The smoke clung to my lungs, thick and suffocating. My legs felt sluggish, my body aching from the explosion.
The city was unrecognizable. Flames licked the sides of buildings, turning homes into charred ruins. Streets once filled with people going about their daily lives were now covered in rubble and bodies. The scent of burning wood mixed with something far worse.
I forced myself forward, navigating the shattered remains of the district. The sounds of fighting were still close—clashes of steel, the occasional burst of magic, and the screams that never seemed to end. Every street I turned down felt like the wrong one, blocked by debris or occupied by soldiers I didn't recognize. I kept my head low, my breathing controlled, trying not to draw attention.
Then I heard relaxed speaking amidst the chaos.
I pressed myself against the wall of a half-destroyed bakery, peering through the broken window. Three soldiers stood at the intersection ahead, dressed in dark armor, their insignia one I didn't recognize. Raevaryn.
They were talking in hushed but urgent tones, their weapons drawn, scanning the area as if looking for something—or someone. If they spotted me, I wouldn't be able to fight back. Not like this. My magic was unreliable at best, and without Silas or Cassian, I was alone.
I took a slow step back, careful not to make any noise. A loose shard of glass cracked under my foot. One of the soldiers stiffened, turning his head toward the noise.
I didn't wait.
I bolted.
Shouts erupted behind me, the clanking of metal boots hitting the stone pavement as they gave chase. My heart pounded against my ribs as I ducked into the nearest alleyway, forcing myself to move faster despite the burning in my legs. The alley was tight, winding, and filled with overturned carts and barrels. I vaulted over a fallen crate, twisting through the narrow paths, trying to lose them.
One of them shouted something I didn't catch, and a blast of wind slammed into my back, sending me sprawling forward. I hit the ground hard, pain jolting through my ribs. I barely had time to roll before an ice spear embedded itself in the dirt where my head had been a second ago.
They were too fast. I wouldn't outrun them like this.
Forcing myself up, I spotted a collapsed building to my right, the second floor still partially intact. Without thinking, I scrambled up the rubble, using the unstable remains to climb. The soldiers yelled behind me, cursing as they tried to follow.
I reached the edge of the rooftop and jumped.
The landing was rough. I barely managed to tuck into a roll, my shoulder scraping against the rough stone, but I didn't stop. I ran across the connected rooftops, leaping from one to the next. Below, the soldiers had lost sight of me, their voices growing more distant as I put more distance between us.
By the time I climbed down into another alley, my hands were shaking, my breath ragged. My legs threatened to give out, but I forced them to keep going. I was close now.
I turned onto the street that led to my home and froze.
The Hale estate stood at the far end of the road, its towering iron gates twisted and broken, barely clinging to the stone pillars that once held them firm. The front garden, once carefully maintained with trimmed hedges and pristine stone paths, was a ruin of scorched earth and shattered glass. Pieces of the outer walls had crumbled, the once-grand entrance marred with deep gashes, as if something massive had torn through it.
The mansion itself still stood, but it was no longer the untouchable fortress I had always known. The left wing had collapsed inward, burying part of the structure in a pile of rubble and dust. Smoke curled from several windows, blackened by fire, and the balcony where my mother used to stand in the evenings was missing half its railing.
I swallowed, my throat dry.
Where was she?
I stepped forward, my boots crunching against the gravel. The silence pressed against my ears, heavier than the chaos I had left behind. No voices, no movement.
My mother should have been here. She should have been calling for the servants, checking on my father, demanding answers. She always kept things in order, always made sure we were safe.
But the door hung open, its heavy wooden frame splintered, and the inside was dark.
I forced myself up the steps, my pulse hammering against my skull. My mother had to be here. She was always here. She wouldn't have just—
I stepped inside.
The scent of blood was suffocating. It clung to the walls, soaked into the once-polished marble floor, drowning out even the smoke in the air.
I stepped forward, my boots squelching against blood. My stomach twisted violently as I looked down. A guard. I knew him—Ronan, a man who had served our household for years. His armor was caved in, the metal crumpled like paper, his chest crushed by something heavy. His sword was still in his hand, but his fingers were limp, lifeless.
I tore my eyes away, but it didn't help.
Everywhere I looked, there were bodies.
A maid was pinned against the wall, a jagged spike of earth speared straight through her abdomen, lifting her off the ground like some cruel display. Her face was frozen in shock, her lips parted as if she had tried to scream but never got the chance. Another servant, a young boy barely older than me, lay sprawled at the base of the staircase, his skull split open, blood dripping down the steps like spilled ink.
The battle had been swift. Merciless.
I turned in a daze, my mind struggling to process the sheer scale of the carnage. This wasn't a fight. This was a massacre.
The walls bore deep, jagged scars, as if massive stone claws had torn through them. The floor was cracked apart, great slabs of marble jutting upwards, some with bodies crushed beneath them. A storm of earth magic had torn through this place, everysingle bodies here had been pierced through their abdomen.
I felt detached from my own body, my limbs moving stiffly as I walked further in. It was so quiet now. Too quiet, or it felt like it.
This hall had once been filled with warmth—laughter, footsteps echoing through the corridors, the scent of my mother's favorite lavender incense drifting from the upper floors. Now, it was nothing but death.
Where were they?
I stumbled through the wreckage, my breath coming in shallow gasps, until my eyes landed on something familiar in the center of the room.
A body, draped in white, soaked in red.
My heart stopped.
Mother.
I didn't even realize I had moved until I was on my knees beside her.
She looked smaller than I remembered. Maybe it was because she wasn't standing tall, wasn't holding herself with that quiet grace, that presence of authority. Her dark hair, usually pinned up, was now spread across the bloodstained floor, strands sticking to her pale skin. Her eyes—I couldn't see them. Her lids had fallen shut, like she had simply drifted off to sleep.
She had been fine this morning.
She had spoken to me, smiled at me. Told me to eat, to take care. I barely even looked at her. I just muttered something and left.
And now she was here. And she wasn't moving.
She isn't going to speak again. She isn't going to call my name.
The thought hit me harder than I could handle. My hands shook as I reached for her, hesitant, almost afraid that touching her would make it real. But my fingers brushed against her hand, and the warmth was already gone.
A choked sound tore from my throat.
"Mom…"
The word barely came out, strangled by something thick and unbearable in my chest. I squeezed her hand, willing it to move, willing her to respond.
"Mom…"
I said it again, but nothing changed. My voice cracked, breaking apart, turning into something desperate.
"Mom… Mom… Mom…"
I kept saying it, over and over, as if the word itself could pull her back. As if just calling for her the way I used to would make her wake up, make her smile at me again. But she didn't move. She didn't answer.
I wish I said this word more often.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and stinging as they slid down my face. I couldn't stop them. I clutched at her, my forehead pressing against her arm, my whole body trembling.
I should have been here.
I should have done something.
I had spent so much time thinking, planning, training, but for what? None of it mattered now. None of it could change this.
"Mom..."
The house was so quiet. Even the distant sounds of battle outside felt like they were fading away, swallowed by the weight of this moment. I could barely breathe past the tightness in my throat, the suffocating pressure in my chest.
And then—beneath all the grief, beneath the unbearable ache—came something else.
Someone did this.
Someone came into my home, tore through the people who served us, who protected us, and killed my mother. They left her like this. Alone. Cold.
My hands curled into fists, still trembling against her. The tears didn't stop.
Whoever did this, they won't leave unnoticed, unscathed by me.
I clutched my mother's hand, still unable to tear my eyes away from her lifeless form. The room felt like it was closing in on me, like the weight of it all—her death, my helplessness—was suffocating. But something in the back of my mind whispered a lesson I had heard countless times before.
My father's voice echoed in my head, low and steady, the way he would speak when he knew I wasn't ready to listen but needed to hear it anyway: "Emotions are like a storm, Julian. You cannot let them drown you. A person consumed by their anger, grief, any kinds of emotion is no different from someone blown by the wind. A leaf carried by a current of a river. You lose yourself."
I could feel the fury and sadness rising within me, clawing at my chest, threatening to break free, but I forced myself to steady my breath. I couldn't afford to drown in this.
I couldn't let this make me weak.
Being absorbed by my rage and grief would mean my own death among this chaos. I had to bury it down, lock it away, just like my father had taught me. It didn't matter that my heart felt like it was breaking in two; it didn't matter that every part of me screamed to scream, to lash out, to do something—anything.
I couldn't.
I steadied my hands, took a deep breath, and took a one last look at my mother's face. My eyes burned, but I refused to let them spill over. The pain would have to wait.
I needed to find my father and my sister.
They were still out there, somewhere. And I couldn't afford to fall apart.
My mind went to the lessons my father had drilled into me—on control, on wars, on keeping myself composed. This was no different. My emotions would have to be locked away until I could make sense of it all.
I stood up, feeling the coldness of the floor beneath my feet, the weight of what had just happened still hanging heavily around me. I wiped my face, brushing away the tears I didn't want to acknowledge, and turned toward the door.
There was nothing left for me here, no answers. But there were questions and answers out there.
I had to find my father and sister. They should flee out of the city to the north, but they shouldn't be out of the city just yet. I'll have to run on foot to the north border of the city.
Going out of the mansion I started going through buildings, though I needed to find them, my own life takes priority. They can take care of themselves.
The halls were eerily quiet, the silence only broken by my own footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. The stench of blood and smoke was thick in the air, a constant reminder of the chaos outside. My heart pounded in my chest as I moved swiftly through the mansion.
I reached another tunnel, my gaze scanning each corner, the tension building with every step. I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that time was slipping away. I had to find them—there was no other choice.
As I turned a corner, I froze.
There, down the hallway, standing next to a crumpled figure—someone I never expected to see here—was Rowan Renhart.
I blinked, my breath catching in my throat as I took in the sight of him. His armor was dented and scarred, bloodstains marring the metal. His eyes were hard, unfocused. And beside him, someone from the other country lay motionless on the floor.
Rowan didn't seem to notice me at first. He was staring down at the body with an unreadable expression, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword. When he finally looked up and saw me, it was as if he was seeing a ghost. His face was a mask, but I could see the strain behind his eyes.
"Julian?" he said, his voice rough, like he'd been shouting too much already. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for my family," I said, voice tight, barely able to hold the panic that threatened to break free. "My father, my sister—have you seen them?"
Rowan's gaze flickered, and for a brief moment, I saw something—something pained and weary—before he covered it up with a hardened expression. He shook his head slowly.
"I have," he replied, his voice quieter now. "Your father and I just bumped, he was with Lillian going to the academy for you."
"I have to find them," I said, already turning to leave. Rowan stepped forward, his hand gripping my arm, stopping me.
"Wait," he said, his voice urgent. "The city's a warzone. It's not safe. You're better off staying with me." he continued, "I'm looking for Silas and mom, too. We'd have higher chance of survivability, together."
I agreed and we took off.
As Rowan continued his relentless advance through the enemy soldiers, I stayed a few paces behind, my mind constantly working, analyzing each situation. The soldiers in front of us weren't as organized as they should've been—they were flustered, likely inexperienced. The way they hesitated and grouped in clusters meant their coordination was poor, a weakness. I can exploit it later if the opportunity presented itself.
I kept my distance from the fighting, my eyes scanning the area. Every person I passed, every movement of Rowan's, every shift in the wind was a piece of data that I processed. Rowan's speed was undeniable, but the way he moved was calculated—he wasn't wasting energy. Each strike was an opportunity. The reinforcement magic that flowed through him was an advantage, but it wasn't foolproof. His stamina, his mental state—those things were variables. A few more fights like this, and his magic would start to wane. It was important to keep our pace sustainable.
I couldn't afford to be caught up in the heat of the moment. That's where mistakes happened, where people underestimated their limits. The enemy wasn't just a threat because of their numbers or strength; they were a threat because their desperation made them unpredictable. They could make stupid choices, desperate moves—and that made them dangerous in the short term, but it also meant they were fragile. Keep them on the defensive, and they'd crumble.
I had to focus. The path ahead was still unclear, but there were patterns. Every time we turned a corner, I noted the movements of the soldiers in the distance, their formations. They weren't spreading out; they were grouping up. That meant they were consolidating, preparing for something. But what? They couldn't be so organized if they were just storming through.
An enemy mage conjuring an elemental, fire affinity magic was visible. "Julian, stay back!" Rowan shouted, his voice cutting through my thoughts. He had sliced through the soldier with the ease of someone who had done this countless times.
"I'm fine," I replied, keeping my voice steady, but the mental gears were already turning. The soldiers in the street weren't running after us; they weren't even trying to flank us. They were more concerned with securing the area.
"Keep moving!" Rowan called, his face stern. But I didn't just follow blindly. I had to know where we were going. We couldn't just run without a plan.
I looked ahead and thought, calculated the risks. We needed to stay out of view as much as possible. These soldiers were looking for something—or someone—and that meant there was a high chance they hadn't noticed us fully yet. I wasn't worried about being spotted immediately. They were busy with their mission, and their attention wasn't on every corner of the street. We could slip through, but I couldn't waste time. We had to get to higher ground—somewhere I could see the entire area.
"That way," I said, pointing down an alley to the left. It wasn't the fastest route, but it gave us cover, and it would allow me to get a better visual on the situation. I turned left, suddenly and could hear Rowan's footsteps behind me as he followed.
As we passed through the alley, I noted the change in the sounds around us. The crackle of fire in the distance. The rhythmic thud of boots marching in unison. They were preparing for something. Their attention was shifting. I needed to piece this together—why weren't they giving chase?
It wasn't just about fighting; it was about knowing when to move, when to stay, and when to outsmart them. Rowan's magic was formidable, but it wasn't invincible. If he overexerted himself, he'd run out of steam.
I turned my attention to the streets ahead of us. The soldiers weren't as numerous here, but that didn't mean we were in the clear. They were everywhere, but we had the advantage of navigating through the narrow alleys.
"They're preparing for something," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to him. "Their movements changed, probably according to their plan."
Rowan gave me a side glance but didn't say anything. His focus was already back on the battlefield, taking in the same information I was.