The moment the cloaked figure stepped through the crumbling doorway, it was as though he had entered a realm of nightmares. The air was thick, saturated with the sickly, metallic tang of blood. The familiar refuge—the haven he had spent weeks building—was now nothing more than a grotesque battleground.
The sight before him stopped him in his tracks. Bodies—small, frail, and broken—lay scattered across the room, their lifeless forms sprawled in unnatural, twisted positions. Blood painted the walls, seeping into the floorboards, the crimson contrast a cruel mockery of the innocence these children had once embodied.
His empty sockets, concealed beneath the shadow of his hood, swept across the carnage. Tanya. Aya. The others. Their names echoed in the hollow depths of his mind. Yet, there was no movement, no sound—only the slow, rhythmic drip of blood from blades still wet with slaughter.
And then, he saw her.
Aya, the one who had pulled him into this fragile family, dangled like a discarded puppet in the iron grip of a figure standing at the center of the massacre.
The man holding her was a vision of unnerving beauty. His face possessed an ethereal radiance, a perfection that seemed almost inhuman. His black attire shimmered faintly in the dim light, intricate patterns woven into the fabric resembling armor befitting royalty. Yet, despite his striking appearance, his expression was devoid of pity, empty of remorse. His sharp, angular features betrayed nothing but calm indifference as he held Aya aloft by her shoulder, his slender fingers digging deep into her fragile frame. Her small hands clawed at his arm in vain, her soft whimpers barely audible over the suffocating silence.
In his other hand, he wielded a greatsword—an enormous, jagged weapon that seemed too vast for his lean physique. The blade, dark as the abyss, glistened with the blood of its victims. Despite its size, it rested in his grip as effortlessly as a feather, an extension of his being.
The cloaked figure's unseen gaze dropped lower, his despair deepening as he caught sight of Tanya's mutilated form. Her once-vibrant presence had been reduced to nothing more than lifeless pieces. Her head lay severed from her body, yet her bloodshot eyes remained wide, as if even in death, she had refused to close them.
His gloved hands trembled at his sides, rage and grief battling for control over the hollow void within him. He could not speak—his cursed existence allowed no words—but the emotions coursing through him screamed louder than any voice ever could.
The man with the greatsword turned his head slowly, his mesmerizing gaze locking onto the shadowed figure before him. For a moment, the world stood still, the weight of the man's presence pressing down like an invisible force, suffocating in its intensity.
A faint smile curved his lips, his unnatural beauty only amplifying the sinister edge of his expression. Tilting his head slightly, he studied the cloaked figure with detached curiosity.
"Ah," he mused, his voice smooth and melodic, yet laced with an unsettling formality. "Thou art the one they spoke of. The shadow, the watcher, the silent specter that lingers unseen. Tell me—" he gestured idly toward the bodies strewn across the floor, "—is this thy handiwork? Or dost thou merely return to witness the fruits of thy negligence?"
The skeleton's hands clenched into fists beneath his cloak, his thoughts a chaotic storm of grief and fury. His gaze flickered to Aya, who whimpered weakly, her body trembling in the man's grasp.
"Ah, fret not," the man continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Her suffering shall be brief—a humble offering to the great decree that governs us all." His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "He who has decreed upon us the order of extermination of thee bids us complete what thy pitiable existence prolongs."
The words struck like a physical blow, a cold and final pronouncement of judgment.
The man took a step forward, his boots splashing lightly in the blood pooling beneath him. His subordinates, similarly clad in obsidian garments, remained motionless behind him, their weapons still dripping crimson. They were specters of death, their silence amplifying the horrifying reality of the scene.
Aya let out a sharp cry of pain as the man's grip tightened, her small body convulsing. The skeleton took a single step forward, his movement hesitant yet deliberate. He could feel the weight of the man's gaze boring into him, stripping away the layers of his cloak, as if seeking to uncover the truth of what lay beneath.
"Curious," the man mused, his voice carrying a faint note of amusement. "Thou dost move, yet no words spill forth from thy lips. Art thou struck dumb by grief, or is it simply thy nature to remain ever silent?"
The skeleton's hooded head dipped slightly, his gloved hands reaching beneath his cloak to grasp the hilt of his scavenged weapon.
The man's smile widened, his expression laced with dark amusement. "Ah, a shadow armed with steel. How quaint." His voice was light, conversational—completely unfazed. "Come then. Let us see whether thy silence masks strength… or cowardice."
Aya let out a strangled sob, her wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto the skeleton's hidden face. The fear in her gaze was a dagger to his hollow heart, a reminder of what he had failed to protect.
The man raised his greatsword slightly, its jagged edges catching the dim light, reflecting it with a sinister gleam.
"Thy resistance, shouldst thou offer it, shall be naught but a fleeting ripple in the vast ocean of fate," he intoned. "Still, I welcome thy defiance." A slow exhale left his lips as his expression darkened, amusement fading into something far colder.
"After all, it is always the faintest flames that are the most satisfying to extinguish."
The skeleton took another step forward, his resolve hardening as the weight of the moment settled upon him. He could not speak, could not cry out in defiance or plead for mercy. All he had was the void within him, the burning resolve to protect what little remained of the family he had come to care for.
The man's eyes narrowed, his regal posture unshaken as he adjusted his grip on the greatsword.
To be continued…