The air was thick with smoke, clinging to her lungs, her hair, her thoughts. Elara Vayne sat on the cold stone, her back pressed to a crumbling wall, knees drawn close and arms wrapped around them as if to hold herself together. Hours had passed since she stopped running. There was nowhere left to go. Ash drifted through the air like pale snow, settling on her silver hair until it turned gray. From where she sat, the screams never left her ears. They were close, too close, never faint enough to fade.
"This cannot be," she murmured, her voice trembling. Disbelief had settled over her like a heavy cloak, heavier than anger. The city she had trusted, once bright and proud beneath shining banners, was tearing itself apart. Guards dragged families from their homes. Warlords hunted the desperate through the streets. The same walls that had promised safety now trapped the innocent inside. She pressed her palm to the ground and felt it tremble, as though the earth itself grieved. Every sound, every cry, every collapse of stone seemed to echo inside her chest. She wanted to close her eyes, to disappear, but she could not.
When she finally looked up, her red eyes caught the reflection of burning rooftops. Everything was gone. The world she knew had vanished. She sat there, silent and shaking, trying—and failing—to remember what it felt like to believe in something.
The streets were otherwise still. Boots crunched through ash, orders barked in coarse, steady voices. Elara pressed her back against the cold stone, careful not to breathe too loudly. Smoke tasted of iron and dust. The guards were combing the ruins, hunting for survivors. Her heart hammered against her ribs. For a moment, she thought about standing, walking out, ending it before they found her. Her body refused.
Footsteps drew nearer. She crawled toward a house, half-collapsed and blackened. The door hung loose from its hinges. Dust coated everything. She slipped inside and crouched in the corner, the darkness swallowing her whole. The smell hit her first—iron, ash, and something sour. Then she saw them.
A man lay face down near the doorway, one arm stretched toward the wall. Blood pooled beneath him, black in the faint light. Elara froze, stomach twisting. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Outside, laughter echoed between ruined walls. The guards moved on, their voices fading. Silence returned.
The room was wrecked. A table split in two, pottery shattered, the faint scent of cooked food lingering. Someone had lived here. Someone who had thought themselves safe.
An hour ago, the city had been alive. Children played in the square, merchants called out prices, people laughed in the streets. Now everything was ash, rubble, or death. Veyra had fallen. Elara Vayne sat alone in what remained of it, the last breath in a city that had lost its voice.
The city had once been a place of light. Streets glowing at night, laughter spilling from open windows, roasted bread drifting from the markets. Schools and universities filled with promise, where students balanced study and work. Everyone knew everyone. Names carried warmth, not fear.
Now, all of it was ash.
Elara stepped out from the house where she'd been hiding. She was of unremarkable height, her frame small but steady, the kind easily lost in a crowd. Her legs trembled as she stood. The air was heavy with smoke and blood. Shops she had passed daily were flattened or burned to black frames. The fountain where she and her friends had laughed after class survived, but the water was thick and red, blending with soot.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, letting out a broken gasp. Freedom, laughter, dreams all devoured overnight.
Elara wandered through the dying city, past broken lamps and hollow homes, sobs quiet beneath the crackle of distant fire. Alone, broken, trembling beneath the weight of it all, she moved slowly, step by step. The streets that once overflowed with laughter whispered only silence. Broken windows reflected her pale face. The walls of homes she had grown up in leaned as if weary from witnessing the destruction. At every corner, she expected movement. There was none—only ruin and curling smoke.
Her own house loomed ahead, familiar yet unrecognizable. She hesitated. Her breath caught. Whatever awaited inside would define what remained of her world.
Elara pushed the door open with the toe of her boot. Heat and the sour smoke hit first, then the thick silence pressing against her lungs. The kitchen was wrecked, a table split in two, a pot half-melted into the floorboards. but her eyes went straight to the shapes near the hearth. Two figures lay together, faces half-charred, hands clutching something small. Knees weak, she stumbled forward. The amulet, a thin loop of metal on a singed cord was clutched in her mother's hand. She reached for it. Its weight felt heavier than the world. No scream rose from her throat. Only the ocean of silence, and the slow realization: they were gone. Not burned alive, not by accident. Someone had left them here to be seen.
Smoke crawled along the ceiling, slipping through cracks like a tired ghost. Elara moved deliberately, careful as if walking through a dream she did not want to end. Her boots pressed into ash that had once been pale walls. The frame that had hung by the stairs lay face down, glass cracked, smiling faces smeared with soot. She crouched, tracing the burned corner where her mother's hair had glimmered in sunlight. The wall was jagged, blackened, split like a wound. The stairs beside it still stood, scarred and uneven, one step broken, the rest clinging stubbornly as if refusing to fall. She touched the railing; warmth pulsed faintly, a memory of fire. Silence pressed against her chest until it hurt. Laughter seemed to flicker faintly, her father humming by the window but it fractured before reaching her. Kneeling in the ruin, amulet to her chest, she felt the weight of a world lost.
Finally, she rose. Each movement was heavy with grief. Boots crunched over ash and splintered wood. Veyra stretched before her, familiar yet unrecognizable, as if someone else's memory had been set to fire. Shops flattened, streetlights bent and flickering. The fountain survived, water thick and red.
Elara drifted forward. She did not know where to go. The streets whispered only silence. Charred doorways and broken walls reflected her fear, her shock, her disbelief. She expected someone, anyone, to appear. There was nothing. Only ruin.
Even the air seemed different, heavier, tasting of iron, ash, and despair. She traced the edges of a doorway with her fingers, memories flashing: laughter, meals, sunlight, arguments. Every step reminded her that Veyra, once full of life, was now a tomb.