beneath the screams and crackle of flame. More beasts closed in, a ring of horns and snarling hate, their eyes glinting like oil in the firelight. The red-haired man watched, unblinking, his grip on Nox's mother unrelenting, her silver hair tangled in his fist like a trophy.
The sky shattered.
Thunder ripped the night, a deafening crack that shook the earth. Lightning slashed through the smoke, a white-hot scar illuminating a figure descending from the storm. A man—grey hair whipping in the wind, a blade in his hand that hummed with the fury of the tempest. His form flickered in the glare, edges dissolving into the crackling air.
The beasts flinched, cowering under the weight of his presence.
Power rolled off him in suffocating waves, pressing Nox's chest like a vice, stealing his breath. His vision swam, darkness gnawing at the edges. Juro swayed beside him, blood pooling beneath his feet, his face pale but set, still ready to fight.
Nox's last glimpse was of his mother—still alive, struggling in the red-haired man's grip—and the storm-wreathed figure standing between them and oblivion.
Then the world snuffed out.