The sky above was a dead grey, choked with black clouds that churned like boiling smoke. No birds sang. No wind stirred. The air was heavy—oppressive—filled with the stench of scorched flesh and something far worse… something twisted.
A group of travelers moved cautiously along the forest trail, silent but alert. The leader, Aric, a Sword Master in worn armor, held up a fist and brought the group to a stop.
"We're close," he said, glancing at the black mist curling above the trees. "Eldenfell should be just ahead."
But something was wrong. The closer they drew to the village, the more unnatural the air became. The forest trees were blackened, not by fire—but by corruption. The earth was dry, cracked, lifeless. As if something had sucked the very soul from the land.
Then, they saw it.
Eldenfell… or what remained of it.
The village looked as though it had been swallowed by a storm of shadows. Houses were not just destroyed—they were hollowed out, crumbled as though rotted from the inside. The sky above the village pulsed with lingering malevolent energy. Ethereal, whispering shapes hovered in the corners of vision—remnants of consumed souls.
Liora covered her mouth, tears in her eyes. "By the gods…"
"Who could've done this?" Sylen asked, though fear already stained her voice. "No beast could leave this behind."
"No beast," Aric said grimly. "Only a demonic soul sword master. I've seen this before… it's soul harvesting."
The villagers had no chance.
Corpses lay crumpled in the streets, some turned to ash, others twisted as if their souls had been torn from their bodies mid-scream. Children. Mothers. Elders. All lost to the blade of evil.
But then—Kale froze. "Shhh… listen!"
A faint sound.
A shallow breath.
"Ha… hn… ha… hn…"
Behind the ruined remains of a home—once a warm cottage now gutted by darkness—they found them.
Two adults and a girl, their eyes empty and glazed in death. Their bodies were scorched with faint dark markings—evidence of a soul-rending technique. But between them, huddled beneath their cooling corpses… was a child.
A boy.
His white hair was matted with blood and grime. His small body trembled with each uneven breath. His clothes torn, skin burned, but still alive.
He didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
He just breathed. "Ha… hn… ha… hn…"
Like a soul barely clinging to its shell.
Liora fell to her knees beside him, tears now streaming. "He… he survived this…?"
"No," Aric said softly, kneeling. "He endured it."
The boy's eyes remained closed, his lips parted in silence. He hadn't passed out—but he wasn't awake either. His mind was somewhere deeper, trapped in a nightmare.
"They protected him," Sylen whispered, gazing at the dead family's positioning. "They gave their lives to shield him… and yet he still breathes."
"This child…" Aric murmured, his hand gently lifting the boy's frail form. "There's something about him."
No one spoke.
They just stood in the aftermath of horror, carrying the only survivor of the massacre. A child who had watched his entire world collapse in blood and silence.
The sky above them didn't snow.
It wept ashes.
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