Several years had passed since the flames of Liraeth had reduced the town to ash, but for Caelum, that night had never truly ended. In the stillness of his sleep, the screams, the consuming fire, and the fleeting visage of his mother lingered as vivid specters. They were not mere memories—they were wounds etched into the fabric of his being, festering, and inseparable from his soul.
In the vast grasslands bordered by ancient ruins, the wind carried the scent of damp earth. A small band of mercenaries advanced with careful steps, their movements honed by countless battles. Known as The Crimson Blades, they were feared shadows of death, whispered about in dread across many regions. Among them, a boy stood slightly apart—a youth with jet-black eyes that scrutinized every sway of the tall grass. His gaze was cold, void of warmth, like the hollow night sky, concealing an enigma that few dared to fathom.
"Caelum," the gruff voice of Raedan Vorthras, the group's leader, shattered the silence. "Keep your mind here. On a mission, a moment's lapse is the difference between life and death."
Caelum offered no reply, merely nodding. He knew Raedan's words to be true. The old man had shaped him over the years—teaching him the art of survival, from wielding a blade to discerning the subtleties of an enemy's intentions. Yet the most critical lesson Caelum had learned did not come from Raedan but from the abyss within himself. His hatred, a wound as deep as it was dark, was the reason he continued to draw breath.
"Stay sharp," Raedan continued, his voice heavy with caution. "We're here for one purpose: to hunt the Dire Wolf that's been terrorizing these villages. A beast like that isn't to be underestimated."
The company ventured into the dense forest. Overhead, the sky grew dim, and the swaying shadows of towering trees cast long, skeletal hands upon the ground. In the gathering gloom, every sound seemed sharper, every rustle a warning whispered by the wind.
"Fresh tracks," murmured Elira Primrose, a short-haired archer whose usual cheer had been replaced by steely focus. She pointed to a trail in the dirt. "It's close."
Daryn Brookstone, a burly young man standing beside Caelum, inspected a tree trunk marred by deep claw marks. "We're getting too close for comfort."
Caelum tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Tension coiled within him, familiar yet unsettling. He had faced death many times since joining The Crimson Blades, but this encounter felt different. For the first time, he stood against a predator that mirrored the ferocity he carried in his own heart.
A low growl rippled through the underbrush, followed by faint tremors beneath their feet. Glowing red eyes emerged from the shadows, burning with primal rage. The Dire Wolf stepped into view—a massive, sinewy beast cloaked in ash-gray fur, its every movement taut with lethal precision.
"Formation!" Raedan barked, his tone brooking no hesitation.
The mercenaries fell into line, their stances poised for combat. Caelum moved as instructed, yet a voice within him whispered to act beyond orders. His dark eyes locked onto the Dire Wolf, assessing its every twitch, every breath. When the beast lunged at Raedan with blinding speed, Caelum sprang forward, his blade carving a deep gash into the creature's hind leg. Black blood spilled onto the forest floor, but it was not a fatal strike.
"Foolishness!" Daryn shouted, rushing to fill the gap in their formation.
Raedan, however, allowed a faint smirk to touch his weathered face. "You've got the nerve of an idiot, but I'll grant you, it's not entirely useless."
The Dire Wolf turned, its bloodshot eyes blazing with unrestrained malice as they fixed on Caelum. With a guttural snarl, it pounced, jaws gaping wide, fangs gleaming like daggers in the pale light. Time seemed to slow, and in that suspended moment, the memories of Liraeth flooded Caelum's mind—the flames, the screams, the helpless flight from death. But this time, he did not flee. Raising his sword, he drove the blade with unerring precision into the beast's throat.
The Dire Wolf's final roar echoed through the forest before its colossal form crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap. Silence reclaimed the woods.
Caelum stood over the slain beast, his sword dripping with its dark ichor. His body trembled—not from fear, but from a strange sensation. It was not relief, nor was it triumph. It was satisfaction, raw and primal, a grim pleasure that left a shadow upon his soul.
---
That night, they returned to the village where they had taken the contract. The villagers greeted them with cheers and heartfelt gratitude, their relief palpable. But for Caelum, it was hollow noise. Their smiles, their joy—these were mirrors of what he had lost, a bitter reminder of the family he had failed to save.
"Elira, ensure there are no other wolves lurking nearby," Raedan instructed as he accepted payment from the village elders.
From a distance, Caelum observed in silence. The village resembled Liraeth, with its modest wooden homes and vulnerable people. Once more, a tightness gripped his chest—not pity, but a smoldering frustration.
"You're brooding again, aren't you?" Daryn's voice cut through his thoughts as the larger man appeared at his side. "This place—it feels too familiar, doesn't it?"
Caelum did not answer, though his gaze spoke volumes.
"I used to feel the same," Daryn continued, his voice heavy with experience. "You save them today, but tomorrow? War, monsters, famine—something always comes. No one stays safe forever."
Those words lingered with Caelum throughout the night. Lying on a narrow wooden cot, he found no rest. Images of the Dire Wolf sprawled in death played over and over in his mind, not as haunting memories but as something far more unsettling. The satisfaction he had felt—the quiet thrill of destruction—gnawed at the edges of his conscience. And for the first time, he acknowledged a truth that had been lurking within: he did not simply crave survival or vengeance. He craved annihilation—an unrelenting desire to crush everything that had stolen his world.
At dawn, The Crimson Blades departed the village. Caelum trailed behind the group, his gaze fixed on the receding silhouette of the settlement. In his chest, the fire of his hatred burned brighter, a beacon leading him down a path only he could see.
"I will destroy them all," he whispered, so softly it was nearly swallowed by the wind. Yet within him, the words resounded with unshakable conviction—a promise, not to the world, but to himself.