Chapter One: Ashes
Snow teaches the heart patience.
That's what his mother used to say as she dressed his small wounds after fighting with the other boys.
But tonight, there was no patience.
No winter could freeze the fire consuming his chest.
The path home was narrower than he remembered.
As if the trees themselves tried to shield him from what waited beyond the last bend.
But he saw.
He saw everything.
The first thing he noticed was the smoke.
Thick, black smoke rising from the ruins of their cottage.
Then the smell of iron and ash… and another scent, unlike anything he'd ever known: the smell of burning human flesh.
He stepped forward slowly, his feet heavy as though rooted in the mud.
His mind refused to accept it.
Maybe this was a nightmare.
Maybe if he blinked, the visions would disappear.
But he did not blink.
There, near the ancient tree, stood a tall pole of splintered wood.
His older brother's body was bound to it by ropes, arms stretched high, head bowed.
A deep gash cut across his chest, from collarbone to belly, exposing white ribs.
The blood had frozen around the wound, but the earth beneath was still damp and red.
He stepped back, then turned to the right.
And he saw her.
His little sister… no more than ten years old.
She hung by her wrists from a rope tied to a branch, her feet not touching the ground.
Her eyes were open, defying her killer with a glassy, silent stare.
As if she refused to vanish before he could look upon her.
His heart clenched.
But his eyes kept searching… as though they already knew the worst was yet to come.
His mother.
She was on the threshold of the burning cottage, nailed to a door torn from its rusty hinges.
Her arms outstretched, her head tilted to the left, strands of burning hair stuck to her cheek.
On her chest, they had carved in black letters:
"A lesson to all who defy."
He stepped closer until his face nearly touched her scorched forehead.
He could not bring himself to touch her.
His hands trembled, then fell limp at his sides.
Someone—perhaps all of them—had been here when the crucifixion and slaughter began.
Perhaps she had heard her daughter scream as they raised her up.
Perhaps she had tried to cry out to stop them.
Perhaps she had cursed him for not returning sooner.
He closed his eyes, and darkness filled with those vile images.
He opened them, and there they were again.
There was no escape.
He stood there for countless minutes.
Even as snow began to fall, nothing cooled the fire inside him.
No tears came.
No scream escaped.
When he finally lifted his head to the gray sky, he felt something strange.
Something heavy, ancient, whispering in his chest:
> "If this world shows you no pity…then set it ablaze."
He swallowed slowly.
He tasted blood in his mouth, from a wound he could not place.
Perhaps he had bitten his lip until it bled.
Perhaps his throat had torn from holding back the scream.
But he did not care.
He turned from his mother and stepped back, as if leaving his heart with her.
And when he turned his back to the burning cottage, he was no longer the boy who had left hours earlier to gather firewood.
He was something else.
Something that would not stop until everything was over.
He walked slowly through the snow, dragging his feet as though they no longer knew how to move.
With every step, he heard a faint sound: the crackle of flames consuming the house where he was born.
And despite the fire, the village felt colder than ice.
He passed beneath his sister's hanging body.
He stopped by her dangling feet.
With a trembling hand, he untied the rope from her small wrists.
Her body fell into his arms with a terrifying lightness.
She was not heavy…
As though her spirit had already left, leaving behind this empty shell.
He held her.
For the first time in a long while, he wished he did not exist.
He wished he had gone with them all.
But he remembered the last thing she'd said to him two days before, when he promised to bring her a wooden doll from the market:
> "You'll come back…won't you?"
He drew her closer, hugging her until her tiny bones nearly broke.
Then he laid her gently on the snow, smoothing her burned hair across her forehead.
He took off his torn cloak and draped it over her.
As if trying to warm her, though he knew she would never feel anything again.
He looked up.
There, in the center of the ruined square, smoldered the last embers of the dying fire, sending up black ash and tiny sparks.
Around it stood four short wooden stakes, each bearing a red banner marked with the sect's symbol:
an eye carved into a charred circle.
These were the ones his mother had told him about, in tales of old crimes.
These were the ones who decided his family was "a lesson."
His heart no longer beat in fear.
His chest no longer constricted.
Everything within him had died… except for a single flame.
He felt it feeding on every warm memory, growing, growing, until it filled his entire being.
He stepped up to the four banners.
He reached out and took one.
He studied it slowly, as if reading sacred words inscribed on the skin of his enemy.
Then he folded it carefully and pressed it against his chest.
This symbol would be the first thing to burn when his vengeance began.
---
His eyes passed over the crucified bodies, committing every detail to memory:
the wide gashes.
the twisted faces.
the hands frozen in fists.
the blood marking a black line across the white snow.
He would never forget this.
Never forgive.
Never absolve.
---
He walked to the last house on the edge of the village.
His uncle's house, where the old man had often told him:
> "Don't carry hatred in your heart, boy…it destroys you before it destroys your enemies."
But today, hatred was the only thing keeping him alive.
He stepped inside.
He lit a small flame from an old wick.
In the dim glow, he saw a wooden shelf holding a black leather-bound book.
His uncle had always warned never to touch it.
He approached slowly, extending his hand.
When his fingers touched the cover, a strange chill crept from his palm into his bones.
He drew back… then set his hand on it again, defiantly.
He lifted the book to his face.
He did not know that at that moment, somewhere far away, something ancient had awakened.
Something that had waited hundreds of years for a soul desperate enough to be its vessel.
---
He opened the book to the first page.
The words were not written in ordinary ink, but in a black script that looked like living veins.
He read them without knowing how he understood:
> "If you truly desire the end of all things…
Then sever the last thread binding you to this world."
He did not tremble.
He did not hesitate.
He stepped out of the house, the book in his right hand, the red banner in his left.
He stood in the center of the village.
He watched the last flames die out upon his mother's body.
He watched the snow falling slowly, covering the dead in a silent shroud.
Then he lifted his face to the gray sky.
He closed his eyes, and spoke in a voice he did not recognize:
> "You who hear me…
Bear witness that I am no longer a son of this world.
Bear witness that I will burn it, as it burned all that I loved."
He opened his eyes.
Night had come completely, and a freezing wind howled through the ruins.
But he no longer felt the cold.
He turned and took his first step down the long road…
The road to the end.
Snow teaches the heart patience.
That's what his mother used to say as she dressed his small wounds after fighting with the other boys.
But tonight, there was no patience.
No winter could freeze the fire consuming his chest.
The path home was narrower than he remembered.
As if the trees themselves tried to shield him from what waited beyond the last bend.
But he saw.
He saw everything.
The first thing he noticed was the smoke.
Thick, black smoke rising from the ruins of their cottage.
Then the smell of iron and ash… and another scent, unlike anything he'd ever known: the smell of burning human flesh.
He stepped forward slowly, his feet heavy as though rooted in the mud.
His mind refused to accept it.
Maybe this was a nightmare.
Maybe if he blinked, the visions would disappear.
But he did not blink.
There, near the ancient tree, stood a tall pole of splintered wood.
His older brother's body was bound to it by ropes, arms stretched high, head bowed.
A deep gash cut across his chest, from collarbone to belly, exposing white ribs.
The blood had frozen around the wound, but the earth beneath was still damp and red.
He stepped back, then turned to the right.
And he saw her.
His little sister… no more than ten years old.
She hung by her wrists from a rope tied to a branch, her feet not touching the ground.
Her eyes were open, defying her killer with a glassy, silent stare.
As if she refused to vanish before he could look upon her.
His heart clenched.
But his eyes kept searching… as though they already knew the worst was yet to come.
His mother.
She was on the threshold of the burning cottage, nailed to a door torn from its rusty hinges.
Her arms outstretched, her head tilted to the left, strands of burning hair stuck to her cheek.
On her chest, they had carved in black letters:
"A lesson to all who defy."
He stepped closer until his face nearly touched her scorched forehead.
He could not bring himself to touch her.
His hands trembled, then fell limp at his sides.
Someone—perhaps all of them—had been here when the crucifixion and slaughter began.
Perhaps she had heard her daughter scream as they raised her up.
Perhaps she had tried to cry out to stop them.
Perhaps she had cursed him for not returning sooner.
He closed his eyes, and darkness filled with those vile images.
He opened them, and there they were again.
There was no escape.
He stood there for countless minutes.
Even as snow began to fall, nothing cooled the fire inside him.
No tears came.
No scream escaped.
When he finally lifted his head to the gray sky, he felt something strange.
Something heavy, ancient, whispering in his chest:
> "If this world shows you no pity…then set it ablaze."
He swallowed slowly.
He tasted blood in his mouth, from a wound he could not place.
Perhaps he had bitten his lip until it bled.
Perhaps his throat had torn from holding back the scream.
But he did not care.
He turned from his mother and stepped back, as if leaving his heart with her.
And when he turned his back to the burning cottage, he was no longer the boy who had left hours earlier to gather firewood.
He was something else.
Something that would not stop until everything was over.
He walked slowly through the snow, dragging his feet as though they no longer knew how to move.
With every step, he heard a faint sound: the crackle of flames consuming the house where he was born.
And despite the fire, the village felt colder than ice.
He passed beneath his sister's hanging body.
He stopped by her dangling feet.
With a trembling hand, he untied the rope from her small wrists.
Her body fell into his arms with a terrifying lightness.
She was not heavy…
As though her spirit had already left, leaving behind this empty shell.
He held her.
For the first time in a long while, he wished he did not exist.
He wished he had gone with them all.
But he remembered the last thing she'd said to him two days before, when he promised to bring her a wooden doll from the market:
> "You'll come back…won't you?"
He drew her closer, hugging her until her tiny bones nearly broke.
Then he laid her gently on the snow, smoothing her burned hair across her forehead.
He took off his torn cloak and draped it over her.
As if trying to warm her, though he knew she would never feel anything again.
He looked up.
There, in the center of the ruined square, smoldered the last embers of the dying fire, sending up black ash and tiny sparks.
Around it stood four short wooden stakes, each bearing a red banner marked with the sect's symbol:
an eye carved into a charred circle.
These were the ones his mother had told him about, in tales of old crimes.
These were the ones who decided his family was "a lesson."
His heart no longer beat in fear.
His chest no longer constricted.
Everything within him had died… except for a single flame.
He felt it feeding on every warm memory, growing, growing, until it filled his entire being.
He stepped up to the four banners.
He reached out and took one.
He studied it slowly, as if reading sacred words inscribed on the skin of his enemy.
Then he folded it carefully and pressed it against his chest.
This symbol would be the first thing to burn when his vengeance began.
---
His eyes passed over the crucified bodies, committing every detail to memory:
the wide gashes.
the twisted faces.
the hands frozen in fists.
the blood marking a black line across the white snow.
He would never forget this.
Never forgive.
Never absolve.
---
He walked to the last house on the edge of the village.
His uncle's house, where the old man had often told him:
> "Don't carry hatred in your heart, boy…it destroys you before it destroys your enemies."
But today, hatred was the only thing keeping him alive.
He stepped inside.
He lit a small flame from an old wick.
In the dim glow, he saw a wooden shelf holding a black leather-bound book.
His uncle had always warned never to touch it.
He approached slowly, extending his hand.
When his fingers touched the cover, a strange chill crept from his palm into his bones.
He drew back… then set his hand on it again, defiantly.
He lifted the book to his face.
He did not know that at that moment, somewhere far away, something ancient had awakened.
Something that had waited hundreds of years for a soul desperate enough to be its vessel.
---
He opened the book to the first page.
The words were not written in ordinary ink, but in a black script that looked like living veins.
He read them without knowing how he understood:
> "If you truly desire the end of all things…
Then sever the last thread binding you to this world."
He did not tremble.
He did not hesitate.
He stepped out of the house, the book in his right hand, the red banner in his left.
He stood in the center of the village.
He watched the last flames die out upon his mother's body.
He watched the snow falling slowly, covering the dead in a silent shroud.
Then he lifted his face to the gray sky.
He closed his eyes, and spoke in a voice he did not recognize:
> "You who hear me…
Bear witness that I am no longer a son of this world.
Bear witness that I will burn it, as it burned all that I loved."
He opened his eyes.
Night had come completely, and a freezing wind howled through the ruins.
But he no longer felt the cold.
He turned and took his first step down the long road…
The road to the end.