Atraxia was once a sacred place, with rivers that sparkled like silver and gardens of marble. Its people believed in unshakeable peace. But beneath the beauty, decay was spreading. Palaces overflowed with greed, and rulers remained blind to suffering. A thousand silences froze into one great destruction.
Yeah, classic boring history. All that fancy wording just to say: rich people are evil, and everyone keeps quiet.
Then the mask tore. The sky opened, spilling fire. Seven demons appeared—not conquerors, but destroyers. The village vanished overnight. The river boiled. The forest turned to ash. By dawn, the kingdom that had endured for centuries was gone.
Serious, frightening, ...but at dawn? Really? The scribe must have been checking his pocket watch while the devil melted the cow.
After the ashes fell, a man emerged—unknown and unnamed. He became legend: feared, hated, worshiped, and forgotten. His sword cut through the darkness. With impossible power, he struck down the Seven Demons—and he prevailed.
Won, huh? If winning means roasting half a kingdom into barbecue, you can bet he was grinning while everyone burned.
Victory came at a terrible cost. Palaces collapsed and mountains smoked. The battle left nothing but graves where heaven once stood. From those graves, something far worse emerged.
Always something worse. Never back to normal. History feeds on drama.
The Seven Demons were dead, yet their descendants multiplied—endless, hungry, mocking. They devoured the remnants of civilization until only mud, corpses, and silence remained.
Yeah. The perfect bedtime story. Sleep tight, kid—don't let that little devil-eater gnaw your face. No wonder Ataraxia never laughs anymore.
I closed the book and pulled Aurora closer, as if I could shield her from the words on the page. My breath burned—not from the story, but from this place. I tried to speak like I was telling a stupid story, not a nightmare.
"Aurora… you see it, right? The Flood didn't just unleash demons. It swallowed everything. Streets, walls, even stones. Nothing was left."
Her hand gripped my arm tighter. She didn't answer, just pressed her face against my shoulder, as if I were someone she could trust.
I smiled, holding her head gently to calm her in the dark room, even though I knew I was lying. "If we keep moving, it won't reach us. We're faster than the Flood. You and me."
Yeah. I know it's nonsense. But sometimes you lie so the people close to you can breathe. Even a lie can give a little light.
People used to tell stories about a man with a shining sword, a hero who killed the Seven Demons. They said he saved everyone.
Saved, huh. His sword didn't just kill monsters. Half the world burned. Hope didn't save Ataraxia. Hope burned it. That man wasn't a hero. He was a warning.
"If he were here, I could flip him off," raising my middle finger to the ceiling of my house.
The thought stayed with me: if ordinary people could fight monsters, then I had to. Not to save the world, but for Aurora. My fists clenched. I had to be strong.
His innocent eyes slowly closed as I stroked his head. My seven-year-old brother finally fell asleep, warm in the embrace of the bed.
Her face smiled, as if she had never known sadness. "I hope I can be strong enough to protect you," I whispered, "even if it's a lie. Or at least I'll try to be honest."
"Yeah, The Flood and Heroes, huh? Ridiculous." Those silly thoughts faded as I closed my eyes.
***
This morning, I was in the garden, looking inside—watching that person and Aurora. They interacted as if they were a family.
Last night in my room, I didn't see her face—the face that shouldn't exist.
She pressed her tiny hands behind her back, leaning forward as if hoping for something. "...Do you like flowers, Mama? I'll get some-."
Aurora stepped back, hugging her own hands, standing in the corner of the room. Her voice caught. That sharp gaze pierced her. I saw it all—rigid features, cold eyes, everything.
She stepped forward quickly, clutching my shirt so hard the fabric wrinkled under her fingers. "Tessa, take your sister—now."
I stared at her, that fake face. "If you don't like flowers, I can give you pain instead." I let go of her grip—Mother.
She returned to her room and sat down. There was only silence. That was all she had.
Aurora held on to me, not her. "Please... don't" She pressed into my back, as if nothing else could keep her safe.
I grabbed her small shoulders. "Come on, let's just clean up the garden." She nodded and trailed behind me.
I trimmed the grass, a gentle task despite the soil smudging my hands. The warm morning air eased my mind, sunlight spilling over us. I tilted my face up, letting it touch me.
Beside me, Aurora crouched, her blue eyes shining brightly. She waited patiently, itching to help me pull the grass.
"When will you be done?" she asked softly, her little finger pressing against my cheek. That gentle touch twisted my gut.
"Finished. Go on, throw it," I said, pushing her tiny shoulder lightly. She had to leave immediately.
All of this—fake.
Inside? Cracked everywhere. Father's kindness —was gone, dried up into sharp cruelty. Mother's patience— was gone, rotting into silence. Smiles were rare, affection expensive—and I was too poor to afford it.
***
Shadows crept over the house, carrying the smell of loneliness. The sour tang in my throat forced me into Dad's room.
Aurora slept in my room, mom was silent, her mouth stitched shut. My father was nowhere to be found. My thoughts were a mess.
I stole a few cigarettes while my father was gone, remembering he once told me he smoked when he was anxious. Maybe this would calm me down.
The tiny flame of the match flickered like hope. The taste of the cigarette was like his lies, mixed with a coldness that felt dead. My throat felt rough and itchy. "Bitter… not even a lie tastes like this."
But I kept puffing, this taste of lies might actually work. Just a little—barely enough—to calm my soul.
Footsteps faint, coming and going like they own the place. "Ck… he's here," I muttered, spitting.
I threw my cigarette, stepping away from the pounding, dirty steps.
Outside my room, I saw Aurora asleep. My fists clenched. I turned, staring hard at the door.
Then I heard a crash from Mom's room… The door exploded, my shoulder slammed.
I froze, knees weak, couldn't glance back, jaw shaking, sight spinning.
Dad reeled in, blade glinting—a stranger's eyes behind the blood. His mask, torn to ribbons. Furniture lay in ruins, destroyed utterly. A laugh that wasn't his own. Shadows moved behind him. The knife found flesh—first my mom's neck, then his own. Silence stuck in my ears forever. I swear the devil clapped in the corner, watching me with a giggle.
I didn't think. I grabbed Aurora's hand and ran. Out of the house, into the forest. Black trees yawned like a gate, inviting us in. Thick, unnatural warmth, wet smoke, a stench of rot.
Every step felt like the ground wanted to erase us. Parents—gone. Home—gone. Childhood—gone. Erased, and I was meant to forget. Why? I didn't know. But I had to go.
Then Aurora's voice trembled. Her hand slipped from mine, as if refusing. "What's wrong Tessa?" I forced her small hand to clench mine, pushed her legs to run, our feet pounding the hard ground together.
I only looked ahead, staring into the darkness and my burning thoughts. "Just follow me," I said, pressing forward, forcing us onward.
That small bit of trust hit harder than anything. I didn't cry. I just decided. I wanted to live, I had to change. Eyes stinging. Chest burning. Hands clenched tight around her. The night air cut through, shattering my silence. No longer the quiet child. I would fight.
The forest air stank of damp earth and decaying leaves, each breath scratching my throat like sandpaper. Branches crossed overhead, smoke curling around us like claws from hell. Aurora stumbled again, and I pulled her up.
"Tessa… where are we going?" Her voice was small, her grip still weak. Yet, she still obeyed.
"To a place the Flood can't reach," I hissed, then louder, seeing her terrified eyes: "If it comes, I'll kill. Everything, if I have to."
She jerked back, pulling her hand. Fuck. I crouched, trying to calm her. "Don't be afraid of me. Be afraid of them. I'll protect you. Always." Her palm was icy, fingers twitching as if trying to pull away. I squeezed harder—this time, not to compel, but to reassure.
Slowly, she reached for my hand again. Her palm was cold—I could feel it. My steps no longer sounded childlike. Heavy, as if I had traded my childhood for something else.
We kept moving. Behind us, the world groaned and crumbled. Ahead, only darkness. Foul air. Pain. And anxiety. Forever.
Aurora held my hand tight, her skin frozen. But warm in my grasp, like Hope: The Final Light.