The towns burned as the raiders of the Nocturnal Messiah swept through. Smoke curled upward in thick black coils, blotting out the pale light of the moon. It was not an aimless blaze. Every fire, every collapse of timber, every wail of the dying was an act of purpose. The raiders moved like a storm given shape, stripped of mercy, stripped of reason, yet driven by a force that was neither hunger nor conquest alone. They came for more than grain or gold. They came to feed something older than fear.
The people of the town had tried to prepare. They had learned rumors, whispered in fearful prayer, that the Nocturnal Messiah was coming. Some spoke of him as a god, others as a demon, but all knew the meaning of his name. In the days before the attack, the elders gathered at the temple of the Goddess of Fertility, the Mother of the Unfostered Womb. They made offerings, they chanted prayers, they locked the gates and armed themselves with farming tools and whatever iron they could spare. They swore they would not bow to any other god.
The Nocturnal God was not a name easily uttered without fear. He was called many things in scattered tongues. The Witch of Night. The Pallid Moon. To some, the god was male. To others, female. To all, it was a being both devouring and giving, both light and shadow. His coming had been a prophecy older than the stone walls of the town, yet none could know whether it was written to warn or to demand.
When the raiders came, the people were not ready. They had believed their devotion would be protection. They had believed that the Mother of the Unfostered Womb would shield them, as she had shielded their ancestors. But the Nocturnal Messiah did not care for such devotions. For him, faith alone was not enough. He demanded submission.
Timbers cracked and groaned. Roofs caved under the weight of flame. The noise of the destruction was a chorus of suffering. Each collapse sent splintered beams crashing to the ground, and the sound echoed through the streets like thunder. Screams rose above it all, jagged and unending. Somewhere, glass shattered. Somewhere, metal rang with the sound of weapons striking shields or bones.
Amid the chaos, a voice rang out. It was gentle in tone but trembling with terror, as though the speaker was torn between pleading and despair.
"Rivered! Run! They are taking the children!"
The boy's name was Rivered. He was no more than twelve years of age. His black hair was matted with soot and sweat, his grey eyes wide and wet, reflecting the glow of flame like mirrors of sorrow. He darted toward the outskirts of the town, running without thought for what lay behind him. He could hear the clash of wood and steel, the wet cries of those taken, the laughter of something unnatural that accompanied the raiders. He did not look back.
Tears streaked his cheeks, cutting bright lines through the grime. His heart pounded so hard it seemed to push blood and pain into every limb. His chest burned with every breath. Loss was a living weight upon him, pressing deeper with every step. He could not stop. Even if he had wanted to, the memory of what was happening behind him, the sound of mothers crying out for their children, would have driven him forward.
Only moments earlier, the town had been gathered in the great square, where the harvest offerings were placed before the goddess's altar. A priestess, her voice unwavering even as fear trembled through her words, had addressed the crowd.
"Lay down your grain before the Nocturnal God, the Witch of Night, the Pallid Moon," she intoned. Her voice was soft but carried in the air like a summons. She spoke with a calm certainty, as if repeating a command from an ancient text.
The crowd had been silent. Many avoided her eyes. Some looked toward the altar of the Mother of Fertility, the stone-carved figure of a woman whose womb was open in blessing, whose arms held the promise of life. To them, the offering to another god was heresy, a crime against the covenant that bound them to their goddess. They had given years of devotion, the fruits of their land and blood, to her care. To offer to another deity was an act that could never be forgiven.
And so they refused.
It was a decision made with conviction, yet without knowledge of its cost. They believed their faith alone could protect them. They did not understand that the Nocturnal Messiah did not bargain in faith. He took what he desired, without question.
The first raiders had arrived under cover of night, their approach heralded by unnatural shadows that moved before them. They came without warning, without mercy. The reinforcements followed, armed to the teeth, their armor glinting in the torchlight of burning homes. The town's walls had not stood against them. The guards fled at their sight, scattering like leaves before a storm.
Women were violated in the streets, their cries swallowed by the roar of fire. Children were torn from their mothers' arms and dragged screaming into the dark. The elderly were slaughtered in their homes, their bodies left to burn with the rubble. Men were dragged into alleys, bound and broken, tortured until they no longer cried but merely gasped in silence. The air was thick with the stench of blood, burning flesh, and smoke. No one intervened. No one could.
In that moment of collapse, Rivered slipped away. His legs burned with exertion, his breath ragged, but he did not falter. The chaos behind him was a living thing, pulling him forward even as it consumed all he had known.
The Nocturnal Messiah saw him. A shadow of recognition crossed his face, though whether it was curiosity or disdain Rivered could not tell. He gave chase, his movements swift and terrible. The raiders followed, their laughter a cruel chorus in the dark.
The boy ran until the streets gave way to fields, until the firelight was a distant glow on the horizon. Behind him, the sound of pursuit grew louder, nearer, until it was the beating of a single heart in his ears.
Then fortune, cruel and strange, intervened.
Those who followed him faltered. One by one, their forms broke and changed. Flesh hardened into bark. Limbs curled and split. From their wounds sprouted flowers and vines, blooming in colors unnatural under moonlight. They became trees, grotesque and beautiful, rooted in the soil of the outskirts. The ground opened to embrace them, and where once there was path there was now a living wall of wood and bloom.
The boy did not look back as he vanished into the shadow of that unnatural grove. Behind him, the cries faded, replaced by the strange, low hum of something beyond understanding.
The town lay in ruin. The altar to the Goddess of Fertility was shattered. Her stone form was split, her womb carved open and defiled by the raiders' offering. The air itself seemed to mourn. Somewhere, in the dark, the Witch of Night watched, and the Pallid Moon hung low and swollen above the devastation.