The city was in flames.
Screams tore through the air, overlapping in an echo of agony, and one by one, everyone was swallowed by the constant cackling noises echoing from the undead army.
He was too far to help, his eyes spun around, searching somewhere that hadn't been torn apart. Frozen. Every nerve in his body yelled at him to not go back, yet his legs ran towards his home…
The streets reeked of burnt flesh and blood. Guts glued to cobblestone paths, torn intestines draped from shattered windowsills like grotesque banners. He stepped over something slick, a hand, severed at the wrist, fingers still twitching. The bone jutted from the stump. Familiar faces lay twisted and unrecognizable, skin flayed open, mouths locked in soundless horror. Bones protruded like grotesque sculptures, cracked and splintered. Limbs had been tossed across alleyways. A child's torso lay torn in two, its spine jutting from the meat like a snapped blade.
Some of them still breathed. They didn't speak, couldn't. What remained of their throats gurgled wetly with blood, too thick to form words. Their eyes were glassy, mouths slack in expressions that spoke not of pain, but of final relief.
The boy's face couldn't express more of his utter disbelief, a snippet of despairness starting to cling to him with the mix of shock, his own body felt cold, contrasting with the burning buildings surrounding him, their warmth just pinching through his body, what felt like cold sweat ran towards his spine.
The blood kept flowing. It gushed from open bellies, sprayed from necks like fountains, soaked into the dirt until it turned to mud. The metallic scent thickened in the air, seeping into the back of his throat until he gagged at the sight.
And there, not far from the ruins of what had been his home, she lay on the ground. Her fingers curled once, then stopped. Her body twitched, but her eyes… faded. A man stood above her, his boots sunk deep into the blood pooling beneath her torso. His clothes were soaked, not with his own blood, but the remnants of those he had slaughtered. His silver hair rippled in the wind. Small glass vials filled with dark powder clinked softly at his belt.
Without hesitation, he grabbed her corpse by the throat, and she erupted into emerald flames, alive and violent, roaring up with a hiss that sounded like breathing. The figure turned and looked at him. Smiling. His lips moved, but no sound came, only static, like the world itself had gone mute.
The fire climbed the man's arm, growing brighter as it connected with him. The boy could only watch, helpless, as the flames consumed the flesh of his loved one, turning it black… then translucent… then nothing. Muscles curled and peeled. Bone cracked, flaked, and then disintegrated. Nothing was left, no hair, no skin, not even ash. Just dust, scattered on the wind as opposed to the man who was unscathed despite the fire covering his arm.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
The man turned again, walking slowly, deliberately, each step louder than the last. His hands dripped blood, now drying in thick, crusted flakes. His grin expanded, as if his skin would snap as he moved closer.
The boy looked around. The city was dead. The fire still burned, but no screams followed it. Only silence.
"Help…" he choked. "Somebody…"
No answer.
His knees gave out. He collapsed, breath shallow, eyes straining toward the sky in desperation. And there. Something tore open above. A crack, almost surreal, like the sky itself had collapsed.
"Cael."
He heard a familiar voice, not being able to make up its exact origin.
"Huh?" A warm hand touched his shoulder, a whisper followed.
"Cael. Wake up."
"Uhh… what is it, Louis?" he replied, still groggy.
His friend knelt beside him, his tall figure hunched slightly to avoid the low ceiling beams.
The dark cloak he wore clung to him like a second skin, worn and frayed near the edges, the uniform of the hunters.
His friend's light blonde messy hair was tied back in a rough knot, and from beneath the folds of his coat, his hazel eyes filled with a face of uncertainty. The handle of a slender blade glinted faintly in the small light of the lamp light.
He had a familiar look on his face: awkward, concerned, unsure if he should press further or just stay silent
"You were moving in your sleep again," he said in a low voice, his gaze slowly moving towards Caelen. "Bad dream?"
"I'm fine," he dismissed.
The nightmares had gotten worse.
Caelen sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His dark brown hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. The bags under his eyes had darkened over the past weeks, signs that sleep no longer came easy. He looked older than seventeen in moments like this, his sharp features set in a constant half-frown.
He pulled his cloak tighter around him, trying to shake the chill the dream left behind. It didn't help.
Looking around the cold surroundings of the tent, a distant lamp dimly lit the room to his side where both his and Louis's knapsacks were. Above his knapsack stood a backgammon
I remember… After losing five games in a row, I got frustrated and went to sleep. After all, it was Louis' turn to watch the surroundings.
With a face of uncertainty, Louis carried on with his message. "It seems The Captain found a herd." In the distance could be heard a high-pitched whistle piercing the air.
Seriously, so soon? He thought, his expression waking up from the drowsiness. He knew The Captain was a skilled man with over twelve years of expertise in these hunts, yet his skills always impressed him; his impeccable abilities granted him a humble amount of fame in town.
Hunting had become a gamble with their lives, even simple animals could quickly become dangerous. Some species tend to be smarter, stronger, and faster than they seem; luckily for them, their leader was good at prospecting for prey.
A job only for those selfless, food was scarce, trading routes were slow due to the lasting winter, albeit more dangerous due to the weather, the gold made from these hunts provided enough value to risk your life for it.
Not bringing enough game could end with many people's lives. The economy was at the brink of collapsing under the threat of starvation easily, the harvest hadn't been the greatest due to a series of droughts through spring. At this point the lives at play weren't only the ones out hunting but also the ones awaiting back in town.
Everything could seem obvious from a regular folk's perspective, but these hunters were almost required to remind themselves of what they fight for. Even against uncertainty, a harsh ambient, and no hands to help you, they have to persevere among those challenges.
He grabbed his quiver on the way out, twelve—no, ten arrows awaited him, as he had clumsily dropped two arrows on the ground without noticing.