Casting long shadows over the hills.
Lycas had been walking for hours, his boots caked in mud, his stomach growling with every step. The endless wilderness was silent—too silent.Then, faintly, he smelled smoke.He followed it, pushing through the tall grass until the trees opened to a wide valley. What he saw froze him in place.A village—small and humble—lay shattered before him. Roofs torn apart, homes blackened by fire, and the air heavy with ash. The fields around it were trampled flat, as if crushed beneath the weight of something monstrous.
Lycas stepped forward carefully, his voice trembling.
"Hello? Is… anyone here?"
No answer. Only the creak of broken wood and the hiss of the wind.
Then came a faint cough.
Lycas turned sharply, grabbing a fallen branch. From behind the ruins of a barn, a hunched figure appeared—an old man, wrapped in a tattered cloak. His beard was gray and matted, his hands trembling as he leaned on a cane.
"You shouldn't have come," the man rasped. "This place is dead."
Lycas lowered the branch but didn't step closer. "What happened?"
The old man's eyes—pale and haunted—lifted to the horizon.
"The Demon Lord Valcaron. He sent his army here… burned it to the ground. Said our people refused his mark."
Lycas frowned. "A demon lord? Why destroy an entire village?"
"Because he can," the man whispered bitterly. "Because he feeds on fear. He claims this world, piece by piece. The strong kneel. The weak burn."
Lycas looked around. In the distance, a few survivors moved quietly—repairing walls, gathering what was left. Children hid behind doors with hollow eyes.
He clenched his fists. "There has to be someone fighting back."
The man nodded slowly and reached into his torn cloak, pulling out a folded parchment.
"There is. The Royal Capital of Solaria still stands. The King's army resists Valcaron… for now."
He handed Lycas the map.
Lines and symbols marked the terrain—rivers, forests, roads. And at the center, a single name circled in dark ink: Solaria.
"Far," the man said with a dry laugh. "And dangerous. But if you've got the courage or a death wish—it's the only place left with hope."
Lycas looked up. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from something else—purpose.
He folded the map carefully. "Thank you. I'll go."
The old man gave a weak smile. "Then may the old gods walk with you, stranger. The path ahead is cruel."
As Lycas turned to leave, he glanced back at the ruined homes.
Smoke curled into the sky, and a single thought burned in his mind:
If this world had fallen to darkness, then someone had to rise to bring it back.
And maybe—just maybe—that someone was him.