The night Lorvil burned, the kingdom of Elmswoods was cloaked in a deceptive silence. Midnight had brought the usual stillness to the small village, with its winding cobblestone streets and timber-framed houses. The cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of wood smoke that, at first, seemed ordinary. But as the minutes passed, the smoke thickened, its pungency sharpening, until it transformed into a stifling blanket that suffocated the air.
When the first scream shattered the calm, it was already too late.
The fire erupted from the heart of Lorvil, a monstrous beast consuming everything in its path. Flames leaped from one house to another, the dry timbers igniting in rapid succession. The crackling roar of the inferno drowned out the cries of the villagers as they scrambled to escape. Mothers clutched their children, men shouted for loved ones, and the elderly stumbled through the chaos, their frail bodies no match for the frantic stampede.
Within an hour, the once-thriving village was reduced to a fiery hell. Smoke billowed into the night sky, blotting out the stars. By dawn, the fire had claimed the lives of over two hundred souls. Those who survived wandered the outskirts of the village, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their eyes hollow with shock.
The crown prince of Elmswoods, Luciano Antonio, was informed of the tragedy before the sun rose. A council was convened in the grand halls of Eldermire Castle, where the smell of charred wood clung to the messengers who had witnessed the devastation. Whispers of sabotage spread quickly, their tones hushed yet urgent. Fires of such magnitude did not start on their own.
Two days later, a suspect was brought before the kingdom's magistrates. He was a gaunt, trembling man in his mid-thirties, his face marked by sleepless nights and unshaven stubble. His clothes reeked of smoke, though whether it was from the fire or his own guilt, no one could say.
The courtroom was filled with survivors of Lorvil, their grief palpable. Mothers who had lost children. Men who had watched their homes collapse. Eyes bore into the suspect as though their collective rage could set him ablaze.
The chief magistrate, a severe woman named Lady Corwyn, addressed the man. "State your name and confess your crimes," she demanded, her voice cutting through the murmurs.
The man hesitated, his hands trembling as he clutched the edge of the wooden stand. "My name is Edrin Marlow," he said, his voice a rasp. "And I... I set the fire."
Gasps rippled through the room, followed by shouts of outrage. Lady Corwyn raised a hand, demanding silence. "Why would you commit such a heinous act?"
Tears streamed down Edrin's face as he spoke. "I didn't want to," he said, his words broken by sobs. "I had no choice."
"No choice?" Lady Corwyn's tone dripped with disdain. "Explain yourself."
Edrin's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for understanding in the faces of the crowd. "My younger brother, Tomas," he began, his voice cracking, "he's sick. Dying. The healer said there was a chance to save him, but the medicine... it costs more than I could ever afford."
A murmur of unease rippled through the crowd.
"And so you thought to buy this medicine by destroying a village?" Lady Corwyn pressed.
"No!" Edrin cried. "I would never... I didn't plan this. Someone came to me—a man. He... he knew about Tomas. He said he'd give me the money if I did as he asked. I didn't want to. I swear I didn't want to. But... but he showed me the gold, and all I could think about was Tomas... how I couldn't let him die."
Lady Corwyn leaned forward, her steely eyes narrowing. "Who is this man? What is his name?"
Edrin's hands clenched the stand as if to steady himself. "I don't know his name. He wore a hood, kept his face hidden. But he... he knew everything about me. About Tomas. He promised no one would get hurt—that the fire was just to send a message."
"A message?" The magistrate's voice grew colder.
"I don't know what he meant!" Edrin pleaded. "He gave me the money and told me to light the fire in the granary. He said the wind would carry it to the forest, that it wouldn't reach the homes. But the wind changed... and... and it spread too fast. I tried to stop it, I swear! But it was too late."
The courtroom fell into an uneasy silence. The weight of Edrin's confession pressed down on everyone. Lady Corwyn exchanged a glance with the crown prince's advisor, a thin, hawk-eyed man named Lord Vereth.
"The court will recess to deliberate," Lady Corwyn declared, her voice heavy.
As Edrin was led away, the villagers erupted into angry shouts. "Burn him as he burned our homes!" one man yelled. Another cried, "Justice for Lorvil!" But beneath the anger was an undercurrent of fear. If Edrin was telling the truth, then someone else—a shadowy figure with motives unknown—had orchestrated the destruction of their village.
In the days that followed, investigators scoured Lorvil's remains for evidence. They found fragments of a cloak near the granary, its fabric marked with a strange sigil—a serpent coiled around a crown. The symbol was unfamiliar, but its presence deepened the mystery.
As the kingdom of Elmswoods mourned the loss of Lorvil, the crown prince Luciano ordered a full investigation into the conspiracy. The hooded man who had manipulated Edrin was still at large, his motives unclear. But one thing was certain: the fire that had consumed Lorvil was only the beginning.
The flames of Lorvil had sparked more than just destruction—they had ignited a chain of events that would shake the kingdom to its core. And as the ashes settled, the people of Elmswoods whispered a single question: Who would be next ?