Selwyn was immersed in triumph and purpose as he stood in the middle of the raging flames that surrounded him.
Yet, he felt as if something was wrong, he felt as if the village were in a deep silence.
He looked around, trying to find the answer to what he was missing.
''Anyone there? Hello?'' he called out.
Then, a moment of realisation hit him as he called out for anyone listening through the roars of the flames.
They were dead.
The villagers of Amont were dead.
Every single one except Selwyn himself were dead.
Yet Selwyn could not bring himself to believe it to be true.
He turned and dashed at astonishing speed towards the place that had once been his home, refusing to believe the worst.
It was in ruin, torn apart and annihilated by the mysterious yet violent dark forces that had attacked his village.
He could not find any trace of his mother, so he searched and called out her name repeatedly.
He searched for about an hour until he found something truly dreadful.
The sheer weight of this cold, unforgiving truth washed over him like a violent storm in his mind, for now the worst had happened.
His mother had been killed.
Brutally killed, as her head was severed and barely recognisable, and her body was badly mutilated and bloody.
He kneeled down next to her.
''Why...'' he sobbed.
''WHY!'' he shouted in grief and despair, as if expecting a reply, but none came.
He was now alone, truly alone. No one to comfort or nourish him. No one that loved him. No one to help him in times of need. No one that knew that he even existed.
''I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.'' were his thoughts then.
If only he had saved her sooner. If only he didn't leave the house that day. If only.. if only he had made it home sooner..
He had sunk into the cycle of guilt and grief, blaming himself for his inability to act.
But beneath all that grief hid a bitter resentment.
Resentment because of the bitter unfairness of it.
His mother was the most kind person there was, and the person least deserving of this would be her.
Why did she of all people deserve this fate?
She had given him support, and she was kind to anyone and everyone she encountered.
Why. Why did she deserve this fate.
The fire of hatred grew ever stronger, stronger than the flames that roared behind Selwyn as he clenched his fists in anger and rage that was slowly consuming him.
He punched the ground in anger and surprisingly, the ground beneath him cracked and left a small crater where his fists had landed.
'What the...'
Selwyn looked closer to examine it, for he had forgotten about the conversation he had with the figure in his rage and grief.
'How did I get this strength?' he asked, knowing he wouldn't get an answer.
He traced back his memories to the few moments where he had the conversation with the cloaked figure.
'7 artefacts' he muttered repeatedly, trying to decipher its meaning.
Then he remembered.
'The dreams!' he exclaimed out loud.
He could remember seeing gloves surrounded by ornate patterns, laid down on a pedestal while two clocks encompassed either side of it.
'I need to find that, but how..?'
Now he was stumped. He could remember there being schools of magic in more urban areas, and he thought maybe they could teach him, but he was alone, and in lack of food or water to get there, as the big cities were miles away.
But he put the task aside for now, as at this moment in time, he thought he should mourn.
He gazed down upon his mother's severed head and body, the grief returning to him but he was more composed this time, rage not consuming him as it did before, as the task forced upon him by destiny required him to compose himself.
He moved around, looking for a shovel.
He searched until he found a shovel, which was quite rusty, but he thought it would do.
He moved towards an empty space, and struck the ground with his shovel.
He knew all too well he could blow a hole in the floor with his newfound power, but the manual work and toil proved more significance, as it was not quick, simple and insignificant, it was meaningful.
He struck the ground again and again and again, carving out a hole in the soil.
By the time he was finished, the sun was setting, painting the sky in a deep orange across the horizon.
He gently picked up the pieces of his mother's corpse and lay them to rest in the hole, which he now put to refilling with dirt.
Once he had finished, he gazed down upon the grave, his goal now clear and resolute.
He would find those artefacts.
And do whatever it took to avenge her.
He averted his gaze unto the horizon, and the sun had set, letting the world rest in gentle darkness.
He gathered what was left of his belongings, which was barely anything, as the house had been caught up in flames long before.
He searched the village, looking for a cloak to keep warm, as travelling in the night would be freezing, and it was autumn season so he may die from hypothermia due to having no warmth.
Once he had acquired the essential belongings to survive, he set off, but paused to look back.
He looked at the now scorched village, and remembered his loss.
He had won - but at what cost?