The village square was chaos.
Flames devoured the market stalls, turning wood to ash and smoke. Villagers screamed as shadows darted between the firelight—men with swords, their faces hidden by cloth, laughing as they looted and burned.
Bandits.
Kael's steps faltered as the heat washed over him. His body trembled, memories clawing at his mind—his family's cottage engulfed in fire, his mother's voice crying out, the burning pain that had never left his skin.
He almost turned back. Almost.
Then he heard it: a child's scream.
Without thinking, Kael ran forward.
A small boy clung to the steps of the well, sobbing as a burning cart toppled nearby. Kael lunged, scooping the boy into his arms just as the flames collapsed behind them.
"You're safe," Kael said, voice steady despite his pounding heart. He set the boy down and pushed him toward the square's fountain, where frightened villagers huddled. "Stay low. Don't move until it's over."
The boy's wide eyes lingered on Kael's scarred face. For a heartbeat, Kael braced for the usual fear.
But instead, the boy whispered, "T-thank you."
Kael's chest tightened. There was no time to reply.
"Oi!" one of the bandits snarled, spotting him. "What's this? Some freak playin' hero?"
Three men advanced, blades glinting in the firelight.
Kael swallowed hard. His hands were empty, save for a broken spear shaft discarded near a stall. He grabbed it, the wood rough in his grip. His body screamed at him to flee, but he planted his feet.
If I run, more people will suffer. If I fight… maybe they'll have a chance.
The first bandit charged. Kael sidestepped, jamming the spear shaft into his gut. The man collapsed with a grunt. The other two closed in, their blades flashing.
Steel cut across Kael's arm, pain blooming hot, but he gritted his teeth. He swung the broken spear like a staff, striking one across the jaw. The last man raised his sword for a killing blow—
—but Kael thrust forward, catching him square in the chest and shoving with all his strength. The bandit stumbled backward into the fire, screaming as the flames consumed him.
Kael's breath came in ragged gasps. His arm burned. His body shook. But the villagers were watching now—watching him, the scarred boy they had always shunned, standing alone against armed men.
"Get up!" Kael shouted at them, voice raw. "This is your home! Don't let them take it!"
For a moment, silence. Then one of the farmers, clutching a pitchfork, stepped forward. Another man followed with a hammer. Soon, more villagers rose, courage sparked by Kael's defiance.
The tide began to turn.
But as Kael lifted his weapon again, a shadow fell over him.
A massive man strode from the flames, clad in rough iron armor, an axe as tall as Kael slung over his shoulder. His voice was a low growl.
"So the rumors were true," the bandit leader said, eyes narrowing on Kael's scarred face. "The cursed child lives."
Kael tightened his grip on the broken spear, sweat dripping down his brow.
This was no ordinary bandit. This was a monster in human skin.
And Kael would have to face him.