The night was still… so still it felt insane.
As if the world had forgotten what movement meant, as if even the wind hesitated before breathing.
The sky was covered in gray shades, and a waning moon poured its silver light over the stone forest — a forest that didn't resemble any other.
Stone pillars rose from the ground like the fangs of a petrified beast, and between them stood smooth rocks shaped by wind and time.
The breeze moved gently, brushing over the stones like cold fingers, whispering sounds that were neither of life nor of death.
On one of those high rocks sat Ashen.
His back leaned against a stone wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His eyes were half-closed, his red hair swaying lightly with the wind, like a thread of blood in a gray night.
His expression was calm to the point of unease — nothing about him showed whether he was awake or asleep, alive or dead.
In the distance, the moon drew his long shadow across the rocks, and the night spread around him like a heavy shroud.
Nothing in the scene hinted that this land had once seen battle or blood, except for the dark, dried stains between the cracks — remnants of a previous life.
But to Ashen, blood had lost all meaning.
He had seen enough of it for silence to become his only refuge.
Minutes passed… or maybe hours. It made no difference to him.
In his world, time wasn't measured by the sun or the moon, but by the number of heartbeats that passed without killing.
His mind wandered far away — through faces he no longer remembered, through names that had melted into ashes.
Then…
Something changed.
At first, it was just a faint sound — distant, unclear, like the echo of an old dream.
But it was there — a thin metallic note piercing the night's stillness like a spark cracking through glass.
Ashen slowly opened one eye.
His face remained expressionless, but the moon's reflection flickered in his crimson iris, as if the light itself recoiled upon touching it.
He listened.
The sound repeated — closer this time.
Then came more: hooves, clashing steel, quick movements on the rocky ground.
The rhythm was chaotic, like the music of an approaching war.
At that moment, the old man sitting nearby — the one who had led his small group through the stone forest seeking shelter for the night — lifted his head sharply.
His gray eyes narrowed in caution, and he raised one finger in the air, a silent signal: Prepare yourselves.
The twenty soldiers resting quietly gripped their weapons instantly.
Metal brushed against metal, and the calm air filled with the scent of danger.
The boy and girl, who had been occasionally watching Ashen, exchanged uneasy glances.
The boy whispered, his voice trembling despite his attempt to hide it:
> "Sir… is someone coming?"
The old man didn't answer at first. He simply stared into the rocky horizon that began to tremble with distant echoes.
Then he spoke in a low, rough voice:
> "Battle… a battle is approaching. More than one group, more than twenty men. I can hear more than one kind of blade."
The girl froze in place, tightening her grip on her spear.
> "In this area? No one dares to fight here — it's within the stone forest's borders!"
The old man didn't reply, but he raised his hand again, signaling for silence.
His instincts screamed that something unnatural was approaching, something that didn't follow the normal laws of combat.
The wind began to change — no longer cold and soft, but heavy, carrying with it dust mixed with the scent of iron and blood.
Even the night itself seemed to take a step back, watching what was about to happen.
Meanwhile, Ashen didn't move.
Same posture, same empty look — as if he was listening to a song only he could hear.
Even when streaks of dust drifted past his face, he didn't blink.
He looked like a piece of the stone he leaned against.
A minute passed… then two.
The noises grew louder.
Now they could clearly hear them: men shouting, armor clashing, heavy breathing — a real battle, moving fast toward them.
The nearby rocks trembled.
The echoes were now too close to ignore.
One of the soldiers pulled his sword tight and shouted:
> "They're coming straight at us!"
The old man glanced at Ashen for a moment, then turned to the rest of his group.
He spoke firmly but quietly:
> "Stay steady. If they're fleeing a battle, we won't interfere unless we must."
The soldiers exchanged tense looks, unease filling their eyes.
The boy muttered under his breath, his tone mocking as he glanced at Ashen:
> "Even now, that vagabond is still sleeping! Is he actually dead?"
The girl didn't answer, but she looked at Ashen for a long moment.
Something in his stillness unsettled her.
That silence… didn't feel human.
Then came the first true echo of battle —
A blade struck armor with such force that the rocks vibrated.
A sharp human scream followed, shattering in the air like glass.
The old man rose to his feet, gripping his heavy metal staff.
His face darkened under the moonlight, sweat sliding down his forehead.
> "They're close… quickly!"
His men formed a near-defensive line before him, the girl beside him, and the boy reluctantly standing behind them.
Ashen, however, didn't move an inch.
The wind played with his red hair, while his gaze stayed fixed on the sky.
Above him — the moon.
Below him — the blood.
And between them… the first spark was about to ignite.