The forest held its breath that night.
No wind. No insects. No distant owls.
Just silence — thick and waiting.
Arin sat high on his father's shoulders, fingers tangled in his hair, laughing as fireflies drifted like fallen stars over the fields. His mother watched from the doorway, her lullaby soft and old, the melody worn smooth by generations. The stars above seemed close enough to touch.
Then the ground shuddered.
A low roar rolled across the plains — vast and hollow, like the sky itself had cracked open. The horses screamed in their pens. Birds burst from the trees in a frenzy of wings.
A red bloom stained the horizon.
His father went still.
He lowered Arin to the grass slowly, too slowly. His hand found the sword at his hip — a blade that had not left its sheath in years.
"Inside," he said quietly. Not loud. Not panicked. That made it worse.
"Lock the door. No matter what you hear."
"Papa?"
But he was already running toward the rising glow.
The screams began soon after.
They tore through the night — sharp, ragged, cut short. Steel rang against steel. Something unnatural shrieked in answer. The wind shifted, carrying smoke… and something fouler beneath it.
Burning that was not wood.
Arin's mother dragged him and his sister into the far corner of the house, wrapping them both in her arms. Her prayers trembled apart between breaths. The walls shook as if giants walked outside.
Then something struck the door.
It burst inward in a storm of splinters — and through the wreckage stumbled his father.
His armor hung in pieces. Blood soaked his side. One eye was already swelling shut.
"Run," he rasped. "Take them and—"
The doorway darkened.
A shape filled it. Horns scraping the frame. Skin like charred stone. Eyes burning, not bright, but deep — like coals buried in ash.
The demon stepped inside.
His father moved first.
His sword flashed — but the demon was faster. A claw caught the blade mid-swing and tore it from his grip. The next motion was almost casual.
Blood painted the wall.
"Papa!"
The world broke.
His father's body struck the far beam hard enough to crack it. The roof groaned. The demon roared, and the sound alone seemed to split the air.
The house came down in a rain of wood and dust.
Pain exploded through Arin's ribs. Smoke swallowed everything. Somewhere beside him, his sister cried out — once — before the sound was cut away. His mother screamed as timber crushed her legs, pinning her beneath the wreckage.
"Arin!" she choked. "Don't—"
The demon's shadow loomed through the haze.
Arin clawed forward, coughing, reaching for her hand.
And then the night split open.
Gold.
A figure descended through the smoke like a falling star. Cloaked in light, untouched by ash. One of the Seven.
The Hero's blade burned white.
He moved once.
The demon's head struck the dirt with a wet hiss.
Silence followed.
Arin sagged in relief — but it lasted only a heartbeat.
The Hero turned.
Up close, there was no warmth in his gaze. Only calculation.
"More are coming," he said. His voice was steady, almost bored. "She cannot move."
Arin's mother understood first.
Her fingers found Arin's sleeve. Weak. Shaking.
"Go," she whispered. "Live."
"I'm not leaving you!" Arin's voice broke. "I won't!"
The Hero stepped forward.
The blade flashed.
It was clean. Efficient.
Her hand fell from his sleeve.
For a moment, there was no sound at all.
No fire. No wind. No breath.
Arin's vision drained of color — white swallowing red, red drowning white — until even the world itself seemed to collapse inward.
And then there was nothing.