Night fell over Hearthglen wrapped in a tense silence, as if the very air were holding its breath before the impending rupture. Then the ground trembled.

  In the distance, the hoofbeats of horses thundered over the damp earth, and the echo of metal shattered the calm of the hills. Shadows moved swiftly through smoke and dusk, advancing like a dark tide.

  The first screams rose as soldiers stormed into the village. Doors splintered beneath heavy boots, torches flared like ravenous tongues devouring the houses without mercy. The acrid stench of blood and smoke thickened the air. Men barked orders, women ran searching for their children, and chaos swallowed the streets of Hearthglen whole.

  Atop a hill, a lone rider watched the destruction. The firelight glinted against his black leather armor, carving sharp lines across his stern features.Riven held the reins calmly, as if all of this—death, screams, destruction—were something distasteful but inevitable.

  “Stupid Garr…” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

  The lieutenant’s name left him like a sigh laced with disdain. Then he turned his horse and disappeared into the fog and the rising glow that spread toward the sky.

  ***

  Alden ran downhill, but the world had lost its shape. The cold earth cut the soles of his feet, though he didn’t feel it. All he could perceive was the smoke: dense, greasy, clawing down his throat as if trying to choke him from the inside.

  Hearthglen was burning.

  The first houses were blazing towers that groaned as they collapsed. Rooftops caved in with bursts of sparks scattering like swarms of red fireflies. People ran in every direction—some carrying empty buckets, others clutching children, many with no destination at all. A man staggered past, his face smeared with soot, his eyes vacant. He fell to his knees and did not rise again.

  Kaelor and Kael arrived moments later.

  Kaelor held his sword unsheathed, gleaming in the firelight as if it had already chosen whom it would cut. Kael gripped the blade his uncle had thrown him back in the cabin; he held it so tightly his knuckles looked like bare bone.

  “Elena!” Alden shouted, his voice breaking.

  No answer. Only screams, sobbing, and the constant crackling of wood giving way.

  He crossed the village square. The heat pressed against him like a suffocating wall. A toppled cart burned at the center; the throats of the horses had been slit, their smoking bodies filling the air with a nauseating, acidic smell. Soldiers in black cloaks advanced in formation, unhurried, cutting down anyone who approached—death flowing naturally in their wake.

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  Alden didn’t see them.

  He only ran toward the forge—what remained of its entrance.

  Flames had devoured the roof, and before the fire stood the lieutenant and the three men Alden had seen days earlier. Beside them, Elena wept, held by the neck by Garr, while the lifeless bodies of the blacksmith and his wife lay sprawled on the charred ground.

  “Elena!” Alden cried.

  The four men turned at once. The scarred one muttered in a raspy tone:

  “It’s him.”

  Garr shoved the girl aside and, pointing at Alden, barked:

  “Get him.”

  Alden stood frozen for a few seconds. He had no weapon, barely any breath. The three soldiers began circling him, advancing with measured caution. One lunged to grab him, but years of training moved faster than thought: Alden twisted aside, avoided the strike, and knocked the man flat with a kick to the chest.

  Another came from behind. Alden felt him and spun sharply, seizing the man’s wrist, wrestling for the sword. They struggled, bodies locked in a frantic dance for the weapon, until Alden tore it free with desperate strength. In a clumsy motion—almost without realizing it—he drove the blade through the man.

  The sound was dull, unreal.

  The soldier stared at him in shock before collapsing. Alden remained standing, breath ragged, staring at the bloodied sword in his hands as if the world had reshaped itself around him.

  The third soldier roared with fury.

  “You damned bastard!” he bellowed, charging.

  Alden turned too late. The blade swept in a deadly arc…

  …but before it reached him, someone stepped between them.

  The steel sliced through Elena’s chest with almost no resistance.

  Time broke apart. She looked at him one last time, lips parted, unable to speak. She fell into Alden’s arms, and he staggered back, holding her desperately.

  “No… Elena…” he whispered, voice cracking.

  The world shrank to a single point: her weight in his hands.

  Behind them, the lieutenant watched with a mix of annoyance and disdain.

  “Stupid girl,” he muttered, then glanced at the soldier still clutching his sword. “She just saved you from losing your head.”

  He turned to the scarred man.

  “Take him. The boy comes with us.”

  The scarred man nodded and stepped forward, but never reached him.

  A shadow emerged through the smoke.

  A blade hissed through the air.

  The scarred soldier barely had time to raise his weapon before Kaelor struck, swift and merciless. Steel clashed, flashed in the firelight—and three precise movements later, the man fell.

  Kael appeared beside him, facing the last soldier. His strength was pure, taut fury—blow after blow, until the soldier’s sword slipped from his grip and, a moment later, so did his life.

  The lieutenant stepped back, enraged, drawing his own weapon.

  “Bastards!” he roared.

  Kaelor didn’t answer. He faced him with an icy calm. The clash was brutal. Sparks leapt from their blades, shadows danced over the bodies, flames roared around them as if eager to consume both fighters. Finally, Kaelor pivoted, dodged a slash, and drove his sword into the lieutenant’s chest.

  Garr fell to his knees as the light faded from his eyes.

  Silence spread, broken only by the crackling ruins of the village.

  Alden remained kneeling, Elena in his arms, his gaze empty. He didn’t cry; he only breathed in ragged bursts, as if his body had forgotten how.

  Kaelor approached slowly.

  “You can’t save her now,” he said in a grave tone, kneeling beside him. “We have to go.”

  The boy didn’t respond. Kaelor took him by the arm and pulled firmly. Alden rose without resistance, his steps dragging, his eyes hollow.

  Kael picked up one of the fallen swords, cast one last look over the burning village, and lifted his face to the blackened sky. Then he broke into a run to catch up with the others.

  Hearthglen was burning.

  And with it, the last remnants of everything Alden had ever loved.

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