"Avenge us."
The voice came from behind—familiar, sorrowful, and chilling. Auren turned his head slowly, knowing full well what he would find. Darkness surrounded him, thick and absolute, and yet from the pitch-black void emerged a dreadful scene.
A pool of blood shimmered faintly at his back. Then, from its surface, small hands broke through. One after another. Tiny fingers, tiny arms, blood-slicked heads with lifeless eyes. Infants—newborns—crawling from the crimson pool with harrowing cries.
They dragged themselves forward, slow and eerie, as if climbing out from the very depths of death. Blood clung to their delicate skin like a second birth. Their wails echoed in every direction, a cacophony of desperation and grief that struck deeper than any blade.
Auren stood unmoving as they reached him—dozens of babies with torn flesh, crushed limbs, and open wounds. The faces of the damned.
But he did not recoil.
He had seen them before.
