Sheila jerked awake.
A piercing scream echoed, then cut short. Another followed. Then silence.
The village was quiet—unnaturally so. Even the crickets had gone still. She gazed out the window toward the village center.
Smoke and flame were all she could see. Another scream rang out—followed by more.
"Who's screaming?" her little brother whispered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.
"I don't know." Her voice was tight, almost strangled. She lifted him onto her back, grabbed their coats, and dashed outside, joining the panicked villagers fleeing toward the woods.
"Where's Dad?" he asked, clinging to her shoulders, staring back at the burning houses.
"He'll meet us later," she muttered, her words meant to sound reassuring but failing to calm the tightness in her own throat. "He's strong." She wasn't sure if she was trying to comfort him or herself.
The screams were getting closer. Sheila glanced back.
Houses exploded, in a blast of heat and splinter.
Her breath caught.
Fear surged through her chest—so sharp and blinding it nearly dropped her to her knees. A hot, wild panic clawed at her ribs, screaming at her to run, to hide, to give up—but she shoved it down.
Then, a golden glow flickered around her legs, and suddenly, she was faster—much faster.
Almost at the forest.
Not safety—never safety—but maybe a chance. Maybe enough to escape from whatever monster was wrecking the village _ she prayed.
Then she heard a whimper.
Sheila froze. The sound came from the left, near a building crushed under debris—a fragment of the village obelisk. Another cry. A child's voice.
Sheila veered off the path, her heart pounding. Her instincts screamed for her to keep running, to get to safety, but she couldn't leave a child behind. She pushed forward, her breath ragged.
A little girl was pinned beneath a stone pillar, legs trapped, tears streaking her dirt-smeared face.
Sheila gently set her brother down and knelt beside the girl.
"It's okay. I'll get you out of here, alright?"
The girl sniffled and nodded, her wide blue eyes staring up at her.
"Good," Sheila said, forcing a small, shaky smile she didn't feel.
She moved to the pillar, slid her hands underneath, and heaved. Muscles trembling, she managed to lift it just enough for the girl to drag her legs free.
Sheila let the stone drop and scooped the girl into her arms. "Alright—let's get out of—"
"What do we have here?"
The voice was cold. Thick with mockery. Almost delighted.
"A hero, even now. Sheila, isn't it?"
She turned—and froze.
Kael stood—or something wearing Kael's face. His body was soaked in blood, his eyes pitch-black, a swirling dark miasma crawling up his left arm and across his chest like living ink.
"Kael?" she whispered.
He clicked his tongue, a sound almost playful. "He's long gone. It's just me now—Griefshard."
"Who are you? What did you do to him?" she demanded, stepping protectively in front of the children, even as terror screamed inside her.
"Nothing," he said, voice thick with amusement. "If anything, I set him free."
He began to walk toward them, his gaze cold, eyes never leaving hers. He paused, glancing at his trembling left hand, a twisted smile pulling at the corner of his lips.
"You must be special," he said with a low, broken chuckle. "He's fighting me because of you. How...sweet."
He stepped closer, smile widening into something grotesque. "But if I make him murder you... if he feels your blood on his hands..."
He spread his arms wide, welcoming the nightmare.
"That'll rip the last pieces of him apart," he crooned, almost lovingly. "Maybe give him that sweet, sweet closure he's been crying for."
He giggled—a broken, hiccuping sound—as his face contorted into a grotesque mask. "And then he'll be mine. All mine."
A crawling horror gnawed through Sheila's gut.
No. Not like this. Not him.
She spun around, lifted both children, and hurled them toward the trees.
"Run!" she screamed, putting everything she had into the word.
Sheila turned to flee—
—but Griefshard was already there.
A blur. A hiss of displaced air. Then cold fingers clamped around her throat.
She didn't even have time to scream.
Her feet left the ground as he lifted her effortlessly, his black eyes staring into hers, unblinking.
The miasma coiled around his arm like living smoke, and where it touched her skin, it burned. Not fire—but wrongness. A scraping sensation against her soul, like claws dragging across glass.
"You moved fast," he said softly, almost lovingly. "But not fast enough."
Sheila clawed desperately at his wrist, legs kicking—but he didn't budge.
"So weak," he murmured, voice thick with pitying scorn. "I mean, You were supposed to be special. To mean something."
He cocked back his fist. Sheila squeezed her eyes shut, a sob clawing up her throat.
A breeze stirred her hair.
She opened her eyes.
His fist hovered inches from her gut, frozen mid-strike—stopped as if by an invisible force.
The voice shuddered with a breathless, cracked chuckle—not at her, but into the hollow pit of itself.
"As expected... clinging, clawing. She must be your little treasure."
She followed his gaze—and saw it.
White flickered in the blackness of his eyes, trembling like a candle flame caught in a storm.
The miasma recoiled slightly, fraying at the edges, as if an unseen hand were pulling it back.
The white fought—pushed outward—
—but then the darkness swelled, devouring it hungrily.
Griefshard smiled wide enough to show teeth. "Cute," he sneered. "But you're too weak."
The blackness flooded his gaze again, drowning everything.
"Now—where were we?"
She gasped as his grip tightened.
A sickening crunch filled her ears—bones grinding, throat collapsing.
She met his gaze again... and just like that, the pressure stopped.
More white. Brighter this time.
The miasma shrank, retreating from his chest, slithering back toward the gauntlet.
"Enough," a voice echoed—resolute.
The gauntlet pulsed, and the miasma surged again—stronger, darker, flooding across his chest and jaw.
With trembling fingers, Sheila reached up—placed a hand on Kael's cheek.
Please, she thought. Please come back.
And in that touch, in that moment, a memory broke through.