9. When flames engulfed the night

Haugstad, Kingdom of Divinium, Eastern region of Rohana Federation, 2046 S.C. 141st day

The night sky over Haugstad stretched clear and vast, stars glimmering beneath the barrier where crosses pulsed with the glow of the season. The village had settled into its evening quiet. Workers have returned from the fields, children were tucked into their beds, and only the usual sounds of insects and wildlife could barely be heard.

The entrance to the village was the only location that remained active, as two guards maintained watch, occasionally settling into light banter. The third guard was walking the usual route, checking the state along the village fence.

The two guards had settled onto weathered stumps beside the gate, sharing a flask of mead to ward off the night's chill. Their eyes regularly scanned the perimeter, but occasionally drifted upward to the sky.

"Look there," one guard said suddenly, pointing to a streak of light cutting across the sky. "A falling star?"

The other guard straightened, his hand instinctively moving to his weapon. "That's beneath the barrier," he said, voice tight with concern. "Stars don't fall under the crosses."

But just as he finished his sentence, a few more lights flew across the sky.

"Those are not stars!" his companion replied, setting aside the flask. "You're right, something's not—" but as he was in the middle of the sentence, there was a whoosh sound, and he fell from his stump.

"What the..." panicky said the other guard while looking around, trying to see what was happening as his comrade was already lying in a puddle of blood.

But before he could adequately react and blow the horn to issue a warning sound, the second whoosh was heard, and he, too, joined his comrade. Arrows had fatally pierced both. Someone with high marksmanship skills was skilled enough to hit them from a distance in the dark.

In the sky, more lights were flying, but those lights were not stars. Instead, they were arrows set on fire and shot into the village homes. They were not precise, but that was probably not the intention of the culprits. Flames bloomed in the darkness, spreading with unnatural speed across the dry wooden structures. Villagers probably wouldn't realize what was happening before they were trapped in their burning houses.

Whether by luck or the Creators' mercy, someone had spotted the flames. Doors burst open as people stumbled into the streets, some half-dressed, others clutching children or precious possessions. The lamps in the cottages further away were being lit as people were woken by the sound.

Those closest to the gate were unfortunate, as once they opened their doors, their escape meant death. A young mother emerged from her home, child clutched to her skirt, one hand still on the door handle as she tried to gauge which way to run. The arrow took her with such force that her body fell back against the door, leaving a crimson trail as she slid to the ground. Her child's scream died in their throat as a figure appeared from the darkness. The figure seemed to absorb what little light remained—a black leather jacket and jeans. Where a face should have been, there was only darkness behind a thin black veil. Without a word, without even a sound of footsteps, the figure reached for the child and took him back into the darkness.

In part of the village, where the flames had not yet reached, a resistance was forming. Farmers gripped their scythes and pitchforks, while hunters shouldered their swords and bows. The few adventurers who had been staying in Haugstad moved to the front, their practiced hands already on their weapons.

"In the Creators' name, leave this place!" a farmer shouted, his pitchfork raised high. Others took up the cry, their combined voices carrying more courage than they felt.

Slash, slash, slash. A last sound they would ever hear. A figure emerged from the smoke—another of the faceless ones, but this warrior moved like death itself. The sword in their hand caught the firelight strangely; its thin blade seemed to drink in the glow rather than reflect it. The hilt pulsed with an unnatural red luminescence and a goat-head-shaped pommel. The man then proceeded to walk further, and behind him, white smoke was trailing on the ground. It covered all the corpses in a thin layer, but there was no fire. The smoke was coming from incense carried by a person whose face was also hidden by a black veil and in robes whose sleeves were covered in shining red runes.

"Huh, what's all the noise?" asked Heron, still half asleep. From a small window above him, an orange-red light was being cast onto the ceiling. He started to get up and put on his shoes. As he put them on, he began to hear shrieks and screams growing louder and louder.

He crept through the house looking for his parents, but there was no one around. When he came to the front door, he eased it open just enough to peer through. Their house was a little further away from the village's center, so the flames hadn’t yet reached their household. An enormous fire spread across the village gates and its fence. Perhaps he panicked so much at that moment that he became delusional. Still, he thought he saw a demon-like face within those flames, with eyes that glowed red, and a body that radiated a mix of orange, red, gray, and black hues, appearing as if it were heading to devour the nearby houses.

Heron slammed the door shut and crouched in the nearest corner.

Heron retreated from the door, pressing himself into the darkest corner he could find. "This isn't real," he whispered, rocking back and forth, trying to make himself smaller.

He was alone and defenseless, and there was a massive demon creature down the road.

This isn’t real. Come on, Heron, wake up! He pinched himself, but to no avail. He wasn’t even sure that he actually felt any pain.

Heavy footsteps approached the door, making the boards creak. Heron's breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering hard. The door burst open, and a dark figure filled the frame—

"Heron!"

Haran’s voice cut through his terror. Haran crossed the room in two swift strides, dropping to his knees before his son. His hands shook slightly as they gripped Heron's shoulders, eyes scanning frantically for any sign of harm.

"Where are mother and father?" Heron asked, his voice trembling. Even in his fear, the absence of Agnus and Martina gnawed at him.

Pain flashed across Haran's face. "Agnus... he joined the other men at the village center. They're trying to hold the attackers back. Martina..." His voice caught. "I met her while running towards your house. Then we saw some of the attackers and decided to split up. She was providing the distraction and led them away."

"No," Heron whispered, understanding dawning in his eyes. "We have to help them!"

"Listen to me," Haran's voice cracked as he pulled Heron close into his embrace. "Martina... your mother... she made her choice to protect you. To give you a chance to survive. We cannot let her efforts be in vain. Same for Agnus, he is doing his best out there to battle the attackers." Without waiting for a response, he took Heron by the hand.

They ran into a wheat field behind the house, heading towards an old mill. Heron was sobbing all the way through. Once at the door, Haran looked around to see if they were followed. They entered the mill, and Haran then turned on a dim light from an oil lamp. Hay was piled in one corner, an old cabinet stood against the wall, and on the floor, a small pantry.

When he lifted it, more hay lay below, which made for a good hiding place.

"Get inside," Haran whispered.

"I don’t want to. We need to go back." Heron sobbed.

"This is not the time to fool around," Haran said, and then he took a deep breath.

"Listen to me, son," Haran said, his voice thick with emotion. "If you hide in here while danger passes, you get to live. We all want you to live." His hands cupped Heron's face, thumbs wiping away tears. "I will also go and make a diversion if I notice the attackers closing in."

Heron continued to sob, which made Haran shush him.

"Now, now, don't cry. You are twelve cycles old. You are almost a man!" Haran said almost cheerfully. "Now get inside."

Heron listened to him and slowly lowered himself into the pantry.

"Good boy!" Haran said, and then lowered himself next to the cabinet. Then he pulled out the small pouch that he had hidden beneath it. He turned back to the shaft.

"Heron, I will now give you some items, and I need you to listen really carefully to what I am about to say. Okay?"

Heron nodded his head.

"We'll cross paths again. In case I do not return later, you must do whatever you can to find your way to the city of Tiwaz. It is in Scallia Republic, which is a whole world away, but I am certain that you will make it. Seek out a family by the name of Bratti; they are our family."

"Father," Heron was sobbing so loud now, and Haran was tearing up, too.

"Please calm down. They might hear us. Just listen, alright?"

Heron once again nodded his head while trying to wipe away the tears.

Haran breathed, reaching into his jacket to withdraw two small leather pouches. The first, he pressed into Heron's hands. "Coins for your journey, and a pendant bearing the Bratti name. It won’t let you pass Divinum borders; you’ll need a passport for that. But what it will do is if you show it in the city, you will be treated as a citizen. So keep it really safe."

He placed the pouch in Heron’s lap and then pulled the second one.

He held the second pouch for a moment, his expression torn. "This one..." He settled it beside Heron in the hay. "Leave it here in the mill once things settle down. Only if you are in dire need of money should you come for it. But whatever you do, never open this pouch. Understand?"

Heron nodded.

Haran cupped his son's face one last time, tears falling freely now. "You are everything to me, Heron: my pride, my joy, my reason for fighting all these cycles. Grow strong. Grow wise." His voice cracked. "Promise me we'll meet again in Tiwaz. Whatever happens, whatever you hear, hold onto that promise."

"I promise," Heron whispered as his voice was almost inaudible.

Haran pressed his lips to his son's forehead as they parted ways. Then he closed the trapdoor and covered it with surrounding hay, extinguishing the lamp before his footsteps retreated into the night.

Heron lay still in the darkness, counting his heartbeats. Then came the sound of multiple feet surrounding the mill, and voices that made his blood run cold.

"There! By the tree line!"

"Take him alive!" A voice commanded, but the tone of the voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to a human. "The herald wants this one breathing!"

It was not known who was making those sounds, but the pursuers sounded as primal as demons as they shouted. Their voices faded into the distance. There was a high chance they were pursuing Haran. Heron trembled with fear, trying not to break down into tears. He lay in the fetal position, trying to keep himself together.

At some point, as fear and exhaustion struck, consciousness slipped away from him.

The smoke hid away the night sky as the majority of the village of Haugstad was burning. Flames engulfed the night, and by the time morning came, there were only ashes of what once was a small distant village.

By midday, the crosses above Haugstad shone with their usual radiance, as three steam trucks were winding their way along the dirt road, their wheels raising dust that mingled with the settling ash.

When the trucks finally stopped at what had been the village gates, about twenty soldiers emerged, their uniforms bearing the insignia of the Divinium Kingdom's brigade. The soldiers' faces were grim. They'd already witnessed similar attacks in the past.

"Form up," the brigade commander called out. His eyes swept across the blackened ruins where homes had stood just hours before. "Search for survivors, though the Creators know I've never found any from previous attacks."

The commander turned to his lieutenant, "Third village within the bounds of Jamtara and Reitag. Each one struck without warning, each one burned to ash." He ran a hand across his face. "If they're trying to strangle the cities by cutting off village trade, they're doing a damned fine job of it. We simply don't have enough men to protect every settlement."

His eyes traced the path of destruction. "The federation ministry needs to act. The member countries of Rohana must unite their forces, even if it means emptying their adventurer guilds."

"Sir," his lieutenant's voice was carefully neutral. "Should we check for their signature?"

"Go check by the entrance. It is probably there." The commander's jaw tightened. "Let's see if they mock us with the same signature."

The commander and his lieutenant approached what remained of Haugstad's gates. The ground before them bore a pattern carved into the earth itself. It was their calling card.

"May the Creators cast them into the deepest reaches of the Abyss," the commander spat, his professional demeanor cracking as he stared at the marking. "Let their souls wander the void for eternity."

His lieutenant studied the carved symbol. "Perhaps the Abyss is exactly where they want to go, sir. These aren't common brigands we're hunting. Each attack bears the same mark, each village the same fate."

"What does the Church say about this... thing they're carving?"

"The clergy remains silent on its nature. But reports show the same face appearing across kingdom borders for cycles now. Though these are attacks are the only indicators of violence from these actors."

The search parties began returning within the hour. Two soldiers supported an elderly man between them, his legs barely able to hold him. Behind them came another pair escorting a woman who stared straight ahead, as though seeing something far beyond the ruined village. When they reached the commander, the old man collapsed to his knees.

"My son," he choked out. "My daughter-in-law... the children. Please..." His hands clutched at the commander's uniform. "Tell me someone else survived. Anyone."

The commander's face darkened, but he chose to say nothing. Then turning to one of the soldiers, he asked quietly, "Report on the sweep?"

The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, we found burial sites. Recently dug, the ashes still warm. But there are drag marks and blood across the path to the road. Some of the villagers may have been taken."

The commander's expression sombered. "Past aftermaths suggests they'll be sold to the darker corners of the federation, or worse." He caught himself, remembering that the old man is still there. "But we'll keep on searching."

"Please," the elderly man's voice cracked. "My family might still be among them. Still alive somewhere..."

The commander knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We've dispatched riders to track any large group movements. If they've taken prisoners, we'll find their trail." Then he ordered that the man is to be taken to the truck.

The commander now turned his attention to the woman.

Turning to the woman, he asked, "And you? What can you tell us of the attack?"

"Forgive me, my lord," she said, fingers twisting in her skirt. "When I heard the screams, when I saw the flames consuming the front houses, I... I ran. Through the fields, into the forest." She swallowed hard. "I heard some movement in the forest later. I think there was a man that was captured, as I heard someone yelling they found him, but I was too scared to look over. The only thing I could see as they were leaving were their dark shapes."

"Anything else," the commander pressed. "Numbers, voices—anything."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I truly don’t know any more."

"Take her to the truck as well," he ordered, frustration evident in his tone.

The soldiers continued their search, horns echoing across the fields as they called for survivors. From the mill, Heron heard their shouts but huddled deeper into his hiding place. After what he'd witnessed, every voice could belong to the attackers.

Footsteps creaked on the boards above him.

"By the Creators and Kingdom of Divinium, if anyone's here, you're safe now," a soldier called out. "You have my word."

Heron's mind raced. Should I trust them? Are they truly from the kingdom?

When the footsteps retreated, Heron made his decision. He hid both of the pouches deeper into the hay. Then, carefully, he pushed open the trapdoor and crept toward the door, but as he reached it—

"Who's there?" A different soldier appeared suddenly before him.

The last thing Heron saw was the kingdom's insignia on the man's uniform before he passed out again as fear took over.

"Sir!" The soldier's call carried across the ruined village. "We found another survivor. It’s a boy!"

Through the settling ash came the soldier, carrying Heron's limp form. Dirt streaked his face, and his clothes smelled of smoke and hay.

"Found him in the mill," the soldier reported.

The commander studied the boy's unconscious face. "Get him into the ambulance truck," he ordered. "Have the medic look him over." Turning to his gathered men, he raised his voice. "We move out in ten minutes. Whatever demons walked these grounds last night, they're long gone. All we can do now is take care of those who survived."

As the steam trucks rumbled their mechanical whine, they carried survivors away from the ruins. And it will take six star-cycles before Heron steps foot among those ruins again.