CHAPTER 18: THE ATTACK ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF IGNIS

A month passed in the blink of an eye, and I had found my place within the Lionheart family. Once strangers had become my lifeline, my new home. Novalie visited regularly, still the same insufferable girl who'd saved me, though now, she was more of an irritating friend than an infuriating hero. Thanks to her, I had a family again, something I hadn't dared to dream of before.

On one of her visits, she offered to show me the land surrounding our home. The world here was far from the wealth and grandeur of the kingdom's heart, it was forgotten by the rich, a place where kindness thrived among those who had little else. Beyond the village stretched the untamed wilderness, where the land grew dark and mysterious. "The Dark Forest," Novalie murmured, her voice barely a breath. Her eyes darted towards the horizon, a shadow passing over her face. "They say it's cursed. Go in, and the monsters will swallow you whole." A shiver ran down my spine, though I couldn't help but be drawn to the thick, oppressive air that seemed to pulse with warnings.

To the west, beyond jagged hills and rugged terrain, stood a castle, though it paled in size beside Titus's towering fortress, the castle still commanded awe with its grandeur, each stone whispering tales of power and ambition. Getting there would take days, if not weeks, of treacherous travel. Novalie flashed a mischievous smile, her eyes gleaming with the arrogance of one who thought the world would bow to her. "One day, I'll rule there and you? You'll be my servant, carrying my bags and doing my bidding. It'll be glorious."

Her tone was laced with playfulness, but there was a glint of ambition in her voice, one that made me wonder if she truly believed it.

To the north stood a house that seemed to breathe with its own eerie presence. It loomed above the other homes, its once-pristine walls cracked, its windows shattered like forgotten memories. It was an unsettling sight, but it felt somehow familiar, haunting, yet beckoning.

"That's where I live," she said softly, her gaze drifting as though lost in thought. "Maybe one day I'll show you." A faint, unreadable sadness clouded her features, one I didn't dare ask about.

The Lionheart household was simple, but it thrived on an unspoken peace. Naomi, my mother, was the heart of the home, though she wore the guise of a humble housewife. Logan, my father, was a blacksmith, forging weapons with the same precision he used to carve through the air with his sword. Every morning, before the sun had even risen, he would awaken, shirtless, with a book in hand, his muscles tense and scarred from years of battle and discipline. His swordsmanship was the stuff of legends, each strike as clean as a death sentence. After training, he would walk to the lake, a bucket in hand, and pour the cool water over his body in a ritual as old as the earth itself.

Our life was simple, but rich with meaning. Money had no place here. Everything was an exchange, father's weapons for livestock, father's farming tools for crops. The trees produced fruits and the lake had an unlimited number of fish, were not owned by anyone, but shared by every person in the outskirts. It was a rare kind of harmony, one I'd never known.

On mother's day of birth, her "birthday," as they called it here, I watched Logan, clearly tipsy from drinking, eye Xanthe's bird with an amused grin. "Kid, I'm craving meat. Let's cook that goose of yours," he slurred.

I attempted to clarify, though with little hope of being understood, that what they saw before them was not a goose, but a phoenix, he burst out laughing. "Not bad, kid. That's one way to save the goose."

A few days later, as night fell, an awful scream pierced the still air. It was a sound that sent a wave of panic crashing through the village. I was shaken awake by my mother's frantic voice, the house trembling with the weight of the chaos outside. The cries of the villagers filled the night, desperate and full of terror.

We rushed to the door to find the once-peaceful land now a battleground. It was the night the dark forest sought to consume our peaceful village. Goblins and ogres rampaged through the streets, setting fire to homes, slaughtering anyone in their path. My father grabbed his sword and handed me, my battle axe, thrusting it into my hands with a grim, determined look. "Stay inside with your mother. Keep her safe," he ordered, voice low and unwavering.

Through the windows, I saw the mage, the handsome man who had been fighting alongside my father. He cast spells with fluid precision, cutting down goblins like they were nothing. My father's blade moved in time with the mage's magic, both of them a deadly dance of steel and sorcery.

Then, without warning, the window shattered. Goblins poured in, their grotesque forms moving with animalistic fury. Before I could react, my mother stepped in front of me, wielding a broom like a weapon, a fierce protector.

"Get behind me!" she yelled, her face a mask of resolve.

The words were barely out of her mouth when I felt something deep inside me stir, something primal, something powerful. Without thinking, I spoke.

"Stop breathing."

My voice reverberated, as though it were not mine alone, but the sound of two voices intertwined. The goblins froze, their eyes wide with terror. They clawed at their throats, gasping for air, but no matter how they struggled, it was too late. They crumpled to the ground, lifeless, before my mother could even comprehend what had just happened.

"You're…an irregular," she whispered, her voice trembling. "At such a young age…"

I feigned surprise, letting my gaze drift down to my hands, as if they weren't my own. Though I knew the truth far too well, it wasn't my palms that held the power. No, it was Xanthe's earrings.

"You must have awakened," my mother murmured, her eyes wide with realization. "This stress, it unlocked something inside you."

Before I could respond, the door was blasted open, a massive ogre filling the frame. It lurched forward, each step heavy with the promise of destruction. Just as I prepared to fight, a burst of flame erupted from the corner of the room. Xanthe's phoenix, its feathers blazing with fiery intensity, soared through the air, claws extended. The ogre howled in pain, its skin scorching as the bird's talons raked across its flesh. With a final, agonizing scream, the ogre fled outside, consumed by flames as it collapsed into the night.

"So it was a phoenix," my mother murmured, still trying to process everything.

I didn't have time to dwell on it. A second flame rose in the distance, towards the north. My mother's eyes widened in fear. "Jack," she said, her voice tight with urgency. "We have to go. That's where Novalie lives. Her father's already there, fighting." Her finger trembled as she pointed towards the mage from earlier.

I didn't need to be told twice. My heart pounded as we rushed towards the darkening horizon.