Afternoon sunlight shone through the cracks in the wooden walls, filling the small room with dusty golden light. Asher sat on the floor, his back against the rough wooden wall. He didn't notice his aching back or the cold from the floor. He was focused on only two things: the piece of pinewood in his hand and his father's old carving knife.
The knife moved quietly against the wood. Slowly and steadily, the blade shaved off thin curls of pine. Each shaving released a sharp, clean scent into the air. Under Asher's patient hands, the block of wood was slowly taking the shape of a small bird with its wings arched for flight. He tried to make the wooden feathers look soft and real, as if they could tremble in the wind and fly away.
Beside him, his sister Thea watched with her chin in her hands. Her large, clear eyes were dark and she didn't blink. For a six-year-old, she was unusually still and quiet. Her calm presence helped Asher feel calm, too. Her soft black hair, neatly braided by their mother, framed a peaceful face.
"Is it almost ready, Ash?" Thea's voice was clear and musical.
A smile touched Asher's lips, but he didn't look up. "Almost. It needs eyes. I'll use elderberries. What do you think?"
"Black eyes," she said instantly. "Like yours."
His smile widened. He thought of his name, Asher—happiness. It was a hope his parents had for him. But happiness wasn't something big or far away. It was this quiet moment, sitting with his sister. It was the feel of the carving knife, and knowing that their mother was in the kitchen, humming while she cooked dinner.
The smell of potato soup and toasted bread filled the air—it was the smell of home and safety. A moment later, the familiar creak of the door told them his father was back.
"Papa!" Thea scrambled up happily and ran to the door.
Her father, a strong man who worked hard on his farm, bent down and swept her into his arms. His shoulders were broad and his hands were rough from work, but the way he looked at his children was very gentle. His tiredness from the fields seemed to disappear as he smiled at Thea, his love protecting them from the world.
"And how were my little ones today?" he asked, looking at Asher. "Still carving wood, son?"
Asher nodded, carefully setting the bird and knife aside. "It's almost ready to fly."
"Just be careful with that blade," his mother called from the kitchen, her voice warm and familiar. "Dinner is on the table. Wash your hands, all of you."
The meal was a familiar, warm ritual as evening fell. The flickering oil lamp lit their four faces with a soft, dancing light. They talked about simple things: the coming harvest, a neighbor's lost hen, a butterfly with bright blue wings that Thea had seen. This was Asher's world—small, simple, and complete. It was a fortress of love, and he silently promised to protect it with his life. He didn't know that his life would be the smallest part of the price.
In the middle of his father's joke, a low humming sound came from the ground. It wasn't a shake or a tremor. It was a deep, strange sound, like a giant string had been plucked somewhere deep in the earth. The water in their glasses trembled. The laughter stopped, frozen in the air.
"An earthquake?" his mother whispered, her hand at her throat.
His father's brow furrowed. His usual calm was gone, replaced by the sharp instinct of a man who knew the forest well. He stared at the trembling water with a deep feeling of unease. This was wrong. This was not natural.
And then it came.
A scream that was not human tore the night apart. It came from the village square, a sound so full of pain and terror it felt like the sky was being ripped open. It was followed by chaos—panicked shouts from villagers, the crash of splintering wood, and the high-pitched screams of children. All hell had broken loose.
"What is it? What's happening?" His mother jumped to her feet, her chair scraping loudly on the floor.
His father didn't answer. The confusion on his face had turned into a look of terrible certainty. He rushed to the window, glanced out for a second, and pulled back, his face pale.
"Downstairs," he breathed, his voice a raw, urgent command. "Now!"
He didn't even look at the heavy wood-axe in the corner. He knew that whatever was out there, an axe would be useless. His only priority was their lives.
"The cellar! Move!"
He ran across the room and pulled at a wide floorboard. It groaned open, showing a dark square hole that smelled of damp earth and winter apples. It was their small storage cellar, which was now their only hope.
The screams were closer now, along with a sickening crunch from the neighbor's house.
"Asher, Thea, go!" their mother commanded. Her voice shook, but her hands were firm as she pushed them toward the hole.
Asher's mind was spinning, but he grabbed Thea's hand and pulled her with him. Thea was crying with terror.
"Hurry!"
His mother pushed them, and they fell into the darkness, landing hard on the cold, packed earth. For a moment, she leaned over the opening, her face a pale shape in the dark. Her eyes were full of tears she held back as she looked at Asher. She bent low and hugged them tightly and desperately. Her warmth was the last good thing he would feel.
"Asher," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. Her voice was no longer a request, but a final, serious command that he could not break. "You protect her. You protect Thea. No matter the cost."
Those were her last words to him.
She pulled away. His father was now a dark shape standing before the opening. The old axe was in his hands, not as a weapon of hope, but of defiance. Asher looked up, and the last thing he saw before the world ended was his father's broad back—a silent, strong wall standing against the darkness.
BOOM!
The floorboard slammed shut, and they were plunged into total darkness.
Asher held Thea, who trembled in his arms, her sobs muffled against his shirt. He pressed his hands over her ears, but it was no use. He could still hear everything.
From above came terrible sounds. His father's defiant roar. The heavy thud of the axe hitting something unnaturally hard. The shriek of metal as the axe head broke. A deep, inhuman growl full of evil. The crash of their world being torn apart. His father's scream of pain. His mother's final, desperate cry.
And then… a sound that made Asher's blood run cold. A series of wet, sharp cracks. The sound of bones snapping like twigs, followed by the gruesome, tearing sound of flesh.
Asher bit his tongue, the sharp, metallic taste of his own blood filling his mouth to stop himself from screaming. Hot tears of anger and sadness ran down his cheeks. He hugged Thea tighter, trying to shield her from the nightmare above.
The monstrous sounds seemed to last forever. Then, suddenly, there was silence. It was a complete, heavy silence that was even more terrifying than the noise.
They huddled in the dark as time seemed to stop. His mother's command became a phrase he repeated in his mind to fight the horror: Protect Thea, no matter the cost.
Those words created something new inside him: strength.
He gently moved Thea's arms from his neck. "Stay right here," he rasped. "I'm going to look."
Shaking, he reached up and pushed at the heavy plank. With a burst of energy, he moved it just enough to see through a small crack.
The house was a skeleton. Cold moonlight shone through the broken roof, lighting up a scene of complete destruction.
His eyes didn't see the whole room. They locked onto one spot. A large, strangely-shaped shadow was hunched on the floor where his parents had fallen. Its back was to him. It was… feeding.
Asher felt sick. A scream rose in his throat, but he swallowed it. His eyes were fixed on a detail on the creature's back. A symbol was glistening in the moonlight, branded or carved into its tough skin. It was a symbol: a circle with three jagged lines crossing in the middle. It looked ancient, deliberate, and evil.
The image was burned into his mind forever.
In that instant, he was no longer a child. He was not a boy frozen in fear, but a protector made strong by tragedy. Before Thea could see, he clamped a hand over her eyes and pulled her back into the darkest corner of the cellar.
"Shh," he hissed, his voice sounding like a stranger's. "Don't look. Don't ever look."
The creature stayed for a long time, the sounds of its eating filling the silence. Finally, it left. Asher and Thea waited in their ruined home as the moon moved across the sky. They waited until the first light of dawn came through the cracks, making the air look reddish, like old blood.
With the symbol blazing in his mind, Asher led a silent, shocked Thea out of the cellar.
Their home was gone. On the floor was a horror that words could not describe.
But they were not the only ones. As they stumbled outside, they saw that the entire village was silent. The smoking ruins looked like black teeth against the morning sky. There was no life. Only the cold wind and the metallic smell of blood.
And then he saw it again. Scrawled in what looked like blood on their neighbor's door, and the next, and the next. The circle with three jagged lines.
This was not a random attack. It was an extermination.
Asher stood in the graveyard of his world. Happiness had turned to ash. Thea trembled in his arms like a broken doll. His small hand tightened around hers with grim purpose.
He was no longer a child. He was a survivor. He was the keeper of a vow, and he carried the image of a demon's mark.
His journey began now. In the ashes. With a silent oath.
The morning wind was sharp, carrying the smell of smoke and death. Asher stood motionless, his hand gripping Thea's like an anchor in a world turned upside down. The demonic symbol on every door was a clear message: they had been hunted.
Thea shivered, but not from the cold. Her eyes were empty, fixed on the space where her mother's garden used to be. The silence that had consumed her was more frightening than any scream; it showed that her spirit was broken.
Protect Thea. His mother's voice was no longer an echo. It was his only reason to live.
The shock faded, and a cold, hard clearness took its place. This place was a grave. The danger was still out there, waiting.
"We're leaving, Thea," Asher whispered, the words hurting his raw throat.
She did not respond.
He led her back into the wreckage. He needed something. Anything. A tool to survive. A memory to hold on to. He forced himself not to look at the corner where the worst had happened. Instead, he looked to where he had sat just yesterday, in a life that was gone forever.
There, among the splinters and soot, lay the wooden bird. Its wing was broken, but its shape was still there—a fragile symbol of their destroyed world. He picked it up, the smooth wood a faint warmth in his cold hand, and tucked it deep into his pocket. A broken promise to a broken girl. He would fix it. He had to.
He remembered his parents' quiet talks, their dreams for him whispered in the dark. The Royal Academy in the capital. A place where even a commoner could be given a "Book," awaken a special skill, and change their life. It was their hope for him.
Now, it was his only hope.
"The Academy," he said the word softly, like a prayer. He didn't know the way, only that it was to the east, where the sun rose. It was a goal. A single spot of light in the darkness.
He found a burnt bag and put in a few dry biscuits and a half-empty waterskin he found. He draped the warmest cloak he could find over Thea's shoulders and took her hand.
"Come on, Thea. We have to go."
This time, she moved. Her steps were like a machine, shuffling through the ashes of her life.
He pulled her through the village square, keeping his eyes down to avoid the dark stains on the ground. He did not look back. There was nothing left but ghosts. Ahead was only the unknown, but at least it was a path away from here.
Two small, lonely figures trudged out of the smoldering village. The sun rose in the east, painting the sky a brilliant, bloody red. To Asher, the morning had never felt so harsh.
The path was covered in sharp stones that cut at his worn sandals. He welcomed the pain. It was real. It was something to focus on besides the screams in his head. Beside him, Thea stumbled along like a ghost following him. When she fell, he would pull her to her feet, brush her off, and keep going.
Silence was their companion, thick and heavy. The forest, once a safe place, now felt dangerous. Every shadow looked like the monster, and every tree seemed to carry its demonic symbol.
Their last biscuit was their lunch. He gave Thea the larger piece. She chewed once and let it fall from her numb fingers. He picked it up and saved it for her. The water was gone. Thirst burned in his throat.
He had to find water. The need to protect Thea had made his senses sharp. He could almost feel the dangers in the woods around them, a constant, low hum of dread.
Late in the afternoon, a miracle: the faint sound of trickling water. He led Thea past a large rock and found a tiny stream with clear water flowing over pebbles. He drank deeply, the icy water a shock of life. He washed Thea's face and helped her drink. As the water touched her lips, a tiny sign of life, the barest spark, returned to her empty eyes. It was almost nothing. It was everything.
As dusk turned to night, the real fear returned. Darkness was no longer for rest; it was the monster's friend. He found a small alcove in a rock wall, hidden by the large roots of an old tree. It was a cold, hard shelter, but it was hidden.
He settled Thea inside, covering her with his own worn coat. The cold mountain air bit at him. He sat with his knees to his chest and stared into the dark, his body tense. Every snap of a twig, every hoot of an owl, made him jump with terror. The symbol burned in his mind.
To fight off the madness, he pulled out the broken bird. In the faint moonlight, he couldn't see to carve, but he traced its shape with his fingers, like a silent prayer. It was no longer a toy. It was an act of defiance. It was a promise.
In the deepest hour of the night, when he was about to collapse from exhaustion, Thea whimpered in her sleep. She shifted, turning toward him, and her small hand found his arm, her fingers clutching him with surprising strength.
That weak grip felt like an anchor. It stopped him from falling into hatred and sadness. It gave him a purpose beyond revenge. He was living for this. For this small, warm hand in the unforgiving cold.
Asher gently took her hand in his, his grip firm and steady. He stared out at the dark night. The capital was very far away, and the journey would be full of danger. But tonight, in this cold, lonely place, he knew he would walk it to the end.
He would bring Thea to safety. No matter what it took.