The rain fell hard over Ravenholm, a city where thunder often rolled like a curse. On Ironvale Street, in a cramped apartment that smelled of damp wood and broken dreams, the Cross family was at war with itself.
Ethan Cross sat pressed against the hallway wall, his small hands trembling against his knees. From the living room came the sound of his father's voice — Richard Cross, a man whose soul had drowned long ago in cheap liquor.
"You think you can defy me, Helen?" Richard thundered, his speech slurred, his body staggering. "After all I've given you, after all I've suffered—"
Glass shattered. The air thickened with dread.
Beside Ethan stood his sister, Clara Cross, older by five years. Her face was pale, her jaw tight, but her hands were steady as she pulled her younger brother close.
"Stay behind me," she whispered.
But Ethan couldn't stay still. He moved toward the half-open door, his eyes drawn to the chaos inside.
Their mother, Helen Cross, stood cornered, her body bruised, her eyes swollen from nights of tears. Richard loomed before her, gripping a bottle of beer by the neck. He smashed it against the table, turning it into a jagged weapon.
"Tonight," he growled, his words dripping with venom, "you learn what happens when you shame me."
Helen tried to back away, but the rain had leaked through the cracked window, slicking the floor beneath her feet.
The bottle swung down. She grabbed his arm. They struggled. And then—
The jagged glass pierced Richard's chest.
He froze, eyes wide with disbelief. His breath caught, then left him in a wet gasp as blood spilled down his shirt. The bottle slipped from Helen's trembling hand and shattered across the tiles.
Richard collapsed.
"No… no, God, no…" Helen cried, her hands shaking, crimson staining her palms. "I didn't mean to—I didn't—"
Clara rushed into the room, pulling Ethan behind her. Her breath came sharp, her eyes wild, as she took in the sight of her father's body sprawled across the floor.
Ethan clung to her arm, staring at the blood with silent horror.
The neighbors, drawn by the shouts and the storm, were already crowding outside. Their voices rose in a hungry murmur. The law of Ravenholm did not favor mercy; it favored blood.
Moments later, the door burst open. Officers stormed in, weapons raised, faces grim. They seized Helen by the arms as she screamed her innocence.
"It was an accident! He was going to kill me! Please, listen!"
But the words fell like rain against stone.
Dragged through the doorway, her hair clinging to her tear-streaked face, Helen turned one last time toward her children. Her eyes, broken yet fierce, found Ethan and Clara.
"Do not let the darkness take you," she whispered.
And then she was gone.
Clara's nails dug into Ethan's shoulder as they stood in silence, watching their mother vanish into the storm. The boy's chest burned with terror; the girl's with rage.
In that moment, in that cursed city of Ravenholm, two souls were broken. One would learn to endure. The other would learn to destroy.
Chapter Two – The Gallows
The square of Ravenholm was alive with whispers. Cobblestones glistened with last night's rain, and the morning air carried the scent of iron and smoke.
At the center stood the gallows — tall, wooden, merciless.
Ethan Cross clutched his sister Clara's hand as they were shoved through the crowd. Faces surrounded them: neighbors, strangers, hungry for spectacle. In Ravenholm, blood was theater, and justice was swift.
Their mother, Helen Cross, knelt in chains upon the platform. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, her hair tangled like a broken crown. She looked nothing like the woman who had once hummed lullabies in the quiet corners of their ruined home.
The Magistrate read the verdict aloud. His voice was cold, his words sharp:
"Guilty of murder. Guilty of treason against the sanctity of the family. By the decree of Ravenholm, Helen Cross shall be put to death."
Helen's eyes scanned the crowd, frantic, searching. And then they found her children.
Clara lifted her chin, refusing to cry. Her grip on Ethan's hand tightened like iron. Ethan, smaller, shaking, could only stare. His chest heaved, and yet no sound left his lips.
"Clara… Ethan…" Helen's voice cracked, but she forced the words through the noise. "Remember me… not like this. Remember my love—"
The executioner stepped forward. His mask was black, his axe gleaming beneath the pale sun.
The crowd roared.
Ethan's knees buckled. Clara held him upright, whispering, "Don't look. Don't look."
But Ethan looked.
The blade fell.
A scream tore through his throat, a sound swallowed by the cheers of the mob. Clara dragged him back into the sea of bodies as their mother's head rolled into a basket. The people clapped, as though a monster had been slain.
Yet in Ethan's mind, only one truth remained:
They had killed the only light he had ever known.
That night, in the corner of a room that no longer felt like home, Ethan sat in silence. Clara's arms were wrapped around him, her own tears falling onto his hair.
"We survive," she whispered into the dark. "Do you hear me, Ethan? We survive."
But Ethan did not answer. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. For in his young heart, something far darker than grief was beginning to take root.
Chapter Three – The Binding
A year passed in Ravenholm, but for Ethan, time moved like a blade through flesh — slow, merciless, unforgettable.
The image of his mother's last breath clung to him like a curse.
Clara, now seventeen, had grown quieter, harder. Where once her laughter had filled their broken home, now only silence remained.
But Ravenholm did not care for grief.
The city demanded order, and for a girl like Clara — fatherless, motherless — there was only one fate. Marriage.
The arrangement was swift. No consent was asked. The Cross name carried shame, and the Council of Elders decided the only way to bury that shame was to bind Clara to a man of "respectable standing."
That man was Victor Hale.
Victor was older, broad-shouldered, with a smile that never reached his eyes. He came from money, and money in Ravenholm bought forgiveness, bought respect, bought anything.
The wedding was not a celebration. It was a transaction. Clara wore a dress too big for her frame, her face pale as marble. Ethan stood beside her, forced into fine clothes, his fists clenched until his nails cut into his skin.
When the vows were spoken, Clara's eyes never once lifted to meet Victor's.
The first night in Victor's house told Ethan everything.
The shouting. The crash of glass. Clara's muffled cry behind locked doors.
Ethan pressed his ear to the wood, trembling, helpless. He wanted to burst through, to tear Victor apart with his bare hands. But he was only a boy.
The next morning, Clara's face was bruised. Yet when Ethan asked, she smiled — a smile so fragile it could shatter with a whisper.
"Don't worry, little brother," she said softly, brushing his hair back. "I can endure this."
But Ethan saw the truth. Each day, Clara's spirit dimmed, her body carrying new marks, her voice growing thinner.
One evening, the storm returned. Thunder growled above Ravenholm, the air thick with rage. Inside Victor's chambers, the violence was worse than ever.
Ethan could not bear it. His hands shook as he gripped a kitchen knife, his breath shallow, his heart a hammer in his chest.
The door burst open. Victor loomed over Clara, fist raised, eyes burning with drunken fury.
And then—
Steel met flesh.
Victor gasped, his body stiffening as the blade slid between his ribs. His roar choked into silence, his weight collapsing to the ground.
Ethan stood frozen, knife in hand, blood warm on his skin. His eyes darted to Clara.
But Clara stepped forward, her face set with a grim, unbreakable resolve. She pulled the knife from Victor's body, her hands already red.
When the guards stormed in, she did not hesitate.
"It was me," Clara said. Her voice steady, final. "I killed him."
Ethan shook his head violently, falling to his knees. "No! It was me! Please—"
But Clara silenced him with a single glance. A glance filled with love, sorrow, and sacrifice.
The guards dragged her away. Ethan's screams echoed down the stone halls.
That night, for the second time, Ravenholm raised the axe.
Clara's blood stained the earth where their mother's had fallen.
And Ethan Cross, broken and hollow, watched as the last piece of his family was taken.
In that moment, the hatred inside him found its true shape.
He would never forgive. He would never forget.
And one day, the men of Ravenholm would pay.