Kalious awoke to silence. Ash coated his tongue. His chest ached, but the pain was already fading. He blinked against the blur, the shape of burned trees dancing above him.
He sat up slowly. His leg should've been broken, but it wasn't. There was barely a scar. His skin was marred by soot, but whole. Across the clearing, Malious was already standing, shirtless, bruised, blood-soaked but alive.
Only one elder remained, the oldest man, Irius, now bedridden and barely breathing. One of their foster siblings had died in the attack. The rest were scattered, wounded.
Malious stood at the edge of the ruin, axe buried in the mud beside him. His fists were clenched tight enough to draw blood.
"I swear," he whispered, voice as low as the grave. "No one will ever hurt our family again. Not while I breathe."
Kalious limped to his side and stood beside him.
"And I swear," Kalious said quietly, "that we'll find out what he was. And we'll bury him in the earth he tried to burn."
Their oath was not dramatic.
It was final.