Blood.
There was so much blood.
Corpses littered the ground, heads and limbs scattered like discarded refuse. Houses burned with a ravenous hunger, sending plumes of black smoke to darken the sky. From within the inferno, people screamed—shrieks of agony that were cut short in cruel finality as the flames claimed them.
Amidst this ruin, a boy moved. He looked no older than twelve. His skin was coated in grime and soot, streaked with sweat and tears. He clutched a ragged bundle of cloth to his chest as if it were his only lifeline, staggering forward with desperate urgency.
He burst from the burning village into the open fields beyond, each step weaker than the last. Smoke stung his eyes, and every breath was a struggle. Yet he kept moving, pushing himself toward the dark wall of the forest ahead.
Finally, his legs gave out. He collapsed at the base of a hollow tree, the ragged bundle still clutched to his chest. With one last effort, he crawled inside the cavity of the trunk before his eyes fluttered shut.
He lost consciousness there, fingers locked in a death grip around the cloth, as the world burned behind him.
***********************************************
"Get Richard and deploy immediately to the coastal villages," Lord Zag commanded, his voice low but edged with urgency. He was an older man, broad-shouldered and powerfully built despite his years, the deep lines in his face speaking of countless battles. His steel-grey eyes were narrowed with worry as they scanned the pale, smoky dawn visible through the arched window.
"If we delay any longer, there might be no survivors left."
"Yes, my Lord."
The subordinate who spoke was Draven, a lithe figure clad in dark leathers. He bowed once, then seemed to melt into the shadows, vanishing from sight.
"Veridia help us," Zag muttered under his breath, his gaze lingering on the horizon, where columns of smoke climbed like funeral pyres.
Moments later, heavy footfalls sounded in the corridor outside. A figure in gleaming silver armor strode into the hall.
Richard.
His expression was grim, his eyes cold with purpose. He carried a greatsword strapped across his back, its hilt worn from use.
"Lord Zag," Richard greeted, voice steady and hard as iron. "Draven informed me. The Kingdom Knights are assembled and await your command."
"Good, Richard. Time is of the essence. You know the reports—widespread destruction all along the coast. Gather every able-bodied knight you can spare. We ride for the villages at once."
Richard gave a curt nod.
"Understood, my Lord. We will move immediately."
---
Within the hour, one hundred Kingdom Knights rode hard for the coast. Their warhorses pounded across scorched fields, armor gleaming dully in the sickly morning light that pierced the choking smoke. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burned wood, of charred flesh, of death.
Silence reigned between the men as they rode, broken only by the creak of saddles and the clank of plate and chain. All knew what awaited them.
They reached the first of the coastal villages before midday—and found it in ruins.
Homes were reduced to smoldering skeletons. The shore was choked with driftwood and debris, much of it blackened and twisted. Ash fell like snow, coating everything in a funereal shroud.
But among the ruin, there was life.
They found survivors huddled in blackened cellars, behind collapsed walls, beneath overturned carts. Men, women, and children—all ragged, gaunt, and hollow-eyed with shock. Many were injured, and all bore that same vacant stare of those who had seen unspeakable horror.
Richard dismounted with grim efficiency.
"Knights, spread out. Triage the wounded. Gather anyone who can walk."
They obeyed without question.
By late afternoon, they had gathered one hundred and seventy-six survivors from over forty villages scattered along the coast. It was a small miracle, given the scale of the destruction. The refugees clung to what little they had salvaged—charred lockets, battered tools, rags for blankets. Children cried, the sound thin and hoarse.
Richard walked among them, issuing orders in a low, controlled voice. He knew the next task: to lead them inland, away from the killing fields.
But before they could begin, a shout split the heavy silence.
"Sir Richard! Over here!"
Richard turned sharply. One of his knights was gesturing frantically from the edge of a dense thicket that bordered the village.
Richard strode quickly over, boots crunching on scorched earth. As he approached, he saw what the knight had found: at the foot of a vast, hollowed-out tree lay a boy.
No older than twelve.
He was filthy, his clothes in tatters, his face streaked with ash and tears. He was unconscious, body curled into itself as if warding off blows. His breathing was shallow, ragged.
Richard knelt beside him.
But it was the thing clutched to the boy's chest that caught his attention most. A bundle of filthy, tattered cloth, gripped so tightly that the boy's knuckles were white. Even in unconsciousness, he would not let go.
Richard reached for it carefully, trying to pry it loose.
The boy recoiled violently, a low, broken sound escaping his lips—half snarl, half sob. Even unconscious, his grip tightened, as if he'd sooner die than release it.
Richard frowned, unease settling like lead in his gut.
"What have we here?" he murmured.
This silent, broken child. The charred ruins all around. The way he clung to nothing more than rags as if they were life itself.
There was a story here.
And Richard suspected that whatever it was, it would explain the horrors that had befallen these lands.
For now, the evacuation would have to wait.
This boy needed help.