CHAPTER 3 — THE ASHEN PROTECTOR
THE MAN WHO CAME FROM FLAMES
1. THE SHOCKWAVE AND THE SILENCE
The world stopped breathing.
Alaric's ears rang with the echo of the blast. Liron trembled against his side. Maelo's fingers dug into his sleeve. Ash, hot and bitter, drifted around them like grey snow.
Then—movement.
The figure rose from his crouch. Tall. Straight-backed. Cloaked in fabric the color of burnt wood and old scars. A faint, steady glow of Pure Energy rippled from his skin, bending the air like heat over stone.
Around them, the corrupted villagers hissed and stumbled back—not in fear, but in instinctive revulsion. To them, his energy was sunlight to shadows.
Arkan roared. The sound was less beast, more earthquake. He pounded the ground with his bone-plated fist, cracking the earth. Embers flew.
The cloaked man didn't move.
He simply exhaled.
And the corrupted steam in the air recoiled.
Alaric's voice was a ghost of itself: "Who…?"
The man didn't turn. His head tilted slightly—just enough for the moonlight to catch the sharp line of his jaw beneath the hood. Only his eyes were visible: cold, grey, lit from within by controlled power.
Not compassion.
Not rage.
Assessment.
They were variables in an equation. Survivors in a burning equation.
2. ARKAN'S CHARGE
Arkan moved first.
The corrupted giant charged with a scream that tore the night. His massive body barreled through burning debris, scattering sparks and shattered wood.
The warrior didn't dodge.
At the last heartbeat—
He stepped aside.
Not a leap. Not a roll. A shift—smooth, precise, impossibly fast. Arkan's fist slammed into the ground where he'd stood, exploding earth upward.
The warrior's hand shot out.
A palm strike to the ribs.
Simple.
Clean.
When it connected—
BOOM.
A visible shockwave of Pure Energy blasted outward, blue-white and rippling. Arkan was thrown backward, crashing through the skeleton of a burning cart.
But he rose.
Growling. Drooling black fluid. The cracks in his chest glowed brighter.
He was not dead. Not even wounded. Only enraged.
The warrior's jaw tightened—the first sign of tension Alaric had seen.
He expected corruption, Alaric realized. But not this.
3. THE FIGHT THAT COULDN'T BE WON
Arkan lunged again, faster this time, muscles stretching in ways flesh shouldn't. His bone-armored arm swung in a crushing arc.
The warrior caught it.
Caught it.
Liron gasped. Maelo's breath froze.
The corrupted arm trembled under the warrior's grip. Bones cracked audibly. Arkan shrieked—a sound of pain and fury. The warrior twisted—
CRACK.
The bone plating shattered. Arkan stumbled.
Before he could fall, the warrior kicked him squarely in the abdomen—a controlled, merciless strike.
Arkan skidded back ten meters, carving a trench through dirt and ruin.
But again—he rose.
His wounds bubbled, pulsed, sealed in seconds.
The warrior exhaled softly. He spoke for the first time, voice low, calm, devoid of emotion:
"This corruption… is anchored."
He glanced at the children.
Not with concern.
With calculation.
"They are becoming liabilities."
4. THE SWARM RETURNS
While Arkan recovered, the corrupted villagers crept forward again.
Dozens of them, twitching, crawling, jaws clicking. Their yellow eyes fixed not on the warrior, but on the children behind him.
Liron whimpered. "They're surrounding us—"
Maelo grabbed Alaric's arm. "We have to move!"
But there was nowhere to go. The corrupted had formed a tightening half-circle, flames at their backs, monsters ahead.
One of them—an old woman with her jaw hanging loose—lurched forward, fingers twisted into claws.
She shrieked.
Liron screamed back, raw terror.
The warrior didn't turn.
He flicked a finger.
A ripple of energy, invisible but tangible, hit her chest.
She flew backward into the burning remains of the bakery, and did not rise again.
Silence.
Then Arkan roared—and this time, he didn't charge alone.
Corrupted villagers melted into him as he moved. Their bodies dissolved into his, flesh merging, strength feeding strength. He grew taller. Broader. More monstrous.
Alaric's stomach turned. His beast-sensing screamed—a storm of rage and hunger swelling before him.
The warrior's eyes narrowed.
"I cannot kill him," he murmured, not to them, but to the air. "Not while anchored. Not while protecting."
A tactical conclusion.
A professional judgment.
The decision was reached in a breath.
5. THE RETREAT
The warrior slammed his palms into the ground.
BOOOOOM.
A wave of Pure Energy erupted outward—not to attack, but to clear.
Corrupted bodies scattered like leaves. Flames guttered out in a perfect circle. Debris blew away from the children.
The warrior pivoted—
Grabbed Liron by the collar.
Grabbed Maelo by the arm.
Shoved Alaric forward with a force that sent them stumbling.
"Wha—?" Alaric choked.
"Move."
"But that thing—"
"If you stay, you die. If you hesitate, you die."
No shout. No plea. Iron certainty.
6. THE CHASE BEGINS
Arkan leapt—higher than anything that size should. His shadow swallowed the moon.
BOOOOOOM.
His landing cratered the village square.
Shockwaves shattered the last standing walls. Flames burst skyward.
He lunged.
The warrior grabbed the children and rolled as a bone spike pierced the ground where Alaric's head had been.
Liron screamed.
Maelo pulled Alaric against her.
The warrior hissed through clenched teeth: "Too slow. Impossible like this."
Arkan roared again.
The warrior grabbed Alaric by the back of his shirt and lifted him like a sack of grain.
"Kid."
Alaric stared up, terrified.
"Run. Now. Don't look back."
7. INTO THE DARK
They ran.
Behind them, the warrior unleashed blast after blast to keep Arkan at bay.
Corrupted villagers swarmed in their wake—some sprinting on twisted limbs, some dragging broken legs, some crawling with unnatural speed.
Alaric led, heart hammering against his ribs.
Maelo glanced back. "He's holding it off—!"
"No!" Liron cried. "It's catching up!"
Arkan was smashing through everything in his path—flames, ruins, his own corrupted—ignoring all but one purpose:
Them.
Alaric felt it in his bones. In his gift.
A cold, piercing truth.
Arkan wasn't hunting the warrior.
He was hunting them.
8. THE EDGE OF THE FOREST
They reached the last broken fence of Wulfen Strait.
Beyond it—the deep, waiting dark of the woods.
Arkan leapt one last time.
The warrior spun, slammed both palms forward, and unleashed a blast that turned night into blue-white day for one searing second.
KRAAAAAAASH.
Arkan was thrown back, skidding through rubble and ruin.
But he began to rise immediately.
The warrior didn't wait.
He swept the children ahead of him and plunged into the forest.
Branches snapped. Leaves whipped their faces. The roar of flames faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves and their own ragged breaths.
They ran until their legs burned.
Until the last glow of fire vanished.
Until only moonlight filtered through the canopy.
Finally, the warrior stopped.
The children collapsed, gasping, shaking.
Alaric looked up at him. "Will it… follow?"
The warrior didn't turn. Didn't blink.
He said only:
"Don't look back. What's behind us is already dead."
---
9. THE FOREST SWALLOWS THEM
The trees closed in like a second night.
Seron—for that was his name, though they did not know it yet—pushed the children deeper into the woods, his cloak whispering against ferns and low branches. His steps were silent. They were not.
Alaric stumbled again. Seron caught his arm without breaking stride.
"Breathe through your nose. Run through your feet."
Liron and Maelo clung to each other, tears streaking the soot on their faces. Behind them, the distant shrieks of the corrupted warped through the trees—fading, but not gone.
When the last echo died, Seron halted.
The children fell to the moss, chests heaving. Seron stood motionless, scanning the shadows, listening. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"They won't follow this deep," he murmured. "Not in their state."
Alaric forced himself upright. "Who… are you?"
Seron did not answer immediately.
Instead, he knelt before them, reached up, and drew back his hood.
The children saw his face clearly for the first time.
He was young.
Not just young—shockingly young. No more than nineteen. Sharp silver-grey eyes. Hair the color of wet slate. A face that should have held laughter, but held only exhaustion and dried blood.
He bowed his head.
"My name is Seron Vale. And… I failed you today."
Alaric's breath caught. "Failed?"
Seron's hands curled into fists. "Yes. I came to protect this island. I arrived too late."
He looked at each of them, his gaze heavy with something that felt like shame.
"I am sorry."
Maelo stared, lips trembling. "What… what was that? Why did it come?"
Seron closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were bleak.
10. THE ISLAND'S FATE
"Wulfen Strait was not the only place attacked today," he began, his voice low and steady. "All across this island, settlements have fallen. Homes burned. Families scattered. There was no warning. No pattern."
Liron shook his head violently. "No—we would have heard—!"
"You were deep in the forest," Seron said quietly. "And corruption spreads faster than sound. By the time anyone understood what was happening, it was already over."
He rose, his gaze drifting north, toward the smoke still staining the sky.
"The creature that destroyed your village… I've only seen its kind once before. And never outside the Blighted Lands."
"What is it?" Alaric whispered.
Seron hesitated. "…We have no name for it. No classification. Only stories."
The children stared.
"Whatever it is," Seron continued, jaw tight, "it should not be here. Its strength… its corruption… it defies what we know."
A coldness settled in Alaric's chest.
Maelo asked softly, "You fought it… didn't you?"
Seron glanced at the tears in his cloak, the blood on his armor.
"Yes. And I survived by retreating."
He left it there. The image of Ravenmaw needed no embellishment.
11. WHY HE CAME
Alaric forced the words out. "Why were you here? No one told us outsiders were coming."
Seron sighed—the first truly weary sound they'd heard from him.
"Because your elders asked for help. A month ago."
Silence.
"What?" Liron breathed.
"Small signs," Seron said. "Sick animals. Rotting plants. Fogs that smelled of metal. People disappearing from outlying farms."
Maelo's eyes widened. "They… they never told us."
"They were trying to prevent panic," Seron said. "My team and I sailed from the mainland as soon as the message arrived. But the storms… they were worse than any season should allow."
He looked away, shadows deepening under his eyes.
"By the time we made landfall on the northern shore… the screaming had already begun."
The words hung in the air, heavy as stone.
Alaric whispered, "So the island… is gone?"
Seron hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Most of it. Yes."
His voice was barely audible.
"Your village was the last one standing when we arrived."
Alaric's world cracked again, quieter this time—a fissure in what was already broken.
Liron began to cry, soft and helpless. Maelo pulled him close, her own tears falling silently.
Seron did not interrupt. He let them grieve. He waited.
Only when their breathing steadied did he speak again.
12. A WARRIOR'S APOLOGY
Seron lowered himself to their level once more, his expression solemn.
"You three should have been eating berry stew tonight. You should have been laughing. You should have been safe."
His voice softened, just slightly.
"You are children. This weight was never meant for you."
Alaric stared, throat tight.
But Seron shook his head. "Don't hold back your tears. I have seen seasoned warriors break under less."
Then he did something none of them expected.
He bowed.
Not a nod. A full, formal bow—head lowered, hand over his heart. A warrior's gesture of respect and regret.
"I could not save your families. I could not save your home. But I will save you."
The words were a vow.
The children felt it in the air between them—a promise forged in something deeper than duty.
13. THE WALK TOWARD SAFETY
"Come," Seron said, rising. "We must reach the camp before full dark. My team is waiting. They have medicine. Shelter."
He extended a hand.
Alaric hesitated—then placed his own in it.
Warm. Firm. Steady.
The first real safety he'd felt since morning.
Maelo and Liron followed.
Seron led them through the forest with careful certainty, always listening, always watching. His cloak flowed behind him like a banner of ash and resolve.
As they walked:
Alaric wiped blood from his arms.
Maelo pressed herbs to Liron's cuts.
Seron stayed ahead, a shield between them and the dark.
Occasionally, the trees thinned enough to show the sky.
The moon was rising, silver and cold.
Its light fell through the leaves, painting their path in fragments of hope.
After what felt like both an instant and an eternity, Seron raised a hand.
"Close now."
The children peered through the trees.
Lights flickered ahead.
Voices murmured.
Metal clinked softly.
Then—the forest opened.
14. THE CAMP
A wide clearing lay before them, lit by torches set in a protective ring.
Tents stood in orderly rows. Weapons gleamed on racks. Healers moved between bedrolls. Warriors spoke in low, urgent tones.
A pocket of order in the chaos.
A fragment of civilization saved.
As Seron stepped into the torchlight with the three children behind him, several figures turned.
"Seron!"
"You're alive!"
"Where are the others?"
"Who are they?"
Seron raised a hand. "Survivors from Wulfen. They're under our protection now."
A woman in dark leathers approached, her eyes widening as she took in the children's state.
"Gods above—medic! Now!"
She knelt before them, her voice gentling. "You're safe here. You can rest."
Seron turned back to the children one last time.
"This," he said quietly, "is where you begin again."
Alaric's legs finally gave out.
Maelo sank to her knees.
Liron simply stared,overwhelmed by the sight of safety after so much terror.
Seron placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder—a solid, grounding weight.
"No one will harm you here."
And as the torchlight wrapped around them, warm and bright against the dark of the forest—
the night held its breath.
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[END OF CHAPTER 3]
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