Crimson Between Flames
Night fell over Nareth Hollow like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The forest that had seemed alive only hours ago now felt oppressive, the silver-veined trees casting long, menacing shadows. Alan sat near the hut's door, his body rigid, eyes fixed on the flicker of firelight from a small lantern. His shadow twisted unnaturally beneath the pale moons, coiling and writhing as if it had a life of its own.
Then came the screams.
At first, a distant wail, like wind through dead branches. Then another—closer. Panic erupted, echoing from tree to tree. Torches ignited the sky in angry orange fury. Smoke clawed its way through the air, thick and choking, carrying the acrid scent of burning wood. Villagers fled, some crying, some screaming, clutching whatever they could grab. Metal clashed in the distance, the sound harsh and terrifying.
Edward burst into the hut, his face pale and eyes wide with fear. "They're here! Beast King's soldiers!"
Alan's chest tightened. He had read about soldiers, about wars that devastated kingdoms. But the reality—seeing children screamed at, mothers clutching infants, flames consuming homes—it was a terror that cut deeper than any story.
Outside, chaos roared. Soldiers kicked in doors, dragging people into the streets. Screams tore through the night as fire raced along the roots of the massive silver-veined trees, licking at the homes carved into them. Alan froze, rooted by shock, until a horrifying sight stopped his heart entirely: a soldier had grabbed a small child, tossing him toward the flames.
Time slowed.
Alan's body reacted before his mind caught up. The shadow beneath him surged outward like liquid night. Jagged claws shot from the ground, lashing violently, tearing at the soldier and hurling him into a tree with bone-crunching force. Alan gasped, the effort wrenching pain through his arms.
His vision split. The scar on his hand burned like molten iron. His shadow roared inside him, untamed and raw, thrashing wildly. Energy rippled across the ground as he struggled to contain it, sweat stinging his eyes. His body was pushed to the brink, teetering between control and collapse.
And then he fell to his knees, gasping, trembling.
Through the haze, he saw her.
A figure moved like wind through flame, unyielding and precise. A crimson cloak rippled around her like living fire, untouched by the surrounding blaze. Her blade sang through the air, striking with terrifying precision. Three soldiers fell in a single breath, their bodies crumpling to the ground. Alan could hardly blink fast enough to track her movements.
Kaelira.
Her presence was overwhelming. Strength radiated from her—not reckless or chaotic, but measured, calculated, unshakable. Each movement had a purpose; each strike carried weight. She was fire contained within steel, unstoppable yet elegant. Alan could only watch, mesmerised and fearful, as she carved a path through the enemy.
Meanwhile, the village descended into further chaos. The villagers ran blindly, shrieking. Children clung to their mothers, some too young to understand, others wide-eyed with terror. From a distance, a strange, undulating shadow rose above the trees. Alan caught a glimpse of it—a serpentine figure, long and sinuous, covered in scales that shimmered faintly in the firelight. Its eyes glowed faintly, yellow and calculating. Velmoria.
Alan's stomach dropped. The tales he had heard in whispers were real—Velmoria, the mythical guardian serpent of Velmoria, rarely seen by humans, its presence always a harbinger of catastrophe. It moved through the forest with unnatural grace, its head disappearing into smoke and flame, yet somehow surveying the chaos below. He didn't understand its intent. Protector? Observer? Predator?
Edward's shouts broke his reverie. "Alan! Watch your back! They're coming this way!"
Alan turned, shadow claws ready, and met a squad of soldiers rushing toward him, weapons raised. His shadow lashed out, the tendrils of darkness slicing through armour and bone. They fell, screaming, but more rushed forward. His power surged and retreated, leaving him panting and weak.
Inside the hut, Edward's mother stirred, coughing from the smoke. Her frail form trembled as she tried to rise. "Edward…" Her voice was weak, almost lost amid the roar of chaos outside.
Edward fought his way back to her, tears streaking his soot-covered face. "Mother! You have to stay down!"
"They'll die," she whispered. "If we run… we leave the village… the children…" Her eyes flickered toward the window, toward the inferno outside. "No… not all… but…"
Edward shook his head violently. "We can't stop it! You'll die trying!"
Her hand, delicate and pale, reached for his cheek. "Strength… isn't steel… It's what you carry here," she said, tapping her heart. "Courage… compassion… the will to rise even when all falls…" Her voice faltered, and she coughed, blood staining the hem of her gown. "I am… proud… of you…"
Edward sobbed, clutching her as if holding her close could tether her soul to this world. "But I wasn't fast enough! I couldn't—"
"You came back," she interrupted softly. "You protected them… more than any sword could. Promise me… protect not with steel… but with heart."
"I promise," he whispered, voice breaking, tears streaking down his face.
Her lips curved into a fragile, fleeting smile. "Then… I fear not… the end…"
Her hand slipped from his grasp, cold and still. Edward let out a strangled wail, collapsing against her. Alan stayed silent, watching, heart heavy. Even as his shadow flared outward, cutting down more soldiers, he could not quiet the grief in the room.
Outside, Kaelira finished her sweep. The last soldier fell, screaming, then silence—except for the crackling fire and distant cries of survivors. Alan's gaze lifted to the sky. Smoke and ash twisted into strange shapes, and the faint glow of Velmoria's scales reflected like dying stars. The serpent had vanished before he could fully see it.
The village was devastated. Homes were charred, roots burned, lanterns shattered. Survivors staggered into the open, staring at the destruction, their faces pale with shock. Some whispered prayers; others could only weep.
Alan's mind churned. Strength wasn't measured in swords or shadows—it was measured in the will to act, to stand when everything falls apart. Edward's mother had understood this. Kaelira, in her relentless precision, understood it. And now, Alan realised, he had only begun to grasp the depths of what it meant to survive in Arathen.
Edward finally lifted his head, blood and soot streaking his face, eyes red but determined. "We… we need to help the survivors," he said hoarsely. "We can't… let this end here."
Alan nodded slowly. His shadow twitched, restless. He had survived chaos before, but tonight had been different. Tonight, he had glimpsed power, mercy, and loss all entwined—and he understood, in a way he hadn't before, that strength without heart was meaningless.
The fire burned, relentless and consuming, but somewhere amid the ruins, the first threads of resilience began to form. Survivors pulled together. Children were led to safety. Villagers began to douse smouldering roots. And Alan, standing among them, felt the stirrings of something deeper than fear: purpose.
Velmoria's presence, the shadow surge, the fiery sword of Kaelira, and Edward's desperate courage all whispered one truth: Arathen was a world of darkness and flame, yes—but in that crucible, the will of humans, of the living, could shine brighter than any fire.
Alan exhaled slowly. He would need more than courage to survive what lay ahead, but for the first time, he felt the faint, fragile certainty that he could stand, even in the heart of chaos.
And as the night deepened, and flames painted the village in crimson, he understood a truth Edward's mother had tried to teach: strength without heart is nothing, but to endure is strength, but to act against wrong… is courage