Chapter 14 : The Ashes of Vallombre
A thin wisp of smoke stung Elara's eyes, the heat licking her face like a tongue of fire. Her small legs, barely thicker than twigs, carried the weight of terror. Before her, the family manor, once so majestic with its pointed towers and glittering windows, was now a gutted shell, a blackened skeleton spewing plumes of gray smoke. The stone, once immaculate, was smeared with a vivid, terrifying red, as if the walls themselves were bleeding.
She stepped forward, her tiny shoes crushing embers beneath her feet. Each step was a struggle, a climb through an infernal landscape. Silent yet deafening screams seemed to vibrate in the smoke-choked air. Shadows danced on the walls, frozen in poses of unspeakable despair. She recognized a torn corner of tapestry, a piece of her butterfly collection crushed under rubble. She recognized her grandmother's rocking chair, overturned, its back broken like a snapped bone.
Elara's face, smeared with soot, reflected a mosaic of emotions. Fear, of course, sharpened by the omnipresent danger. But also confusion, a whirlwind of shattered, incomprehensible images. And beneath it all, a thread of hope, thin but stubborn, pushing her forward. She had to find her parents, her siblings. She had to…
A crack beneath her feet made her jump. Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. She tried to steady herself on a charred beam, her tiny fingers gripping the scorching surface. The pain drew a muffled cry from her, but she pushed herself up, determination squeezing the panic in her small chest. Then she ran, a desperate little figure darting through the hellscape, her silent scream drowned by the roar of the flames. She ran not with the speed of agility, but with the frantic haste of fear and hope intertwined.
The smoke burned her lungs, a thick, nauseating stew of burnt wood and dust. Screams, cracks, the dull roar of flames—too much information assaulted her senses, a deafening chaos that drove her forward, into the infernal maze of the burning manor's corridors. She stumbled, her feet tangling in torn tapestries, the heat licking her face. Then she stopped, frozen.
Her older sister, Élise, lay there, sprawled on the marble floor, her emerald-green dress now blackened and torn. Her face, pale and frozen in an unfinished expression of surprise, was bathed in an eerie orange light. A brutal shock, an electric jolt that ran through her from head to toe. Never, never had she imagined an end so abrupt, so… final. Life, so fragile, as fleeting as a flickering flame. Her heart tightened, an icy vise crushing her chest. She felt her blood freeze, then surge backward through her veins, a cold and violent current. Closing her eyes for a moment, she turned away awkwardly, as if she could erase the horror. Maybe… maybe there were survivors?
She resumed her run, but hope shattered into a thousand pieces just a few steps later. In the hall, bathed in hellish light, a scene of desolation greeted her. Grandfather? Mother? No, they were nothing more than… bodies. Broken forms, scattered like rag dolls, their clothes charred, their flesh… She couldn't look any longer. *Dead*. That was the only word to describe them. The only word echoing in the void of her mind, swallowing all other thoughts. Elara turned her face away, blinded by tears and smoke, unable to bear the weight of those empty gazes, frozen in the eternity of a horrific death. She was afraid. Afraid of losing her mind, of sinking into the abyss of their absence, of losing herself in the void of their extinguished eyes.
At the end of the long, dusty corridor, adorned with stern-faced portraits, a single window let in the pale rays of a rising sun. For Elara, this new day was nothing but a cruel mockery, a grotesque backdrop to the tragedy unfolding behind her. The floorboards creaked under her light steps, each sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the manor. She moved toward her father's study, a silent prayer on her lips, hoping against all odds to find him alive.
The door, usually locked, was ajar, the lock broken, evidence of a violent entry. The acrid smell of burnt wood and metal mingled with dust. Elara approached on tiptoe, her heart pounding in her chest. A voice, hoarse and filled with icy anger, reached her ears, a voice she vaguely recognized but couldn't quite place. It was strangely familiar, a tone she might have heard during a distant visit, a murmur in a dream. The voice was punctuated by short, dry laughs that sent chills down her spine. It was recounting something, Elara could only catch fragments, words filled with threat, with betrayal.
She was about to peek into the room, to unravel the mystery of this silent nightmare, when a deep, hoarse voice, like the rustling of dead leaves, startled her. She turned, a knot of fear tightening in her stomach. An elf, tall and imposing, clad in light, battered armor, stood behind her, a sword with a hilt adorned with strange symbols in his hand. The steel gleamed faintly in the daylight, stained with blood that still looked fresh and viscous. The elf scratched the back of his head with a gloved hand, his expression bored, almost casual, a cruel contrast to the scene of violence unfolding just meters away. His demeanor was that of someone who had seen far worse.
"Little one," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper in the oppressive silence, his sword still at the ready. He took a step toward Elara, the blade pointing downward, but the bloodstain was there, visible like a scar on the metal. "How… did you get in here?"