A nightmare twisted through darkness, screams piercing the air. A young crimson-haired girl, only nine years old, stumbled through a chaotic village, heart pounding as shadows loomed around her. Soldiers roamed, their faces obscured, voices low and threatening.
"Ah, you're going to make some good coin, niña," a soldier chuckled sickly. "Take her away."
She fought against the hands gripping her, pulled deeper into the fray. Despair clawed at her throat as she saw families torn apart, innocence shattered. She reached out, desperate to grasp someone, anyone, but the figures of her parents faded into the crowd.
Mela! Mela Hue!!!
The anguish in their voices echoed as she felt herself dragged further away, their silhouettes shrinking.
Her heart shattered, the weight of loss pulling her under—then, a jolt. She shot upright, gasping, heart hammering against her ribs. The nightmare lingered in the corners of her mind, the echoes of terror still fresh. Sweat clung to Mela Hue's brow as she instinctively grasped for something, anything, as panic surged within her.
Her fingers gripped her spiked mace—a lifeline in the suffocating dark. As reality rushed back. The oppressive weight of her past settled over her. No longer the helpless girl, she was a hunter—a force of reckoning.
The crescent moon hung in the sky, casting a skeletal glow over the narrow, cobbled alleyway. Shadows stretched across the cold stones, intensifying the night's chill. Mela moved with practiced ease, her crimson robe flaring behind her. The townsfolk, well aware of her grim reputation, remained hidden.
Her reverie shattered with the clink of distant footsteps. A bandit leader sneered from the shadows, steel armor jagged and worn. "Looks like we've got ourselves a lost girl. Hand over that weapon."
Mela moved. A swift arc—bone crunched. He hit the ground, lifeless.
A hollow sadness washed over her. The victory was swift but left her empty. She cleaned her mace with the leader's torn clothing, her actions devoid of emotion.
The remaining bandits, frozen in terror, fled into the night, their faces pale with fear. Mela followed silently, her pace steady, the clink of her mace echoing death through the deserted streets. She walked past shuttered windows and darkened doorways, the silent, fearful town.
One bandit, breath ragged and panicked, darted into a narrow alley. Mela found him quickly. His blade flashed in desperation, but her mace met it with a sharp clang, sending his weapon clattering. His face went pale as tears streamed down his cheeks.
"W-what… who are you? Please, spare me," he stammered, trembling.
With a cold grin, she raised her spiked mace high. With a merciless arc, she brought it down, crushing his skull with a sickening splatter of blood. His final scream was abruptly silenced. The sound of his dying breath lingered in the back of her mind, but there was no room for it now. There never was.
As she exited the town, Mela's footsteps were absorbed by the night. The once-echoing streets fell silent, leaving only distant murmurs of a town that feared her. She moved toward the nearby forest, her form vanishing into the darkness. Mela was both empty and eager for the next challenge. But even she couldn't escape the whisper of doubt that clung to her—the hunt would be endless, and she would face whatever came next—no matter how close it dragged her to the edge.