The seasons had come and gone, a full year slipping away like water through his fingers.
And for that entire year, Rayliar trained, devoting himself to one move alone. Every day, the same relentless practice.
"Chop."
The word left Rayliar's lips like a whisper in the wind as he stood with his eyes fixed ahead, piercing through the silent forest. The tip of his axe glowed, enveloped in a violet aura that pulsed with restrained energy.
His legs and arms moved with precision, repeating the same motion he had drilled millions of times. The blade connected.
BOOM
A thunderous crack split the air as the tree in front of him shattered into pieces, its wood splintering as if it were no more than a fragile twig.
The force of the blow rippled through the forest, tree after tree succumbing to the power of that single strike, a wave of destruction stretching out in every direction.
Rayliar straightened, his arm falling loosely to his side, the weight of the axe grounding him.
He surveyed the aftermath with a sense of satisfaction. Every tree within a hundred meters lay felled, defeated by that one, decisive blow.
"Good," he muttered, his voice barely audible as he turned to make his way home.
____________________
The cabin door creaked open, revealing the dim, familiar surroundings. Rayliar slipped inside, his steps soft. Seated in an old, worn armchair, his grandfather was asleep, his breathing shallow.
He's aging... Rayliar thought, a pang of worry nudging at him.
The once-thick white hair was now thin and fragile, like wisps of smoke. Age spots dotted the old man's skin, and deep shadows circled his closed eyes, etched there by time's relentless hand.
Careful not to disturb him, Rayliar made his way to his own room, craving the embrace of a well-earned sleep. But that night, only nightmares found him.
"Wake up, Rayliar!"
Dimitrov's voice cut through the haze of sleep, and Rayliar felt a rough hand shaking him awake.
"We have to go! We're under attack!"
"W-What are you talking about…"
Rayliar mumbled, his mind still sluggish.
"Help!"
"No, please—no!"
Spalt
The desperate cries from outside snapped him fully awake.
________________
The door flew open, and flames greeted them first, flickering wildly against the night. Then, the sight of bodies—lifeless and strewn across the streets.
Men, women, children… none had been spared from the merciless onslaught.
"Run. Don't look back."
Dimitrov's voice was steady, his hands gripping Rayliar's shoulders as he locked eyes with him, urgency blazing in his gaze.
Rayliar didn't hesitate. He turned and ran, leaving the home he had known behind. Soon, the acrid stench of burnt flesh and blood filled his lungs.
"What…what is happening?" Rayliar gasped.
"There's no time! Go! Run!" Dimitrov urged, voice hoarse with desperation.
Rayliar weaved through the streets, dodging the chaotic blazes that raged around him. He passed familiar landmarks—first, Asrald's bakery to his right, reduced to charred ruins, then Gregory's smithy to his left.
At each turn, pieces of his life lay in shambles, places he'd known all his life now ravaged by fire.
Finally, they reached the old square.
Splat
Near the fountain, a hooded figure stood, calmly withdrawing a bloodstained sword from a woman's back.
"What… the hell…" Rayliar's words faltered, caught in his throat.
The man looked up, and Rayliar's breath hitched. Two cold, crimson eyes bored into him, their malevolence radiating across the square.
A single being had unleashed this chaos.
"Dimitrov… at last, we meet."
The man's voice was icy, colder than the bleakest winter.
"Hand over what is rightfully ours."
With a slow, deliberate step, the figure began to move forward, each footfall a silent menace.
"It's been fifty years since the queen entrusted you with that artifact. Now, it's time to return it to its rightful owner."
A chilling aura swelled around him, an oppressive wave that washed over the square.
Rayliar took a step back, instinctively recoiling from the sheer force of the aura. He had never felt anything like this before… utter despair.
The man raised his hand, and a tempest of lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the night in blinding flashes.
The roar of nature's fury drowned out the cries of the townspeople, if only for a moment.
"Run."
It was all Dimitrov could manage, his voice carrying a note of pleading.
But this time, Rayliar didn't obey. Not out of bravery, nor out of some desire for glory.
He stayed because, in the depths of his grandfather's weary eyes, he saw resignation for the first time.
____________________
How did they find me?!
The thought hammered through Dimitrov's mind.
Years ago, Belorfidë had entrusted him with a mission, and for decades, he had devoted himself to carrying it out.
And then, he had known love.
And he had forgotten.
No.
He had chosen to forget, hoping the past would never catch up to him.
Hoping he could live out his happily ever after.
Years passed, with their seasons, their joys and sorrows. But, as he should have known, the monster in the closet never stays hidden forever.
_____________________________
"Take my bag and run! That's an order!"
Dimitrov's voice broke, his tone desperate as he flung a small leather pack at Rayliar.
"Go! Now!" He yelled, the command filled with such vehemence that Rayliar's feet moved almost involuntarily.
Rayliar focused his mana, his senses sharpening as he darted toward the forest path he knew best.
Behind him, the hooded man lunged forward, closing the distance in a single bound—
Or at least, he would have.
Cling
A metallic sound rang out as something coiled around the man's leg, halting his movement.
"Not so fast."
Dimitrov's grip was firm, his hands holding a thin, steel-like wire that bound his opponent in place.
The wind howled around Rayliar, its chill sinking into his bones. All around him, the forest loomed, silent sentinels rooted in the earth.
That night, even the moon's light seemed reluctant to penetrate the dense canopy above.
Boom
______________________________
Every so often, the sounds of battle echoed through the woods, shuddering through the silent trees.
Please… Grandpa…
If it had been up to him, Rayliar would never have left his only family. But that look…
That damn look had told him this was bigger than either of them.
Dodging roots and trunks, Rayliar opened the pack, peering at its contents.
Inside, he found a small wooden box. Simple and unassuming, without any gilded carvings or intricate designs.
A plain, black box.
Rayliar's fingers hesitated as he reached for the latch, lifting the lid.
A blinding light burst forth, casting the forest in an ethereal glow, illuminating the dark like a firework.
Gradually, the light faded, shrinking until it was no more than a dim pulse.
Inside the box, a radiant object stared back at him, rolling from one corner to the other.
Rayliar shut the box, stashing it quickly back in the bag.
What… is this?
Through the trees, shadows passed him like fleeting memories.
"It's just a… fruit?!"
A golden apple.
That was what lay inside.
Is this what they were fighting over?
Hundreds of questions assailed his mind as he continued running, the apple thudding softly behind him.
"Stop, boy!" a voice thundered, not far behind him.
"Hand over the box, and we'll let you go!" another voice chimed in.
Yeah, right…
Rayliar's hand flew to the hilt at his side, the cold steel offering a familiar comfort. With a firm step, he pivoted, facing the voices in the darkness.
"Chop."
His voice was steady, empty of emotion.
The blade traced a shimmering line through the air, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, everything in his path split cleanly in two.
Boom
Splat Splat
Under the night's cold gaze, the red blood seemed to gleam, catching what little light remained.
Without missing a beat, Rayliar turned back around, pressing forward.
______________________
"Why are you doing this, Ronan?" Dimitrov asked, his voice hoarse, his gaze steady on the hooded man.
"Oh-ho! So, you remember me…"
"How could I not? We once stood on the same side."
"Hmm… I suppose this is pointless now."
Ronan pushed back his hood, revealing a face marred by a horrendous burn.
A thick scar ran vertically across his face, exposing raw gums where part of his mouth was missing. One eye was glazed over, a white film indicating partial blindness.
"They lied to us, Dimitrov…"
Ronan's voice dripped with bitterness.
"Freedom. That's what they told us we fought for. But do you really think this is freedom? Handing power to a pack of inept fools who control the masses? That's what we've done! But not for much longer. One by one, they'll fall like pawns."
"And what are you planning to do? Tear down every nation that has barely managed to hold on to a fragile peace?"
"No... The sheep need to learn they aren't safe. They need to understand that this 'new world' wasn't built for them. Do you remember what that man said? In this world, only the strong survive… and we'll make sure his law returns."
"What are you saying! That creature was defeated! There's no enemy left to fight!"
"You think so. Enough talking… I've got a boy to hunt."
With that, Ronan lunged toward his old friend.
That man had shown him the truth behind the mask.
People thought the danger had passed.
That the darkness was gone, never to return.
But they were wrong.
And slowly, it was rising from the shadows once more.