The storm raged that night. Rain lashed against the windows like a thousand angry hands, and thunder rattled the wooden walls of the house. Six-year-old Camsin lay awake on her straw bed, clutching the thin blanket to her chest. She wasn't afraid of storms. No, what scared her were the voices downstairs.
Her father's voice — deep, steady, usually full of warmth — now cracked with desperation.
"You said it was only a deal… you promised me it wouldn't reach my family!"
Another voice answered, low and venomous, like a snake coiled in the shadows. Camsin couldn't make out the words, but she felt the danger in them.
She crept from her bed, bare feet whispering across the cold floor. From the top of the stairs, she peeked down.
Her father stood in the middle of the room, his shirt half torn, blood already staining his side. Three men surrounded him. Their faces were half-hidden in the dark, but one stepped forward — tall, with a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. His eyes burned like cold fire.
"You should have stayed silent, Arlan," the scarred man hissed. "Now your daughter will grow up knowing her father died a coward."
Before Camsin could even understand what was happening, the blade flashed. Her father staggered, coughing blood, eyes turning toward the stairs — toward her. He saw her. Their gazes locked in that final moment.
"Run…" he whispered.
Then he fell.
Camsin's scream tore through the house, but the storm outside swallowed it whole.