The morning bells rang softly. Shops opened when their owners were ready. Children ran freely through the dirt roads, their laughter carrying farther than any bell could.
Kael walked along the road near the fields, a bundle of firewood on his shoulder. The breeze carried the scent of soil and grain. Somewhere near the river, a laugh echoed. It was an ordinary day. And in Mirevale, ordinary was precious.
Near the marketplace, elders gathered around wooden stalls, trading vegetables and stories. A blacksmith hammered iron, not weapons, but tools.
"You heard about the caravan?" a man asked.
"Yeah, they passed through yesterday," another replied. "But they didn't stop long."
"They never do."
Travelers rarely stayed, adventurers even less.
Kael stopped by the bakery.
"Morning, Kael," the baker said, smiling. "Your mother's favorite is ready."
"Thank you," Kael replied, bowing slightly as he took the bread. He felt normal. And that was enough.
But then the air shifted.
The wind stilled. Birds scattered. Laughter faded. Kael felt it first. Heavy footsteps. Metal scraping stone.
Adventurers.
They entered Mirevale openly. Boots crushed dirt paths. Weapons gleamed at their sides. Marks burned clearly on their hands. Gold, crimson, pale light.
"They're here again..." Kael whispered to himself.
The adventurers looked around as if inspecting livestock.
"So this is it?" one man sneered. "The place where our guys were humiliated?"
"A king with no mark," the others laughed.
"They were embarrassed by someone who should not exist," the man spat.
The others stepped forward, marked faintly glowing. "We came to reclaim our pride."
A villager froze. A warrior struck him with the flat of his blade. He collapsed.
Kael's grip tightened on the firewood. "Stop!" someone shouted.
The ranger fired an arrow. It struck a post, narrowly missing a child. Screams followed.
Kael's heart sank. He remembered how Alaric had handled the last threat without harm. But this… this was different. These adventurers were not here to mock, they were here to destroy.
The ground trembled. Footsteps, slow and steady, echoed behind the chaos. The adventurers turned.
Alaric appeared, calm as ever.
No armor. No weapon. No mark. Yet his presence weighed on the square like gravity.
"That's enough," he said softly. "Leave here at once."
The berserker laughed. "Or what? You'll glare at us to death?"
Alaric took a step forward. The air bent, not with magic, not with aura, but with sheer will. The warrior's knees buckled. The mage's forming spell collapsed. The assassin froze mid-step.
"This land is unruled," the king said. "And I will not have it stained by your pride."
The marked man clenched his teeth. "You have no authority."
One punch. No technique. No glow. The paladin was sent flying across the square, smashing through stone. Silence followed.
The others fled, but Kael knew it would not last.
That night, Mirevale slept uneasily.
Far beyond its borders, those who had been humiliated gathered. They carried their shame like fire in their hearts, calling for warriors, mages, and marked humans to follow them. They had mistaken peace for weakness. And revenge was coming.
Kael woke to screaming.
The bells had no power now. They rang too late.
"Fire!"
"They're everywhere!"
"Run—!"
His mother burst into his room, pale but firm. "Kael, get up. Now."
Outside, the night glowed red. Mirevale was burning. Flames crawled across rooftops. Smoke swallowed the streets. Marked humans poured through the kingdom like a flood that had finally broken its dam.
The people of Mirevale fought with whatever they had. Hammers, pitchforks, bare hands. They were powerless, and they were dying.
Kael ran between his parents as they pushed through the chaos. "Stay close," his father said, gripping Kael's shoulder tightly. A blast of fire struck the house beside them. Someone screamed. Kael's ears rang. Why…? They had done nothing wrong.
Then the air shifted again. Pressure rolled across the streets like a tide. "The King!" someone cried. Hope sparked.
Alaric stood in the center of the square. No armor, no mark, no weapon. Yet marked humans hesitated. Spells bent away from him. Blades missed. Men fell without understanding why. "For Mirevale!" voices cried. Kael saw it. He was stopping them…
But hope did not last. They surrounded him. A spear of light pierced Alaric's side. He staggered. A blade followed. Then another. Blood stained the stone. Kael's breath caught.
"No…!" Alaric fell to one knee. Still standing. "You do not rule here," he said, voice rough but unbroken.
A mage screamed and unleashed everything he had. Light swallowed the square. When it faded, Alaric lay still.
Something broke. The attackers surged forward. "Kill them all! Leave nothing!" Panic consumed the streets.
Kael turned. Everything went wrong.
A warrior appeared from the smoke. Too fast. Kael's father stepped in front of him. "Run!" he shouted. The blade came down. Kael heard the sound before he understood it. His father fell. Blood soaked the ground. Kael screamed.
"Kael!" His mother grabbed him, pulling him back. Tears streamed down her face, but her hands were steady. "Listen to me. You have to live."
A mage's fire surged toward them. She shoved Kael away. The flames took her.
"Mom!" His scream was swallowed by fire. Then silence.
Kael could not breathe. Could not think. Could not move. A shadow loomed over him. "There's another one," someone said. Kael moved. Not with power. With instinct. He ran.
He hid. Crawled through collapsed houses. Slipped through alleys only children knew. Held his breath beneath rubble as footsteps passed inches away. An arrow grazed his shoulder. A spell scorched the air beside his head. He did not fight. He survived.
When the fire finally died, there was no one left to save.
Dawn came quietly. Ash fell like snow. Mirevale was gone. Homes reduced to blackened frames. The market collapsed. The watchtower lay broken. Bodies covered the streets. Kael stood alone. His legs shook. His hands trembled. His family was gone. The king was dead. The kingdom was burned into ashes. He was the only one left.
Kael clenched his fists.
The Kingdom of the Forgotten had burned. And one boy remained.
(End of Chapter 3)