The sun had barely crested the jagged peaks of Kharun when the first scream shattered the morning.
Araz froze, his hands buried in the dough his mother had set him to knead. The air in the Zoryan village smelled of warm bread and dew-kissed grass, but now a new scent crept in—smoke, sharp and bitter. His mother, Lira, dropped her clay bowl, her eyes darting to the horizon.
"Araz, hide," she whispered, her voice a blade of urgency.
He didn't understand, not yet. At twelve, Araz knew the songs of his people, the rhythm of their harvest dances, the weight of a hoe in his hands. He did not know war. But when the hoofbeats thundered closer, when the black banners of the Varnesh appeared like storm clouds over the hill, he felt the world tilt.
His father, Toren, seized a pitchfork from the barn, shouting for the men to form a line. "Protect the granary!" he roared.
Araz's legs trembled as Lira shoved him toward the root cellar behind their hut. "Stay quiet, my heart," she said, her hands cupping his face. She pressed a carved wooden pendant into his palm—a Zoryan sun, its edges worn smooth by her touch. "Whatever happens, you live."
The cellar door slammed shut, plunging Araz into darkness.
Above, the world burned.
The sounds were unbearable. Shouts in the Zoryan tongue—desperate, broken. The guttural bark of the Varnesh riders. The crack of fire as it caught thatched roofs. Araz pressed his palms against his ears, but the noises still found him: a baby's wail, then silence; the shriek of a horse rearing; his father's voice shouting in defiance, cut short by the clash of steel.
Tears blurred his vision though he saw nothing in the blackness. He curled into a ball, clutching the pendant so tightly its edges dug into his skin. His breath came in shallow bursts. The root cellar smelled of earth and onions, but smoke seeped in through the cracks, thickening with every moment.
He did not know how long he stayed there. Time dissolved into sound: the roar of flames, the screams that dwindled, the groan of collapsing beams. Then, silence—worse than the noise, for it meant nothing living remained.
When at last Araz pushed the trapdoor open, the world above had changed.
The morning sky, once pale and clear, was choked with smoke. His village, the only home he had ever known, was ash. Roofs sagged into embers, livestock lay slain in the streets, and the air hummed with the acrid stench of burned grain. The well where he had fetched water that very dawn now yawned like a mouth amid rubble.
His father's pitchfork lay abandoned near the granary, its wooden shaft snapped in half, dark with blood. A body lay not far from it—broad shoulders, familiar boots. Araz staggered forward, heart hammering, but stopped short. He could not bear to see his father's face.
He turned instead to the hut, or what remained of it. Charred beams leaned precariously, the roof caved in. Near the doorway he found a shape he knew—his mother, Lira, curled protectively over a small bundle. The bundle was his sister, Mina. Neither moved.
Something inside Araz cracked, though no sound came out. His throat burned with unshed screams. He wanted to run to them, shake them, beg them to wake—but the pendant in his hand grew hot, as if his mother's last words lived within it: Whatever happens, you live.
So he stepped back, tears streaking his soot-stained cheeks. He did not say goodbye. He was not strong enough.
A shout carried across the ruins. Araz's head snapped up. Varnesh voices, closer than he thought.
Panic surged. He dropped to his knees, crawling behind the half-collapsed wall of a neighbor's hut. Peering through the cracks, he saw them: three raiders, their armor blackened with soot, searching the wreckage for survivors or spoils. One carried a torch still burning; another had a bloody sack slung across his back that dripped as he walked.
Araz's stomach turned. His hands shook so violently he nearly dropped the pendant. He wanted to run, but movement would draw their eyes. Instead he pressed himself against the wall, shallow breaths scraping his throat.
The men passed within arm's reach, their boots crunching over ash. One muttered in the harsh, guttural cadence of the Varnesh tongue. Another laughed. Araz caught a glimpse of the torchbearer's face—scarred, eyes cold.
They did not see him.
When they moved on, Araz waited until their voices faded. Then he crept toward the edge of the village, every step a thunderclap in his ears. Beyond the ruins lay the forest, dark and tangled. The safety of shadows. Without looking back, he ran.
The forest swallowed him whole.
Branches whipped at his arms as he stumbled through undergrowth, his breath ragged, chest burning. He did not know where he was going—only that he had to be anywhere but the village.
When at last his legs gave out, he collapsed beside a stream. His reflection wavered in the water: wide brown eyes rimmed with red, cheeks streaked with ash and tears, hair matted with soot. He looked like a ghost of himself.
His stomach growled, reminding him he had not eaten since dawn. He cupped his hands in the stream, drinking greedily. The cold water stung his throat but steadied him.
For a moment he lay back on the mossy bank, staring through the canopy. Memories came unbidden: his father teaching him to sharpen a hoe; his mother's lullabies for Mina; the sound of laughter during harvest feasts. Each memory was a knife.
A twig snapped.
Araz bolted upright. Across the stream, a man stood watching him—a Varnesh, tall and broad-shouldered, with a curved blade at his hip. His eyes locked onto Araz, narrowing.
Panic shot through the boy. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the wet stones. The man shouted, leaping into the water, splashing forward.
Araz ran.
The forest became a blur of green and brown. Roots clawed at his feet, branches clawed at his face. Behind him, the sound of pursuit thundered closer—boots, splashes, the ragged breath of the man chasing him.
Araz's lungs burned. His legs screamed for rest. But fear drove him faster.
Then, ahead, he saw it: a fallen oak, its trunk hollowed with rot. He dove into the cavity, pressing himself flat against the damp wood. His chest heaved, each breath a roar in his ears.
The Varnesh tracker crashed past, blade drawn, scanning the undergrowth. He paused near the trunk, so close Araz could see the mud dripping from his boots. The man sniffed the air like a wolf.
Araz bit his lip until he tasted blood, forcing himself not to breathe. Seconds stretched into eternity.
At last, the man cursed in his tongue and moved on, disappearing into the thickets.
Araz stayed hidden long after the sounds faded. When he finally crawled from the log, his body trembled uncontrollably. He collapsed onto the forest floor, clutching the pendant in both hands.
"Father… Mother… Mina…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'll live. I promise."
The forest swallowed his sobs.
Night fell, and with it came cold. Araz huddled beneath the hollow oak, shivering. Hunger gnawed at him, but fear was stronger. He dared not light a fire. The darkness pressed close, filled with the hoots of owls and the rustle of unseen creatures.
Sleep came in fitful bursts. Dreams of fire and screams jolted him awake again and again. Each time, he gripped the pendant, grounding himself in its weight.
By dawn, exhaustion weighed heavier than grief. But still he rose, stumbling deeper into the wild. Each step carried him further from the ruins of his village, yet the memory clung like smoke.
Araz did not know where he was going, only that he had nowhere left to go.
But in the quiet of the waking forest, one truth burned within him: he was alone.
Alone, and alive.
For now.