Orin's sleep was a restless one, his dreams vivid and unkind, drawing him into memories he'd tried for years to bury. Shadows stretched through the corners of his mind, pulling him back to a time before he had been able to hope for something as distant and daring as becoming a Celestial Knight.
In the dream, he was back in Myre Village, years younger, and far smaller. The village around him appeared eerily still, yet its edges were smudged, distorted as if someone had spilled ink across the world's canvas. He could hear the murmurs of his parents' voices echoing through the small cottage, voices lowered in anxious conversation.
He tried to reach them, but his feet wouldn't move. They were bound, rooted to the spot by something dark and unseen. A thick fog began to rise around him, swirling like mist, engulfing him until he could see nothing. And then, there was the sound of cracking, like bone splintering, and a scream that cut through the silence—a scream that he recognized all too well.
Orin jolted awake, gasping, his body cold with sweat. His hand instinctively went to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thrum erratically beneath his fingertips. He shut his eyes, trying to chase away the fragments of his nightmare, but the memories were awake now, clawing their way to the surface.
With a shuddering breath, he sat up, letting the sounds of the quiet dawn ground him, each beat of silence sharpening his focus. But the memories refused to loosen their hold.
Orin thought back to a day long past—a day that had stripped away what little innocence he'd clung to.
***
Orin was barely ten when he first understood fear.
It was late in the evening, and the air was thick with the scent of burning wood—a usual enough occurrence in Myre, a village where cooking fires were as regular as the sunrise. But tonight, the smoke was blacker, heavier. Orin remembered waking to the sound of frantic shouts outside his window, his young mind still sluggish with sleep, his limbs tangled in the blanket. He barely registered the metallic clang of weapons, the muffled yells, and the hurried footsteps that soon filled the night.
Then he heard it: a roar—a deep, guttural noise that split the night like a thunderclap. It wasn't an animal. It was rage. Pure, undiluted rage. Orin scrambled out of bed and made his way to the door, peeking through a narrow crack. There, in the center of the village, amidst flickering firelight and shadows that danced like phantoms, he saw the marauders.
They were unlike any men Orin had ever seen. Coarse armor, scratched and battered, covered their bodies, and their faces were concealed by helmets fashioned from rusted metal and dark leather, each mask painted with crude symbols: snarling beasts, twisted faces, and slashing red marks that looked like blood smeared across their visors. They moved with a practiced ferocity, swinging crude weapons with ease—axes, clubs, curved blades that gleamed dully in the firelight.
Orin's father stood at the forefront of the villagers who had rushed out with what little they had—axes meant for wood, pitchforks, tools too blunt for true battle. He was shouting, his face etched with both determination and desperation, rallying the few men who had dared to stand with him. Orin could feel his father's familiar strength in his voice, that warm steadiness that had always made him feel safe.
But tonight, that strength was faltering.
A marauder stepped forward, a hulking man with a mask shaped like a snarling boar, the tusks curving up from the sides of his face, giving his appearance an animalistic, twisted look. He hefted a massive axe in one hand, dragging its tip along the ground with a sickening scrape, the weapon leaving a trail in the dirt. With a harsh laugh, he advanced toward Orin's father, his steps slow and deliberate, his gaze fixed.
Orin's father lifted his pitchfork, hands white-knuckled around the handle. The other villagers stood behind him, some trembling, some barely able to hold their makeshift weapons upright.
"You don't belong here," Orin's father shouted, his voice firm. "Leave, and we won't have to fight."
The boar-masked marauder laughed, a sound that grated like nails on metal. "Fight?" he sneered, his voice muffled and guttural from behind the mask. "You call this fighting? This isn't a fight, old man. This is a feast."
With one swift movement, the marauder lifted his axe and brought it down in an arc so powerful it sliced through the air with a whistle. Orin's father tried to block the blow, raising the pitchfork, but the axe cleaved through the wooden handle as though it were nothing more than a twig. The force threw him backward, and he hit the ground hard, the remnants of the pitchfork clattering uselessly to the side.
"No!" Orin's voice rose in a cry that went unheard. His small fists clenched as he watched, his legs frozen to the ground.
As Orin's father struggled to his feet, another marauder joined the boar-masked figure—a smaller man, wiry and quick, his mask painted to resemble the face of a grinning jackal. He moved with a cruel, playful swagger, circling around Orin's father as if sizing up prey.
"You think you can protect them?" the jackal-masked marauder sneered, his voice mocking. He flicked his blade in small, calculated gestures, the edge catching the firelight as he stepped closer. "Look at you, trembling like a leaf."
Orin's father spat; his face bruised but defiant. "You won't take this village," he rasped.
"Won't we?" The jackal-masked marauder grinned wider, lunging forward and slicing a shallow cut across Orin's father's arm, making him stagger back. Blood seeped through the torn fabric, dark against his skin, but he didn't back down.
Suddenly, the boar-masked marauder raised his axe once more, bringing it down in a brutal swing. Orin's father tried to dodge, but the axe caught him on the shoulder, sinking deep. He fell to his knees, gasping, clutching at the wound as blood trickled through his fingers.
Orin couldn't look away, even as tears stung his eyes and his body shook. He wanted to scream, to run to his father, to do anything to stop the marauders, but his feet were rooted to the ground.
The jackal-masked marauder crouched beside Orin's father; his head tilted in mock pity. "Such spirit," he murmured, feigning admiration. "But spirit alone doesn't win wars."
With a final, savage grin, he plunged his blade forward. Orin's father gasped, his body arching as the steel bit into him. The marauders watched for a moment, almost reverent, as he crumpled to the ground, his blood staining the earth.
"Let this be a lesson to the rest of you!" the boar-masked marauder bellowed, his voice carrying over the terrified silence of the villagers. "Resist us, and this"—he gestured to Orin's father's still form— "is what awaits you."
The marauders began to move through the village, setting fires, overturning carts, tearing down anything that stood in their path. The sound of breaking wood, of flames crackling, and the anguished cries of villagers filled the night, a nightmarish symphony of destruction that echoed in Orin's ears.
Finally, the marauders left, leaving only smoldering ruins and silence in their wake. Orin stumbled forward, his legs weak, and knelt by his father's side, his hands shaking as he reached out. His father's eyes were open, staring blankly at the sky, his face still frozen in the last expression of defiance.
Orin sat there, the night pressing in around him, the world feeling darker, emptier. He clenched his fists, his gaze fixed on the spot where the marauders had disappeared.