The sun was low when he found her.
He had searched every shattered house, every pile of rubble.He had called her name until his throat burned.And then, near the riverbank where the grass was trampled and blackened with soot, he saw a small shape.
His sister.
Her little body lay curled as if asleep, her dress torn and stiff with dried blood. Her hair, once bright, was now matted with ash.He fell to his knees, the world narrowing to that tiny form. His trembling hands brushed dirt from her cheek.
"I'm here," he whispered, though she could not hear."I'm so sorry… I'm here."
By the time the sun set, he had buried them all.
He dug with bare hands, nails torn and bleeding. He placed his father gently in the pit, then his mother, then his sister last, wrapping her in his own tattered blanket. He stacked stones to mark the place, whispering their names like a prayer.
For the others—the neighbors, the friends—he could not dig enough graves. Instead, he gathered their bodies in the village square, stacking them carefully, tenderly, as though they still deserved peace. Then he lit the pyre.
The flames roared high, devouring the dead, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky. The smell was thick and sickening, but he did not look away. He stood until the last ember dimmed.
And then he remembered.
A man, sitting beneath a tree.Drinking. Watching.Doing nothing.
The memory struck like a blade twisting in his chest. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
"That man…" he whispered. "That man could have saved them."
His legs moved before he could think, carrying him beyond the ruins, into the shadow of the forbidden forest. Rage burned hotter than his wounds, driving him forward.
The forest was ancient and silent, its trees gnarled and black against the moonlight. Even seasoned knights feared these woods. He no longer cared.
He stumbled through undergrowth and thorn, ignoring the pain, until he reached a clearing. Moonlight pooled on the ground like pale silver.
And there he was.
A man in his early twenties, slouched against the roots of a massive tree. His sword rested within arm's reach, a gourd of liquor dangling from one hand. His chest rose and fell in deep, steady breaths—sleeping, utterly unaware, utterly unconcerned.
The boy's heart thudded in his ears. Grief and fury mingled until it was hard to breathe.
"You," he rasped. "You watched them die."
The man didn't stir.
The boy bent and picked up a jagged stone. His fingers closed around it so tight it cut into his palm. He stepped closer, shaking all over. He raised the stone high.
"I'll kill you," he hissed. "I swear I'll kill you—"
He swung.
Something shifted in the air.A sudden pressure, like the weight of the forest itself pressing down.The stone slipped from his fingers as his vision blurred. His knees buckled, the world spinning.
Through the haze, he thought he saw one eye open—lazy, half‑lidded, gleaming faintly in the dark.
And then—nothing.