In the dense forest bathed in pale moonlight, the footsteps of dozens of black-robed figures moved in silence. Upon their backs was etched the emblem of a dark crimson eye, glimmering faintly even in the desert’s midnight. Without a sound, they crossed the wide expanse of sand that should have scattered with every step, yet that night, the grains remained still—as if the desert had never been touched at all.
It did not take long before they reached a small village hidden amidst the desert’s sparse trees. A quiet haven—its people deep in slumber under the chill of night—was breached by the advancing column of shadows. The specter of ruin crawled in with every step they took, while murmurs of sorcery hummed low, a dark chant that summoned forth torrents of flame. The blaze consumed everything it touched, swallowing thatched roofs, wooden walls, and the brittle leaves around them.
Screams erupted, cries of terror rolling across every corner. Villagers still clinging to life rushed out in panic, their steps stumbling in the darkness, faces pale in the reflection of the growing fire. The knights sworn to guard the village hurried forward, their eyes frozen in horror at the sight of the black-robed host cutting down all in their path—young and old alike. Blood sprayed freely, staining the ground, scattering like dust in the heart of a storm.
They knew, in such a nightmarish moment, they were nothing but flesh shields before that power. Yet none turned to flee. With trembling hands, they stood their ground, clutching blades that nearly slipped from their numbed fingers, holding the line upon the villagers’ path of escape.
The black-robed figures struck the knights as though they were no more than frightened rabbits before a starving serpent. In an instant, the clash of steel and fleeting cries filled the night, before silence returned as the knights’ bodies fell lifeless to the earth. Blood soaked into the sand, mingling with the embers that clawed at the night sky. Without mercy, the figures pressed on with their hunt, chasing those who fled into the dark. They ended every last life that remained in the village, without hesitation, with a savagery that knew no compassion.
Inside one of the houses still untouched by the flames, a man stood staggering, his body drenched in blood that poured without end. His face was pale, open wounds gaping across his body, yet his grip upon a single-edged curved blade did not waver. Before him, three black-robed figures stood ready, their cloaks already stained with blotches of blood, no longer the pure black they once were. The three looked unsettled, never expecting to find someone this formidable in such a remote village.
Without warning, the three attacked at once, their movements swift and deadly. Yet, without their notice, the man had already begun whispering an incantation, sorcery flowing into the blade he held. A faint light coated the sword, and with one powerful slash, he cleaved down one of them. The figure was hurled back, blood spraying violently, his body collapsing before a cry could escape his lips.
But at that very moment, a knife flew and buried itself deep into the man’s left hand. Agonizing pain shot through him, numbing his nerves instantly. Fresh blood gushed from the wound, soaking his wrist and dripping to his palm. With what strength remained, the man ripped the knife out of his flesh, letting the blood flow freely, then clenched the hilt between his teeth, his jaw tightening. His right hand still gripped the sword firmly, while he forced his nearly paralyzed left hand back into motion.
The two remaining foes shifted into stance, ready to attack again. Yet heavy thuds echoed across the rooftop above. The sound of deliberate, weighty steps grew closer—a sign that reinforcements of the black-robed order were converging upon the house.
In the corner of the room, a woman crouched in hiding, her body trembling as she clutched a small boy tightly to her chest. The child fought to hold back sobs, his tiny frame shaking violently, his eyes wet as they beheld the horror consuming his home.
“Hic… hic… Mother… I’m scared…” he whispered, voice choked, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked cheeks.
“It’s all right, my dear…” his mother whispered softly, her voice trembling with grief. “Father and mother will protect you. So… don’t cry, please…”
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed—
“TUK… TUK… TUK…”
—drawing nearer to that room.
“BRAKK!”
The door burst open, slamming against the wall. A man staggered inside, his breath ragged, his body drenched in blood. His left arm was gone, severed in battle—only a bleeding stump remained, the mark of his sacrifice against the black-robed assailants.
The woman flinched, her heart torn. At once, she tore the hem of her long skirt, her hands trembling yet unyielding. Still clutching her son’s small hand, she rushed to her husband’s side and wrapped the shredded fabric around his wound, pressing firmly to stem the flow.
“You… You’re gravely wounded, my husband…” she whispered, her voice breaking, heavy with sorrow and fear.
With labored breath, the man spoke:
“Hurry… take Evran… go south… There is… a cave in the desert woods… I know… they will not dare enter… the darkness there…”
The woman lifted her gaze, meeting the fading light in her husband’s eyes, tears spilling freely.
“And you… my husband… what about you…?” her voice quivered, torn between love and despair.
The man did not answer with words. Instead, he drew his wife and child into his arms, his strength waning yet his embrace unyielding. With all that remained of him, he held close the two treasures he could never bear to lose.
He spoke with a soft, gentle smile, though blood still dripped from the corner of his lips.
“Go… My life is content… so long as my family lives on.”
His wife could not hold back her tears. A bitter smile trembled on her wet face as her body sank to her knees, shoulders shaking violently. Her sobs broke free, mingling with the soft weeping of young Evran by her side. The boy could not speak. Fear had stolen his voice, leaving only his small body trembling as he cried in silence.
The man reached for his wife’s head, stroking her hair with trembling fingers full of love.
“You’re not a child anymore, my wife…” he whispered softly, half in jest, half in earnest, trying to hide his sorrow behind a smile.
Hearing this, she stifled her sobs, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, ashamed before her husband. Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to stand, to be strong, though her heart was breaking.
Then the man knelt before his son, still only nine years old. The boy’s eyes were wet, his small frame shaking, his face pale. The man smiled—gentle, sincere—as though death were not waiting just beyond his steps.
“Grow strong… my son…” he whispered, his voice frail, nearly breaking.
With great effort, he lifted his wife, took both their hands, and pulled them into one last embrace. His trembling arms clung to them as if to bind their bodies to his chest, to seal in their warmth and their scent in the heartbeat that remained.
And before time could truly take him, he cried out, a wide, radiant smile carved into his bloodied face:
“GO!!”
The shout thundered through the night, at once a command and a blessing, a father’s last love as death reached for him.
The small family fled the house, stumbling into the night thick with smoke and flame. They ran south, following the dusty path without once looking back. Their sobs and cries were left behind, swallowed by the stench of fire and blood drifting on the desert wind.
CRASH!
The fragile wooden door finally splintered, fragments scattering across the floor. Beyond, darkness opened wide, pierced by the blaze of torches. Shadows of cloaked figures danced upon the walls—faces of bloodlust, merciless bringers of death.
Boots thundered against the floor as black-robed figures stormed in, blades drawn, spells whispered on their lips, filling the air with menace. At their head walked one whose robe was heavier, whose eyes burned like embers. His lips curled into a mocking smile.
“I did not expect anyone still alive,” he said coldly, his tone dripping with disdain. His grin widened as he glanced toward the path the family had taken.
“I saw something earlier.” He pointed with his finger. “It seems you managed to protect your family… but sadly, they too must die tonight—with you.”
The sneer deepened, firelight flashing red in his eyes.
Yet the man stood there, his body drenched in blood, his left arm gone, but his gaze and his smile unwavering.
“Unfortunately…” he rasped, his voice hoarse yet steady. “You will not. You will have to go through me first.”
Evran’s father stared them down. His right hand clutched the sword slick with blood dripping between his fingers, his body trembling but unyielding, his eyes fierce even as death loomed before him. In the heartbeat that followed, he whispered a protective incantation, his murmur blending with the hiss of fire. The air shimmered faintly around him, forming a fragile veil of light against the sorcery aimed his way.
Flames roared wild, red-orange tongues licking the walls, vomiting thick black smoke into the suffocating air. Wood cracked and collapsed under the blaze. Screams of death echoed, merging with the wail of desert winds that carried blood and ash into the night sky.
The earth trembled, shaking sand and ruins from the village’s heart. Amidst the inferno, barefoot prints burned warm into the desert sands that should have been cold.
A mother ran, stumbling, her body quaking with the horror that had shattered their world that night. In her arms she clutched a small boy, his face streaked with tears, his tiny legs faltering along the narrow paths that remained.
Evran’s steps pressed into shards of wood, hot sand, and ash. His breath came ragged, his heartbeat pounding so hard it thundered in his own ears. He wanted to turn back, to see his father’s figure one last time—but the flames had already sealed the path home.
And there, in the fire and death, young Evran realized, nothing could be saved.
They ran on, weaving through narrow alleys between crumbling homes. Sand whipped into the air, chasing their faltering steps. Behind them, fire consumed the night sky, painting it the color of blood. Yet only one sound remained in Evran’s ears—his heartbeat, racing with the hiss of wind carrying death.
Evran sobbed softly, his voice barely audible above the storming desert wind. He pressed his mouth shut, afraid his cries would summon the black-robed hunters still lurking in the dark. Beside him, his mother clenched her fists, burying grief within her chest as she pushed forward, carrying wounds deeper than flesh.
At last, they reached the forested edge of the desert, where dry leaves trembled under the cold night breeze. His mother gripped his hand tight, half running, half carrying him as his weary legs gave out. In the distance, veiled in shadowed trees, lay the cave his father had spoken of.
But then—swift, silent movement closed in. Ordinary eyes could not detect it, but the woman, attuned to mana, felt the killing intent drawing near.
Without hesitation, she hid with her son behind brush and stone, pressing Evran’s small body tight against her, covering his mouth to smother any sound of his whimpers. The hunters prowled past, their dark auras searching for survivors who had fled the burning village.
Soon they scattered, dispersing back toward the village and the wooded desert. Seeing her chance, she carried Evran, his small frame limp, his legs too weak to walk. Step by step, she staggered across the sand toward the cave—their last hope.
Without doubt, she carried them inside, cradling her son in her arms as they slipped into the suffocating dark.
But from afar, one cloaked figure caught sight of their faint silhouette retreating into the cave. Without pause, without warning—he hurled a knife straight toward them.
A sharp whistle split the air, a flash of metal streaking past, and the knives found their mark. One embedded itself in the mother’s body, a burst of fresh blood staining the already-torn fabric. Another grazed across Evran’s left temple, leaving a burning cut soon soaked in crimson.
Yet despite the wounds gnawing at their flesh, they pressed forward into the abyss—through narrow paths choked with roots, through cracks barely wide enough to slip between the cavern’s jagged walls. Their breaths came ragged, their legs quivered, but their steps did not falter. They clung to a fragile hope—that the suffocating darkness of the cave would shroud them from the merciless hunters.
Time stretched, until at last… silence enveloped them. No footsteps echoed. No incantations murmured. No hiss of blades pierced the air. Only stillness remained—a sign their pursuers had either gone, or strayed farther away. Their breathing was still uneven, hearts pounding against their ribs, but slowly, the tension began to ease in the cavern’s pitch-black gloom.
When she deemed it safe, the mother crawled out from the cramped passage, dragging her wounded body step by trembling step. Blood still flowed from the knife wound that pierced her, and Evran, cradled in her arms, was half-conscious—his eyes heavy, his vision blurred by the blood that streaked across his temple. Dizziness twisted his world into a haze.
His neck went limp, his body surrendering, and at last Evran slipped into his mother’s lap, while she herself collapsed weakly against the stone wall. In that darkness, amidst ragged breaths and throbbing pain, the boy finally drifted into sleep within her embrace.
---
Some time later…
When Evran’s heavy eyes cracked open, pain still seared from the cuts and burns upon his body. Every breath scraped raw inside his chest, and the world around him was dark, cold, reeking of damp earth. Yet the first thing he realized—he no longer lay in his mother’s lap.
He turned his head slowly. There—his mother sat slumped against the cavern wall, her body frail and drained. Her face was battered, pale, and in her gaze lingered a sorrow too deep to ever be spoken. Yet those eyes still held a fragile warmth, the last trace of a mother’s love for her child.
Her body sagged weakly against the stone. The wounds across her skin had long dried, the blood that once flowed now crusted into dark stains—a testament to how long she had endured the agony. Her face was ashen, her breaths shallow and ragged, but her eyes… they still carried that tender light.
Evran looked at her, his vision blurred with tears. Sorrow swelled inside him. He knew… she could leave him at any moment. His small body trembled, his little hand clutching the frayed edge of her garment.
“Mother… let’s leave the cave…” Evran whispered, his voice quivering, barely audible over the pounding in his chest. “We can… tend to your wounds…”
His mother offered a faint smile—a smile laced with bitterness, as though masking an undeniable truth. “It’s alright, my son… Mother is fine…” she murmured, then raised her trembling hand, brushing gently against Evran’s wounded temple.
At her touch, the searing pain at his brow suddenly faded. The gash, once flowing with blood, closed as though it had never existed. She had healed him… pouring out the last of her mana while he had been asleep.
Evran froze, his body still shivering, tears hanging heavy at the corner of his eyes.
“Let’s go, Mother…” he pleaded again, more desperate now, his small hand tugging weakly at her limp arm. “…If we don’t… you’ll… you’ll die!” His voice broke into sobs. His little frame shook violently, clutching her hand as though his will alone could anchor her to this world.
“Mother… cannot be saved,” she whispered, her voice soft, words trembling at their edges. Her eyes held his, brimming with a bittersweet tenderness. “This wound… cannot be healed… the poison has already spread, carried by the hunter’s blade…”
Slowly, she tried to pry free his desperate grip on her wrist.
But Evran refused. His hands clung tighter, though his pull was weak, trembling, as if to deny the cruel truth spoken by her lips. His young face was soaked in tears, his eyes swollen red, unable to restrain the grief.
“Forgive me… Evran…” she whispered, her lips shaping a sorrowful smile. She tried to hide her pain, but her tears betrayed her, falling one by one across her pale cheeks.
With trembling fingers, she stroked his hair, each touch fragile, as if engraving her final memory into her son.
“Evran…” she whispered, her voice frail, yet still clear. Her eyes glistened, straining against the torment within. In that gaze remained her final gift—love, unyielding, even in death’s shadow.
“But you… you must live. Do not give in, my son… no matter how cruel this world becomes. You are my child… you will endure.” Her fingertips brushed against his cheek with tender warmth. “Your father and I… we believe in you… Evran…”
Evran wept soundlessly. His small body quivered, his shoulders trembling as tears streamed down his face, dripping onto the dust and sand beneath him. In her fading embrace, he wished desperately for the warmth to linger, for the arms that held him to never let go.
Around them, silence crept in. The cavern was lit only by slivers of moonlight seeping through cracks in the stone. Dust drifted slowly in the thin beams, carried by the breath of the night wind.
No more words remained—only muffled sobs, and the slowing rhythm of a heart about to fall silent.