On the far horizon, a ragged trail crawled across the plain like a stain spreading through bone. At first, it was only flashes of light — sun on metal, the glint of harnesses — but as it drew closer, the shapes became people, men and women alike, armed and ready. Beneath them, they rode great hulking beasts that made the earth complain with what little life it had left with every step they took.
The riders were dressed in mismatched armor, leather, and helmets, faces painted with war, malicious intent, and death. They rode upon hairless, elephant-like monsters with beaks and teeth and the leering grin of hyenas. People had a name for these monstrosities — hygrons. No one knew their origin or where they came from, but one thing was certain: wherever these things went, destruction followed.
At the front rode the largest figure — a man whose body was covered with scars. He sat as if carved from stone, eyes sharp and cold like those of a predator. He wore no shame and no mercy. The left side of his face was scored with a single word: Death. The name that fell from the mouths of those who'd heard tales of his destruction and merciless killings was Scarface. True to the name.
"Can you see what's soon to be ours on the far horizon?" he asked, voice deep and flat, with no life behind it — a question that didn't need an answer. One could see smoke clinging to the village like a shawl; that alone told him what he needed to know.
He snapped his fingers, and one of the hygrons snorted as if heeding to his command, stamping the earth. Around him, the band's riders shifted — young fists tightening on spears, older hands rubbing the scent of coin from their fingers.
"HALTTTTT!" Scarface shouted, and the line froze, as though time itself stopped. "You see it, right? You see what's in front of us, the ruined chapel, the lands, the people hunkered down just ahead of us. You know the plan. MY PEOPLE! We raid, we take, we kill, we burn , we savor — and most of all, we leave one who shall tell the tales of this conquest… Scarface's conquest!"
A cry of approval rose like a curse.
A woman with a half-shaved head — what appeared to be a burn on one side — leaned forward on her mount. The other half of her head had short, uneven hair. Her armor was a combination of stained leather jackets and heavy chainmail. Her jaw was sharp as a knife, and her eyes were narrowed stones. She had no smile on her face.
She was Scarface's lieutenant — calculating, quick, cruel, and merciless. Wherever she rode, the group followed without question, for she was the one who always led them to conquest. They called her Swift.
Back in the village, things were as usual. Some buildings had long begun to fall apart. Children played around with makeshift balls, trading songs that had somehow survived the dying world. An old man mended nets, humming tunelessly; a mother smoothed her daughter's hair and taught her the steady, careful rhythm of survival. It was ordinary work in an extraordinary ruin — small things stitched together to keep people from falling apart.
Then the earth shook violently.
It began as a tremor — maybe the world was on its last breath before it faded away to nothingness — but that wasn't it. It grew louder and louder and louder, rolling through the village like the passing of an enormous tsunami. Children stopped mid-laugh. Adults turned toward the direction of the sound. From the far end came a roar — the beating of a hundred drums — the hygrons' feet.
Voices swelled into a distant cry, a language of war that had never been polite.
Scarface and his riders broke into motion, a living spear aimed at the heart of the ruin. Dust boiled; the plains convulsed under the hygrons' passage. They poured over the ridge with the calm confidence of something that knew the world belonged to it. Spears sank into doors. Flames licked cheap cloth. The first shrieks tore through the air like paper.
Swift rode ahead, the burnt side of her head glinting like a beacon. She barked orders with a quick, sharp tongue:
"Search the barns! Take anything that moves, anything that breathes! No mercy — not for the old, not for the slow, not even for the young! Kill everything that moves! And don't forget the rule — keep one fucker alive!"
Her blade flashed as she dismounted, walking toward her first victim of the day — a mother clutching her child so hard her whole body trembled with fear. She felt the kiss of iron, and then there was only silence.
Scarface moved through the chaos like a man on a mission — tearing through on the monstrosity he rode. He was a man who took pleasure in killing and found small joys in the faces of people at the edge of death. Locking eyes with a child cowering in fear, he licked his lips like a predator sizing its prey.
The boy stood there, drained, pale, and trembling, his clothes soaked in his own fear. "W-we… we're all going to die," he stammered. "Mum… Dad… help me…"
Scarface tilted his head, eyes narrowing and a creepy smile. A cruel thought crossed his mind, dark and simple. I could use some silence. His smile sharpened — and the child was no more.
Tristan seeing all this unravel didn't move. He stood half-hidden in the shadows, the smoke painting his face in flickering orange. He pressed his hand to the cracked stone beside him and felt the earth pulse beneath his palm — faint, steady, but different now. The heartbeat he always heard was no longer weak or dying; it was sad. It was Awake.
Scarface turned his head, scanning the ruins — and then their eyes met. For a moment, everything went quiet. The screams, the fire, even the beating of the hygrons' feet. It all faded like the world was holding its breath.
He saw Tristan — a thin, slender and ghostly figure standing still amidst the carnage, eyes hollow, expression calm, untouched by fear. No tears, no trembling, no emotion — only that quiet and endless emptiness.
Scarface's grin shifted into something else — not mockery, not cruelty, but recognition. He stared for a long moment, then nodded slightly to himself.
"This will do," he murmured under his breath. "Every conquest needs a witness."
And just like that, he turned his beast away.
The raid didn't stop. it continued, People screamed, houses burnt. The smell of smoke and blood mixed up with the wind and filled everything.
Tristin didn't run, neither did he scream. He stood there, the heat pressing against his skin, the ground still beating under his feet, slow, Heavy. Like the Earth itself was trying to remember something it had lost.