The morning sun slowly rose, chasing away the shroud of night with its gentle warmth that pierced the sky. Within the cavern’s darkness, fragile beams of light slipped through cracks in the stone above, carrying a faint warmth that eased the chill which had gripped the stone walls all night long.
With a frail body and eyes swollen—darkened at the edges from endless tears through the night—Evran slowly pushed himself upright. Mustering what little strength remained, he dragged his mother’s body, holding her close, trying to lift her though he could barely carry the weight. More often than not, he was forced to half-drag her across the cavern floor. At only nine years of age, his small body struggled through the root-choked passages and narrow stone clefts, stumbling, his feet slipping or catching against jagged rocks that nearly sent him tumbling.
At last, beyond the final narrow gap, Evran saw light. A pale ray pierced through the faint mist of the cavern, accompanied by a soft breath of wind that carried warm dust, brushing against his weary face. The light came from the wide mouth of the cave.
Evran stepped out into the open. The morning sky greeted him with a calm hue of orange. Beside the cave’s entrance stood a solitary tree, ancient and weathered, rooted firmly in the desert sands. Its branches spread wide, offering shade, yet it stood in lonely silence—no other trees grew in its company.
There, beneath the tree, Evran laid his mother down, her body resting against the trunk. With a weary, broken face, he began to dig a grave with his bare hands. Handful by handful, he lifted sand and loosened earth, moving it aside. The small, tender palms of a child soon grew rough and raw. He had never buried anyone before, but he had seen it once—when he stood beside his father at a villager’s funeral long ago.
When the pit was deep enough, Evran lifted his mother’s body into it, carefully, gently. He looked at her face one last time—the faint trace of a smile still lingered upon her lips, just as it had on his father’s at the very end. He embraced her once more, softly, and pressed his lips to her forehead—a farewell sealed in silence.
With trembling hands, he began to cover her with earth and sand. The body that had once sheltered him, warmed him, and held him close vanished beneath the shifting grains. The desert wind stirred, carrying dust that curled and danced, as though the land itself lent its hand to cover the mound.
Upon the small rise of sand, Evran placed a single stone as a marker. His wounded hands shook as he touched its rough surface. No carvings, no inscription—only an unshaped stone, left to stand in quiet remembrance.
His steps were heavy as he turned back toward the village. His body swayed, as though each footfall was shackled, each step trying to drag him into the ground. The warm sand and patches of wet earth clung to his feet, but the weight upon his chest was far heavier than the land itself.
And when he arrived, his gaze froze.
Before him stood the ruins of his village—silent, broken. Charred beams and scorched walls rose like blackened skeletons, bearing witness to what once lived there. The smell of burnt wood lingered in the air, mingling with thin smoke that still curled into the pale morning sky. This place—once filled with the laughter of children, the conversations of elders, and the glow of lanterns in long nights—was now reduced to ashes and memories that clawed at his heart.
But it was not the sight alone that cut deepest.
Far more painful was the truth he could not escape: here, among fire and smoke, the people he loved had stood their ground with all they had. They had resisted, they had fought, they had refused to surrender—until their final breath. And still… they fell, consumed by a fire that knew no mercy.
Evran clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms, skin nearly breaking. Hot tears slid slowly down his dust-streaked, blood-marked, wounded cheeks.
He was still here.
Alive. Alone. In a village burnt to ash, silent, scorching, and forsaken. Burns and cuts lingered across his body — remnants of a desperate flight through ruins, narrow passages, and shadowed tunnels that had nearly claimed his life.
And now, what remained was only an empty heart. Confused. His gaze drifted into the void, as if he no longer knew where to go, or what to do. The world he once knew had vanished, leaving only fields of ash, searing sand, and air heavy with the stench of charred wood.
Evran stood there. Silent. Alone.
---
[ PoV Evran ]
I walk slowly.
Dust still drifts through the air, the faint scent of burned wood stabbing into my nose. This place… once full of sound, color, and children’s laughter in the late afternoons. Now only charcoal, ash, and twisted blackened frames remain.
I stand before the ruins of my home. Home…
Can I still call it that, when all that’s left is scorched planks and splintered cinders?
The wind brushes softly, carrying traces of a fire long dead, yet its heat still lingers on my skin.
Inside my head, the flames still burn. I can hear the crack of timber, the screams, the frantic footsteps, and the voices I could not save.
Stop. Don’t drown in it.
I draw in a deep breath, forcing my heavy chest to move. I cannot be trapped by despair. Not now.
I crouch down, my rough, stinging fingers sifting through the charred remains. Searching for something. I don’t even know what.
Something… anything I might find.
But all I uncover is ash. Fine dust clinging to my skin, black, cold, and lifeless.
When my fingers touch a piece of burnt wood — the remains of the front wall — my head fills with echoes from a year ago.
I remember. One night.
A night I had never thought mattered…
That night was warm.
The sky stretched clear, stars scattered like gems across a dark velvet cloth. The night air carried the scent of damp earth after the day’s rain. I was still little then. Couldn’t sleep. Restless, for no reason.
I slipped out quietly, through the door left slightly ajar. My small feet pressed against the cold earth. On the porch, Mother sat alone. Her hair was tied loosely, strands swaying with the night wind. Her face was pale silver under the moonlight.
When she saw me, her smile bloomed.
That smile…
A smile that could make the darkest world feel safe. A smile that could ease the tightness in my chest in an instant.
She waved softly, beckoning me closer.
Without hesitation, I ran, then leapt into her lap. Her body was warm, her skin carrying the faint scent of firewood that always clung to her clothes. I burrowed into her embrace, my head resting against her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart.
And then Father’s deep voice broke the quiet.
“Evran, look at this!”
I turned. Father stood in the moonlight, a sword in his hands. Its sheath was dark blue, adorned with carvings of brown branches. Near the hilt, an emblem: a black bird perched upon a bough. Father’s grin spread wide, his chest puffed out with pride.
“This is our family’s treasure,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
Slowly, he drew the blade.
That sword… slender, silver-white. Its tip curved with elegance, catching and reflecting the starlight. But most striking of all was the deep midnight-blue glow that shimmered along the blade under the stars. It looked less like steel, more like something alive. It drank in the night’s darkness, then returned it as a colder, deeper light.
I froze.
My eyes widened.
No words would come.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Father chuckled, satisfied.
“Amaaaziiiing…” I whispered, almost breathless.
Father sat down beside Mother, ruffling my hair with his large, calloused hand.
“This once belonged to your grandfather,” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with memory. “It was given to him after he… saved the village from raiders. A gift from… from…”
He paused, furrowing his brows.
“Eh… from whom, again?”
“Ah, you’ve forgotten already,” Mother teased, laughing lightly.
Father pouted, scratching his head. We all laughed together. That night was simple, without grandeur — just small talk, gentle laughter, and the warmth of family.
I blinked, snapping back to reality.
The stench of charcoal and burnt wood clawed at my nose. Dust floated in the air, slipping into my eyes. I wiped quickly, holding back the sob that nearly escaped.
The sword…
I lifted my head.
Stared at the ruins of our home.
Could it… still be there?
Buried beneath ash and scorched planks.
Perhaps burned. Perhaps only the hilt remains. But if it’s still there…
I have to find it.
My hands dug once more through ash and charred wood. My fingers burned, the skin cracked, some already bleeding. But I didn’t care. Dust clung to my skin, my face, slipped into my eyes, into my throat. My chest ached, each breath was heavy. But I kept digging.
Then—my palm struck something solid.
Not charcoal. Not ash.
Its surface was coarse, firm. Cold.
I froze. My heartbeat thundered.
Slowly, I brushed aside the layers of ash covering it. Dust scattered, blinding my eyes, but I pressed on, scraping, clawing, until my sight caught it—beneath the rubble, a wooden floor.
Still intact.
Nearly hidden.
Sealed tight, as if meant to conceal something from the world.
I went still.
My heart pounded, each beat like a drum echoing in my ears.
What is this?
There was never a basement here before… or…
I crouched, running my torn fingers along the edge of the wooden floor. Burned, yet solid. I tried to lift it—it wouldn’t budge. Unmoving. Dead weight.
I clenched my teeth. My raw hands searched the ground for leverage, for anything.
Until I found a stone the size of my palm. Its surface was rough, cold like a lifeless body.
I gripped it tight, blood dripping from my split skin into the ash.
Without hesitation, I raised the stone high—and brought it crashing down against the edge of the wooden floor.
Once.
A heavy thud. Dust rising.
Twice.
Pain lanced through my wrist.
Thrice.
The skin of my palm peeled open. Burning. Blood mixed with sweat. My fingers went numb. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop.
Blow after blow, until at last—
CRACK!
The wood splintered.
The sound rang sharp. I collapsed back, gasping, my body trembling. Cold sweat streamed down my temple, mixing with the blackened blood across my fingers.
I stared at the fracture.
Slowly, with the last of my strength, I tore away the broken wood. Dust erupted. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the gap—and beneath it…
A chest.
Its wood was rotting, partly scorched, yet whole. My bleeding fingers traced its surface, feeling the rough texture that once might have been smooth. At its front, an iron lock—old, tarnished, rusted, but still unyielding.
Without thinking, I lifted the stone again.
I struck the padlock.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
But it wasn’t the iron that broke—it was my hand.
A sharp pain burned through my palm, spreading up my entire arm. Blood flowed more freely, soaking the stone, mixing with dust and sand. I bit my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. A groan nearly escaped.
I couldn’t give up. Not now.
I tore the sleeve of my shirt, trying to wrap the wound. But my hand was too weak. The knot was loose. The cloth kept slipping. Frustration crashed into my mind, my breaths heavy, pain pressing hard against my chest.
Damn… damn… damn…
My hand shook uncontrollably. My vision blurred. The world spun, hazy, as if covered in mist.
Don’t faint… not here…
Then I felt a gust of wind and sand whipping around me.
Hot. Fierce.
I looked up. In the distance, beyond the charred skeletons of houses—
a wave of hot wind mixed with sand surged toward me.
Dust and sand rose in towering swirls.
A sandstorm.
I couldn’t faint. I couldn’t die here.
I gripped the stone again, ignoring the pain that burned to the bone. Strike after strike, I didn’t count how many times, until blood dripped from my fingers onto the padlock, mixing with the thick red liquid.
Finally—
CRACK!
The padlock loosened.
One more strike, and the old iron fell heavily to the ground.
With trembling hands, I opened the chest, blood dripping along its edges.
“Crakk…”
The lid swung open.
Inside— a sword.
The sword I had seen in my memory. Untouched by fire—its blade still gleamed beautifully, though not as brightly as under the moonlight. Its sheath, too, showed no scorch marks.
Beside it lay a black necklace, a white necklace lined with pale gold with a pendant, and a metal emblem—a shape like an open book, with a faint octagram engraved on it, unfamiliar to me.
There was also a metal bracelet. Its shine was unusual, as though the metal held many minerals within its surface.
I didn’t have time to think.
The wind was getting closer.
I stuffed the items into the torn pocket of my shirt. I held the sword tightly to my chest. Without looking back, I ran with whatever strength I had left.
Dust and sand began sweeping across the ground. My vision blurred, the roar of the sandstorm grew louder. I kept running. My body wobbled, the wound on my hand burned, blood running down my arm and fingers. But I didn’t care.
Nothing mattered now except survival.
I kept running, staggering, my steps chaotic, until finally the cave appeared—a dark hole among the slab rocks. I pushed inside, and my body collapsed immediately.
In the midst of that silence, the sound of wind flowed through the cracks in the rocks. Not just a hiss, but a long whisper, as if the night itself was speaking into my ear.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to catch my breath. But then…
Among the shadows wrinkled on the cave walls, another sound emerged.
“Ssshhh... ssshhh...”
My body tensed. I lifted my head, my back against the stone. My vision was still blurry, but I could see it—from a narrow gap in the rock wall, a pair of purple eyes pierced the darkness. Small eyes, but their courage burned like embers.
A snake.
Its scales were jet black, as if made from the shadows of the night itself. Its body was as thick as my wrist, its length impossible to guess in the darkness. The scales glistened damply under the faint moonlight slipping through the narrow cave opening.
Its tongue flicked out, sniffing the air, hissing softly.
Ssshhh…
A snake aware of my presence—a ragged, wounded, weak boy, covered in blood and sand, cornered and helpless. Its gaze didn’t blink. I couldn’t look away. My breath caught.
Panic seized my mind.
Breaths came in short gasps, my chest tight as if the world had shrunk. I fumbled the ground around me with trembling hands, searching for anything I could use. My fingers touched a stone, the size of a fist, rough and cold against my skin.
As the snake began to slither closer, its eyes flashed hunger, its black body moving silently, its tongue flicking, sensing the scent of blood on me. I lifted the stone with the last of my strength.
Without thinking, I threw the first stone from a distance before daring to get closer.
TAP!
It missed. Only struck the cave wall and bounced with a dry sound.
The snake was unfazed. It moved faster, its hissing louder now, like a creeping threat along the stone walls.
I backed up, my back pressed to the cold rock. Cold sweat soaked my brow, dripping into my eyes, stinging. My hand searched again. I found another stone—smaller, but heavy enough.
I threw again. This time, it nearly hit, grazing its tail slightly. It twisted, agile. But on my third throw…
KRAKK!
The stone struck its scales.
A loud clash.
The snake hissed sharply, coiled its body, tense, ready to strike.
No way out. No escape.
If it had to… it would be now.
As its body lunged, I met it.
My wounded left hand held its head. Cold. Rough. Its scales slick against my grip, its forked tongue nearly touching my skin.
I raised the stone in my right hand—and struck its head Twice.
BUK!
BUK!
The snake’s head slammed hard, its body writhing violently, tail whipping through the air. The lash struck my left arm, leaving bright red marks on the sore skin.
I gasped. But didn’t care.
I swung the stone again, harder.
BUK!
BUK!
The snake’s blood began to gush onto the cave floor, pitch black, merging with the wet earth. Its hissing weakened. Its body twitched slowly… then went still.
Only my ragged breaths were heard, heavy and chaotic, mixed with my pounding heart.
I threw the stone to the ground.
My hands shook, my body weak.
The sword in my arms was still wet with my own blood.
I sank down, back against the cave wall. My eyes closed, heavy breaths steaming in the cold air.
With the last strength I had, I dragged myself to a corner deep in the cave, following small passages among the jutting rough stones.
Once I felt far enough from the cave entrance, my body almost collapsed. I leaned against the cold, damp rock. Darkness slowly swallowed me.
The cold air pierced my skin, my bones. But my body was too exhausted to care.
The wounds on my hands and arms throbbed, hot and sore, blood drying mixed with dirt and sand. Yet it all felt meaningless now.
I looked up.
Gazing at the pitch-black cave ceiling, only faint glimmers of the moon outside. Tiny points of light… as if mocking this world.
My mind spun, hazy.
My mother’s face slowly appeared in my memory. Her smile.
Her embrace.
Her whispers calming me on restless nights.
And the house…
Our home.
Which now was only piles of charcoal and ash.
Unconsciously, warm tears flowed. Soaking my dirty cheeks, mixed with dust and scars.
I stayed still. No sound of crying. Only the suffocating weight pressing on my chest.
The night wind drifted, softly whistling through the cave cracks, carrying faint sounds.
I let my eyelids close.
My body sank into the cold and the wounds.
Consciousness slowly faded.
And that night… I fell asleep.
Amid the smell of blood, dust, and the whisper of the wind.
Alone.