The ones who came to the village were not the envoys. The real envoys lay behind me — cold, broken, and motionless on the road. So who were those men in the village?
The world felt wrong. Too quiet. Too cold for the middle of summer.
I ran — away from the carnage, from the stench of blood and torn flesh — but my legs betrayed me, carrying me toward home instead.
When I reached the village gate, it was already in flames. Smoke clawed at the sky, thick and black. Screams filled the air — men, women, children — blending into one endless sound of suffering.
My knees almost gave out. Roofs folded in on themselves, thatch raining sparks. The old mill wheel groaned as it melted, turning once before collapsing into the stream.
I stood frozen, watching the death of my people — of everything I'd ever known. My hands trembled, my breath hitched, and a scream ripped out of me. Then I ran into the inferno, desperate to save whoever I could, even as my mind spun in chaos.
And then—
Laughter.
It sliced through the screams, loud and cruel.
Eight figures stood at the edge of the flames, watching. They laughed as though they'd just heard a fine joke, their faces hidden in smoke and shadow.
But I knew them — or at least their faces. I had seen them this very morning.
Their laughter grew louder as the screams faded, and so did the rage inside me.
The one wearing Sir John's face said mockingly, "Ah, they die so easily. Didn't even put up a fight."
Another, one of the guards, replied in a bored tone, "What did you expect from lowlifes living at the edge of the Empire?"
They spoke as if they were discussing the weather.
That was the final straw. I ran toward them, blinded by fury, like a madman.
One of the false envoys turned toward me. "Looks like one of them survived the explosion," he said with a smirk. Then he raised his hand — palm open.
The next instant, a force exploded from him, slamming into me so hard I crashed through burning houses.
When I stopped, I was lying in front of what was left of my home.
And I saw them — my parents, my everything — burning in the fire of despair.
"In front of power, everything else is meaningless, boy," one of them said. His voice stabbed through the noise like a spear.
I looked up weakly. Seven figures now approached. The one wearing Sir John's face was gone.
"Boy," the leader said with a cruel grin, "it was fun watching you struggle and crawl for life… but now, it's over."
The flames rushed toward me.
Both my body and soul were being consumed — my flesh by the flames, turning to charcoal and ash, and my soul by cold fury.
Hatred filled every corner of me. Furious at what they had done — to my mother, my father, this village.
What sin had we committed to deserve this?
I hate them — those monsters wearing the skins of men.
I hate this world that left us to rot.
And I hate the gods, if they even still exist.
Hey, you gods, I thought as the fire ate through my skin, I've heard the tales — how you grant blessings to your chosen. So where is mine?
And lastly… I hated myself.
For being weak.
For letting those bastards live.
For failing to protect anyone.
What does it matter now? I'm dying anyway.
The flames reached deeper, past the body, into something that shouldn't burn.
And then—
A voice, deep and calm, whispered through the pain in my head:
"You have been chosen by Death and Destruction…"
or perhaps,
"…it is you who have chosen the Ruins."