The afternoon in Riverfall was bustling with activity. Merchants yelled prices from their stalls, children raced between carts with sticky fingers, and the town militia patrolled in loose pairs, spears dangling carelessly at their side. The air had an average, familiar smell of bread and smoke.
Then it all stopped.
A ripple of pressure swept through the square like the air itself had been dragged down by invisible chains. Boots froze mid-step. Breaths caught in throats. Even the pigeons scattered into the sky dropped silent as if the world had forgotten sound.
He stood at the fountain. No one had seen him arrive. One moment the square was empty, the next he was there—tall, cloaked in black trimmed with the faintest crimson thread, his face half-hidden beneath a hood.
The weight of his presence pressed against every chest, locking bodies in place. A soldier nearest to him tried to shout, but the word never made it past his lips. His jaw quivered, his spear rattled in numb fingers, and he sank to his knees without meaning to.
The figure smiled faintly, almost courteous.
"Thank you," he said, his voice calm, rich, too composed for the terror it carried.
No one dared move. No one even understood what he meant.
"You can rest now."
He raised a hand. With a snap of his fingers, the world ignited.
Fire tore outward from him in a perfect circle, racing across cobblestones and wood, climbing walls and leaping roofs in a heartbeat. It wasn't natural flame—it burned too fast, too hungry, swallowing stone as easily as flesh. Screams broke free at last, shrill and choked, before vanishing beneath the roar of the inferno.
The militia dropped where they stood. Mothers clutched children, faces contorted in horror as the fire surged over them. A toy—carved from wood and painted in fading blue—rolled across the stones before catching, blackening, and crumbling to ash.
And then, as suddenly as he had come, the figure was gone.
Only the fire remained, devouring Riverfall whole.
******
The throne room felt different when the heroes returned to the capital. Where normally King Aldren would greet them with warmth and eager questions about their mission's success, today his face was drawn with grief so profound it seemed to age him years. Court advisers clustered around him like mourners at a funeral, their whispered conversations dying as the champions entered.
"Your Majesty," Tor began with his usual straightforward manner, "we've successfully completed the mission at Riverfall. The corrupted soldiers have been eliminated, the civilians rescued, and the settlement secured."
The words hung in the air like stones dropped into still water. King Aldren's expression didn't change—if anything, it grew more pained.
"Riverfall has been destroyed," the king said quietly, each word falling with the weight of absolute finality. "Three hours ago, the entire settlement was reduced to ash. Every building, every street, every living soul within its borders. Nothing remains but smoking ruins."
The news hit the assembled heroes like a physical blow. For several heartbeats, no one could process what they'd heard. They had just come from Riverfall. They had saved those people, secured that town, left everyone alive and grateful.
"That's impossible," Tor said, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that came from someone who had just witnessed the opposite truth. "We were there this morning. The town was fine, the people were celebrating. We spoke with the militia commander, the town head—"
"It's not possible," Jace added, supporting his companion with growing desperation. "We saved them. All of them. They were alive and safe when we left."
But the expressions around the throne room told a different story. The advisers avoided eye contact, their faces bearing the hollow look of people who had received reports too terrible to fully accept. Court scribes held documents with trembling hands. Even the usually stoic palace guards seemed shaken by whatever news had preceded the heroes' arrival.
The weight of realization began to settle over the champions like a suffocating blanket. Everyone they had saved, every life they had protected, every grateful smile and thankful word—all of it had been erased in a matter of hours.
Tor's massive frame began to shake with rage so profound it seemed to radiate from his very bones. "Who?" he demanded, his voice rising to a roar that echoed off the throne room's vaulted ceiling. "Who did this?"
When no immediate answer came, when the crushing reality of their failure became undeniable, Tor spun on his heel and stormed from the throne room. His boots struck the marble floor with the force of hammer blows as he pushed through the great doors, leaving them swinging in his wake.
The sound of his departure seemed to break whatever control the other heroes had been maintaining. Jace felt his legs give out, sending him crashing to his knees on the unforgiving stone floor. The impact should have hurt, but he barely felt it through the numbness that was spreading through his chest like ice water.
They had failed. Not in the mission they'd been given, but in the larger purpose that mission was meant to serve. What did tactical victories matter when entire settlements could be wiped from existence while they celebrated their small successes?
Around him, his remaining companions stood in various states of shock and despair, each processing the devastating news in their own way. The throne room that had once felt like a place of hope and purpose now seemed like a mausoleum for dreams that would never be fulfilled.