The Night Of Fire

Lucian smelled smoke before he saw the flames.

The distant glow of burning homes painted the night sky in sickly hues of orange and red, and the air reeked of blood and ash. Screams echoed in the distance—shouts of men, the shrill cries of women, the helpless wails of children. The war had finally reached their village.

Lucian's heart pounded as he stumbled through the forest, breath ragged, hands shaking. He didn't know how long he had been running. Minutes? Hours? His legs burned, but he couldn't stop now—not when the village was still in flames.

"Lilia…"

The name escaped his lips like a prayer.

He had gone hunting in the mountains that morning, unaware that it would be the last time he saw his home intact. When he returned, he found only fire and ruin. He had searched desperately for her, his childhood friend—the girl he had promised to protect.

He found only her bloodstained scarf, clutched in the hands of a dying priest.

"She was taken to the temple…" the priest had rasped. "Run, boy. The war has already chosen its victims."

Lucian didn't run. Not then. He had fought his way through the burning streets, through smoke and chaos, dodging blades and arrows, pushing forward toward the temple. He had almost reached it—almost seen her one last time.

But then came the man in white armor.

The one who slaughtered his people with a smile.

The one who cut him down and left him for dead.

Lucian clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. His side throbbed where the soldier's blade had cut deep, but he couldn't let pain stop him. Not yet.

Ahead, the forest opened into a clearing. The village temple stood in the center—a place of worship, now desecrated by war. Soldiers in silver armor patrolled the bloodstained steps, their blades slick with the lives they had taken.

And there, in the center of it all, stood him.

The man in white armor.

Lucian's vision blurred with rage.

He could barely make out the lifeless bodies scattered across the temple steps. His people. His neighbors. His family. But his eyes fixed on only one thing—the broken figure lying at the commander's feet.

Lilia.

Lucian's breath caught in his throat. Her golden hair was streaked with crimson, her white dress torn and lifeless. She wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing.

No. No, no, no—

He staggered forward, not caring if he was seen. He had to reach her. He had to—

A voice rang out. Cold. Amused. Uncaring.

"Another one survived? How fortunate."

The man in white armor turned, his piercing eyes meeting Lucian's. Mocking him.

Lucian screamed in fury and charged. His hands reached for the sword at his side—his father's sword—the only thing he had left.

But before he could raise it, the man moved like lightning.

A flash of silver. A sharp pain.

Lucian collapsed to the ground, gasping, blood spilling from his chest.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The night sky above him blurred as his strength left him, his fingers twitching uselessly against the dirt.

The man in white crouched beside him, tilting his head as if Lucian was nothing more than an insect crushed beneath his boot.

"A foolish thing, clinging to hope." He sighed, standing. "Leave him. He'll be dead by sunrise."

The last thing Lucian saw before darkness took him was Lilia's lifeless form—her hand inches away from his.

And then, everything faded.