The sun rose over the small village of Florentia, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink—a spectacle that Marcus Antonius, at sixteen years old, rarely stopped to admire. For him, the sunrise was merely the signal of another monotonous day working in his father's forge—or worse, a reminder of the emptiness he felt when observing the world.
"God," he thought, as he hammered a piece of still-cold metal, "if He exists, He's either asleep or simply doesn't care."
Florentia wasn't a wealthy village, but it was peaceful—or at least it had been. The fertile fields nearby provided sustenance, the river that wound its way close by brought fresh water, and his family's forge was the beating heart of the local economy, crafting tools and repairing weapons for the few travelers who ventured that far.
Marcus had two inseparable friends: Lena, a girl with curious eyes and a smile bright enough to pierce even his gloom, and Theron, a sturdy and loyal young man who, unlike Marcus, always saw the good in things. They often met under the old oak tree in the village square after work. It was there that Marcus vented his frustrations, while Lena tried in vain to convince him of the world's beauty, and Theron simply listened, offering quiet support.
"Marcus, you should stop complaining so much," Lena had said the night before, as they watched the first stars appear in the twilight. "The world isn't so bad. Look at the stars, the moon… isn't it magnificent?"
Marcus snorted, tossing a pebble into the distance. "Magnificent? Where was the magnificence when the plague took Elias's family last year? Where was God when the bandits attacked the supply caravan and left our stores empty? If He exists, He's a whimsical artist who delights in human suffering."
Theron, sharpening a small knife, muttered, "Maybe they're tests, Marcus. To strengthen our faith."
"Tests?" Marcus laughed bitterly. "I think I've been tested enough. And my faith… well, my faith is in iron, fire, and my own hands. They build, they repair, they keep us alive."
Lena just shook her head, a trace of sadness in her eyes. She had always hoped Marcus might see the world differently—that he might find the peace she and Theron felt in their simple faith. Marcus, however, seemed determined to resist any idea of a higher power, choosing instead to believe in the control he thought he held over his own fate. He also harbored a quiet affection for Lena, something he had never said aloud but showed through small gestures—like always making sure she got home safely before he left for his own.
That day, the noise of the forge and the hypnotic rhythm of hammering could barely mask the strange stillness hanging over Florentia. It was a heavy silence—different, unsettling. Marcus felt a chill run down his spine, a premonition he dismissed as foolishness. He was focused on forging the blade of a sword when a sharp, piercing scream split the air, followed by others filled with terror.
He dropped his hammer and ran outside. What he saw froze his heart. In the village square, where laughter and chatter once filled the air, now hung a thick, dark mist—from which shapeless creatures emerged. They were monsters of shadow, like those travelers sometimes whispered about, but no one in Florentia had ever believed such tales. Their forms were fluid, spectral, and their eyes glowed with a sinister, crimson light. They moved with terrifying speed—tearing through homes, smashing stalls, and, most horrifying of all, attacking defenseless villagers.
Marcus saw his neighbor, old Elara, swallowed by the dark mist. He saw Thomas, the farmer, try to fight back with a hoe, only to be ripped apart in an instant. The stench of death and despair filled the air. His stomach turned, and for a moment, disbelief paralyzed him. Everything he had built, everything he knew, was being destroyed before his eyes.
"Lena! Theron!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos of screams and monstrous roars. He sprinted toward Lena's house, the only thought in his mind to save her—to protect her.
He barely dodged one of the monsters, a giant wolf-like creature made of darkness, its claws scraping the cobblestones. When he reached the central square, terror gripped him fully. There, near the old oak, Theron lay motionless, his body in a pool of blood. One of the creatures—a humanoid figure with long, bladed arms—turned toward Marcus, its red eyes locking onto him.
Before he could even process his friend's death, his gaze caught something that made him scream. Lena was cornered against the wall of her house, her face twisted in terror. The same creature that had killed Theron was closing in, claws outstretched.
"NO!" Marcus roared, his voice tearing through his throat. He grabbed an iron rod from the ground and charged blindly, driven by fury and desperation. He wasn't thinking of God, nor of destiny—only of one last, futile act of protection.
He struck the monster with the iron bar, but it was like hitting air. The creature turned with terrifying speed, and Marcus felt searing pain as one claw slashed his arm, tearing through flesh. He fell, the bar slipping from his grasp, as the monster loomed over him, its darkness exuding a chilling cold.
His eyes found Lena, who was now crying, staring at him helplessly. The monster raised its arm for the final blow, the darkness around its claw thickening. Marcus shut his eyes, one last bitter thought crossing his mind:"So this is it. No prayers, no God… just the end."
But instead of the killing strike, he heard a strange sound—a guttural cry from the monster, followed by a heavy thud. He opened his eyes. The creature that had been about to kill him was now writhing on the ground, dissolving into black smoke. And above where it had stood, a simple wooden cross, sturdy and unadorned, was embedded in the earth, as if it had fallen from the sky. The wood, though rough, radiated a soft, gentle light.
Lena, wide-eyed, looked at the cross and then at Marcus. "Marcus… what…?"
Still in shock, Marcus stared at the cross. Coincidence? A piece of wood falling from a roof? He got up with difficulty, ignoring the pain in his arm. The cross wasn't like those in churches—it seemed handmade, ancient, and imbued with a strange warmth. Hesitantly, he reached out and picked it up. It was surprisingly light, and its surface was smooth and warm to the touch.
Another shadow beast—a towering golem of darkness—crawled toward him. Instinctively, Marcus raised the cross. To his astonishment, the monster halted abruptly, letting out a shrill screech as the soft light of the cross repelled it. Part of its form darkened further, as if burning. The golem roared in pain and retreated, vanishing into the shroud of darkness covering the rest of the village.
"It's magic…" Marcus murmured, more to himself than to Lena. "Just some kind of magic artifact." The idea of God was still a knot in his throat—a barrier he couldn't cross, even after witnessing what seemed like a miracle. In his deeply rooted skepticism, the only explanation that made sense was some form of sorcery or arcane energy—not divinity.
He looked around at the ruined village. The black smoke from the slain monsters mingled with dust and the acrid stench of destruction. The screams had faded, replaced by a chilling silence. Florentia—his home—was gone. His parents… he hadn't even reached them.
"We have to leave, Marcus," Lena whispered, her voice trembling with tears. "There's nothing left here."
Marcus nodded, gripping the cross tightly. But instead of feeling vengeful or defiant, a primal fear overtook him. What those monsters had done… it was the end. A sign that the world itself was doomed—and he, a mere atheist blacksmith, didn't stand a chance. All he wanted now was to escape, to flee from the darkness that had consumed everything.
He took Lena's hand, clutching the cross in his other, and began to run—not toward the monsters, but away from the burning village, into the shadowed forest beyond the fields, hoping to find refuge somewhere the darkness of sin could not reach.
The image of Florentia in flames, the bodies of his friends and family, and the mystical cross in his hand would be the only legacies of a day that had changed his life forever. And, ironically, he still blamed the very God who seemed to have given him the only tool to fight back.