Chapter 81
In the heart of the forest, Daran's feet moved with a purpose that only dreamers could understand. For years, he had dreamed of the kingdom. Every night, the same vision—ancient stone walls, green fields that stretched endlessly, rivers that sang in the moonlight. His people spoke of it in hushed tones, a place of peace, untouched by the hands of men. It was paradise.
Now, as Daran approached, the forest grew quiet. The wind didn't stir the leaves. The sun, once bright, hung lower, casting a thin, gray light. He had walked for days, driven by something he couldn't name. His heart beat louder, not from excitement, but from a deep, gnawing dread.
The kingdom should have been within sight by now.
His feet dragged as he pushed past the last line of trees. When he broke through, he froze.
There was no kingdom.
Instead, the earth was scorched. The ground cracked, blackened by fire. The remains of stone buildings jutted from the ground, half-buried. Where the rivers once had run clear, there was now only a shallow, muddy trench. Silence filled the place, a silence too thick to breathe in.
Daran's breath quickened. His knees trembled beneath him, but he didn't fall. He stepped forward, slowly, his hands shaking. It couldn't be real. It had to be a mistake, some cruel trick.
He made his way deeper into what was once the kingdom, where the grass had been green and soft. Now, it was brown and withered. The smell of smoke and death clung to the air. Pieces of shattered pottery littered the ground, like discarded toys. His heart thudded in his chest, and a cold sweat covered his skin.
He stopped at the remnants of a building, its stone walls broken and jagged. The door had been torn from its frame, lying halfway across the ground, bent as though something heavy had fallen on it. Daran kneeled down, staring at the remnants. His fingers brushed over the fragments.
Then he saw it—a symbol. Half-burned into the door, the mark of humans.
Daran stood abruptly, his fists clenched. His thoughts spun in a frenzy. They had come. The humans had come. He had heard the stories, the whispers, the warnings. But he had never imagined this. This level of destruction, this brutality.
No, he wouldn't accept it. They hadn't just destroyed his home—they had torn the life from it, the memory, everything. The fires had eaten the trees, the soil, the sky. And for what? To turn paradise into nothing?
His mind raced. There was no justice, no retribution. There was only vengeance.
Daran's hands trembled, but not from fear. His eyes flickered to the remains of a statue that once stood tall at the center of the kingdom, its features chipped, its limbs broken. What could he do? He had no family left, no people to protect. The only thing that mattered now was what was left of him—and his rage.
The scream that broke the silence of the ruins didn't come from his lips. It came from within. He couldn't understand it, but it felt as if the scream was his soul crying out in pain, in loss.
The humans would pay.
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The first one came at dusk. Daran's senses, sharpened by years of survival in the wilderness, caught the soft crunch of boots on the dry ground. It was a man, tall, with a sword hanging loosely at his side. His eyes widened when he saw Daran.
"Get away from here, elf," the man said, raising his sword.
Daran didn't speak. He didn't have to. He lunged, faster than the man could react. The sword came down, but Daran was already on him. His fingers wrapped around the man's neck, squeezing until the body went limp. The sword fell to the ground with a metallic thud.
There were no words. Only the sound of his own breath, heavy and ragged, and the satisfaction that came with feeling the life drain from the man's body.
It wasn't enough.
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As the days wore on, Daran became something else. His rage burned through him, fueling him with a need for destruction. Each human he found was a target. He moved through the forest like a wraith, a ghost of fury, his presence barely noticeable until it was too late.
But the more he killed, the less he felt. The bodies piled up, and the faces became blurrier. There was no joy in it, no victory. Only emptiness.
The humans tried to fight back, but they were no match for him. They didn't understand. They didn't know what they had taken. Each life he snuffed out didn't bring him closer to peace—it only fed the growing emptiness inside him. He wasn't avenging anyone. He wasn't saving anyone. He was just killing, over and over, as if that would bring his kingdom back.
But there was nothing left.
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It was the fifth day of his blood-soaked rampage when he found her. She was alone, hiding among the ruins of a building. Her hair, long and tangled, framed her face, and her eyes were wide with fear as she crouched low, trembling.
Daran approached slowly. She didn't scream. She didn't run. She knew what he was capable of.
"You're the last one," he said, his voice rough, like the sound of gravel grinding underfoot.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
"I've taken it all," he whispered, his voice hollow. "I've taken everything from them."
And then, without a second thought, he raised his blade.
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When the sun rose the next day, Daran stood alone among the ruins, his hands stained with the blood of both his enemies and his own kind. There was nothing left for him to destroy. No one left to hurt.
He dropped to his knees in the ash. There was no kingdom. There were no people. There was only him—and the hollow, broken thing he had become.
The winds stirred. But they didn't carry the scent of life.
They carried only the smell of death.