The village was quiet, not a light in sight. Cottages huddled close together, shutters drawn, hearths glowing faintly within. Villagers lay safe in their beds, or so they believed. The night air was heavy with silence, broken only by the whisper of the river and the sigh of the wind through the thatched roofs. It was a silence that seemed eternal, a silence that promised rest.
But promises are fragile things.
That night, when every soul lay in peaceful slumber, was the last Rivervale would ever know. The stillness shattered with a sound that did not belong: guttural cries of soldiers, sharp and merciless, tearing through the dark. The heavy clank of iron struck the cobbles, echoing like thunder. Hooves hammered the lane, their rhythm relentless, each strike a drumbeat of doom.
Ryan awoke to suffocating heat, his skin prickling as though the air itself had turned to fire. His mother's scream ripped through the night as she dragged him from the bed. Hot orange flames leapt across the walls, their reflection burning in their eyes as the home he had grown within was swallowed whole by the raging inferno.
They stumbled into the lane, coughing, their clothes singed, their bodies branded by the flame's cruel touch. Though they had escaped, it was not without pain. And there, trembling in shock, they stood watching helplessly as their humble cottage, the heart of their lives, collapsed into embers and turned to ash before their eyes.
But the horror did not end with their home. The whole village was burning, roofs collapsing in showers of sparks, timbers shrieking as they split apart. Mothers clutched their children, huddled together in trembling knots, faces streaked with soot and tears. They cowered as husbands, brothers, and fathers rushed forward with whatever they could carry axes, pitchforks, even bare hands. Courage alone was not enough. Steel met them head‑on, merciless and unyielding.
The attackers moved like shadows given form, their iron armor catching the firelight, every plate and rivet a cruel marvel. Their swords were long and wickedly sharp, honed to perfection, cutting through flesh and bone as if it were nothing at all. Each strike was quick, each thrust deliberate, and the cries of the dying tangled with the roar of the flames until it felt as though the night itself was screaming.
Blood ran down the cobbled lane, pooling in the gutters, mixing with ash and smoke until the ground itself seemed to bleed. Crimson splashed against the orange glow of fire ,a color that might once have been beautiful, but now was grotesque, a stain that marked only death and ruin. To the villagers, it was no longer beauty, only nightmare.
Ryan clung to his mother's hand, his small body shaking, his wide eyes reflecting everything. He saw neighbors dragged screaming from their homes, men he had admired collapsing beneath iron blades, their lifeblood spilling into the street. The air was thick with smoke and terror; every breath was a fight, every heartbeat a drum of fear. The village that had been his world was disappearing before him, swallowed by fire, steel, and blood.
Those who weren't frozen in terror rushed the others toward the ocean, desperate to escape the flames. Yet many faltered, failing to reach the river's edge, collapsing upon the cobbles in pools of their own blood, their cries swallowed by the night. At the shoreline, the survivors found a single boat waiting , its hull slick with seawater, its deck littered with the still bodies of fishermen who had tried, and failed, to defend their home.
Ryan's eyes fell upon one of those bodies, and his breath caught in his throat. It was his father, lying motionless among the fallen, his face pale beneath the firelight. The boy's heart clenched, but there was no time to weep. Soldiers' shouts carried on the wind, and the villagers knew the boat was their only chance. Children were ushered aboard, their small hands clutching one another, their eyes wide with terror.
Ryan's mother stood at the water's edge, her emerald eyes glistening with both smoke and tears. She knew they could not all go the boat was too small, too fragile to bear the weight of every soul who longed for escape. The knowledge tore at her heart, but she did not falter. Kneeling before her son, she pressed a ruby necklace into his hands, its stone glowing faintly in the firelight. "Be brave, Ryan," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Carry this, and carry me with you."
She clasped the necklace around his neck, her fingers trembling, then rose with a strength born of desperation. With one final push, she set the boat adrift into the dark waters, her son among the children carried away from the burning shore. Ryan's eyes locked on hers until the distance grew too great, until the smoke and flame swallowed her silhouette. His mother remained behind, her figure etched against the inferno, while the boat slipped into the ocean's embrace.