Prolouge — The Night The Sky Burned

The Hero did not hesitate as steel flashed through the air. Arin's mother's head struck the wooden floor with a dull and final sound. For a moment, there was no scream, no breath, and no world. There was only the Hero's voice as he spoke in a calm and unwavering tone.
"She would slow us down," he said.
Arin's hands were still reaching for her when the blood touched his fingers. Outside, demons howled while the village burned and the sky turned a deep red. The Hero turned away first.
"More are coming," he said while already walking toward the flames. "If the boy survives, he may yet be useful."
Just like that, he was gone.
The sky had burned gold only hours earlier. Arin had been laughing then as he chased his sister through the tall grass while swinging a wooden sword that was far too heavy for his small arms.
"Fear me, demon!" he had shouted before tripping into the dirt.
His father's laughter had thundered behind him as he called Arin a fierce hero. His mother had smiled, though her eyes lingered too long on the black forest at the edge of the world. That was where the Death God slept. They all knew it because every child did. Every three hundred years he rose again, and every three hundred years the Heroes answered.
That night the earth trembled as a red glow swallowed the horizon. His father had drawn a sword that had not tasted air in years and ordered them to stay inside. He never returned whole.
The demon came first, and the Hero came second. Only one of them saved him, but only one of them destroyed what remained.
Arin did not remember running. He remembered the fire and the weight of silence after his mother fell. He remembered the Hero's eyes, which were not cruel or angry but simply resolved. Far beyond the border and beneath black stone and forgotten prayers, something ancient stirred. Somewhere in the ashes of a broken village, a boy made a promise that no god had ever asked for.