E: The Cruel Dance of Fire and Air

Elena had never seen something so awful before.

A man, or what had once been a man, staggered forward, his body wreathed in flames. His mouth was open, but no sound came out—his voice had burned away before his life had. His arms flailed weakly, as if trying to grasp the air itself, to hold onto something, anything, before he collapsed. The fire devoured him like a living thing, flickering hungrily, casting wild shadows against the broken walls of the home he had once lived in.

Elena couldn't move.

The smell—thick, cloying, a mixture of meat and something worse—curled in her nose, sticking to the back of her throat. She wanted to gag. She wanted to turn away. But she was frozen, her legs stiff as stone, her small hands clutching the hem of her mother's dress.

She had seen a chicken beheaded before. Once. It had flapped around for a while after losing its head, but it wasn't this. It wasn't a man.

Tears blurred her vision, but she couldn't cry. Her chest felt too tight, as if the world had pressed down on her all at once.

Someone chuckled.

A shadow moved near the ruined doorway. The fire's glow licked at the edges of a dark figure—a man standing leisurely, arms folded, as if enjoying a pleasant evening breeze. His clothes were elegant, black and silver, unmarred by the blood and soot of the village he had just burned. His long, pale fingers tapped idly against his sleeve.

His eyes, a sharp silver-gray, gleamed like a wolf's in the night. "Name's Eric." He introduced himself.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" His voice was smooth, easy, as if he were discussing the weather. "Fire has a way of revealing things. People scream, they beg, they claw at the ground—until they don't. Until they're just… gone." He exhaled through his nose, as if savoring a fine scent. "Ah, but look at you."

His gaze dropped to Elena.

She flinched.

His smile widened.

"You're trembling."

Elena tried to stop. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

"I—" Her voice cracked. She didn't know what she was trying to say.

"She's a child," her mother said sharply, stepping in front of her. Her voice was steady, but Elena could feel the way her fingers tightened against her arm.

"A child?" The young man tilted his head. "I don't believe in such things. Children become corpses the same as anyone else. Fire doesn't care how many birthdays you've had."

Elena swallowed, forcing herself to breathe. She was scared. She was terrified. But there was something else too—something hot, rising in her chest.

Anger.

The man had burned their village. He had killed people—was still killing people—and now he was talking like it was nothing. Like it was entertainment.

Elena clenched her fists.

"Killing is bad," she blurted out.

Eric raised a brow. Then, to her shock, he laughed. A low, amused chuckle, as if she had told a particularly funny joke.

"Bad?" He shook his head, grinning. "Now, there's a word I haven't heard in a while."

"It is!" Elena took a shaky step forward, peering past her mother. Her voice wavered, but she pushed on. "Taking people's lives—hurting them for no reason—it's wrong!"

Eric studied her for a moment, then hummed.

"Tell me, little one." He crouched slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. His gaze was sharp, cutting through the flickering light. "Who taught you that?"

Elena hesitated.

The answer came instinctively, but something deep inside her, something small and warning, told her not to say it. But she was seven. Seven, and terrified, and defiant.

"My brother."

Eric's smile sharpened.

"Your brother?" His voice was a purr now, smooth as silk. "And what might this brother of yours be called?"

Elena felt her mother's grip tighten on her arm again.

"Elena, don't—"

"Lance."

The second the name left her lips, something shifted.

It wasn't just Eric's expression—it was the air itself, thickening, tightening, like the world had taken a slow breath and held it. His smile remained, but the ease in it vanished. In its place was something sharper, more deliberate.

"Lance," he repeated, rolling the name over his tongue like tasting a fine wine. "Your brother."

Elena swallowed.

Eric's eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "And what, I wonder, has this brother of yours told you about the world?"

She hesitated.

The words came to her like a whisper from the past, her brother's voice strong and certain.

"Killing innocent people is bad," she said.

Eric exhaled through his nose. Then he laughed—a low, amused sound, full of something that made Elena's stomach twist.

"Innocent?" His voice was almost mocking. "Ah, children always cling to such simple words. 'Bad.' 'Wrong.' 'Evil.' Things must be one or the other, yes?" He spread his arms wide, as if gesturing to the burning village around them. "Then tell me, little one—what about fire?"

Elena blinked. "What?"

"Fire," Eric repeated. His silver eyes gleamed in the flickering glow. "Is it bad? It destroys homes. It devours forests. It kills people. It has turned your village to ash."

Elena's fists clenched.

"But fire also creates. It forges steel. It bakes bread. It brings warmth to the cold. It purifies." He took a slow step forward, and despite herself, Elena stepped back. His voice was rising now, growing more fervent.

"Your world—your tiny, fragile world—is built on the ashes of another. Every kingdom stands on a graveyard. Every law is written in blood. You cry for the dead, but tell me, little one—who cried for the ones who died before them?"

Elena's breath caught in her throat.

Her mother was thinking—Elena could see it in the way her fingers twitched against her wrist, in the way her gaze flicked to the side, measuring the distance between them and the door, between them and escape.

But she stayed still.

Eric continued.

"You call me a murderer," he murmured. "But the kings you kneel to—they send men to war. They burn villages like this one for gold instead of sport. They spill blood for thrones instead of amusement." He crouched slightly, eyes level with Elena's. "And yet, they are called rulers, and I am called a monster."

Elena shuddered.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that none of it made sense, that nothing could justify this.

But she couldn't breathe.

The fire crackled. The scent of burning flesh clung to the air.

Her brother's voice whispered in her mind.

"Killing innocent people is bad."

Her mother's fingers twitched again.

She's looking for a way out.

Elena forced herself to stand straighter.

"My brother said—" Her voice was small, but she pushed through. "He said people like you always have reasons. That they twist things to make it sound right."

Eric tilted his head.

"He said hurting people for no reason is wrong," she whispered.

Eric smiled.

"Then I suppose the difference between me and your brother is simple." His voice was a purr, smooth and dangerous. "I do have a reason."

Her mother moved.

Elena felt the sudden pull—her mother's grip yanking her backward, her body twisting as if she could shield her from what was coming.

Then—

A whisper. A soundless slice through the air, too fast to see.

The moment hung, stretched, silent.

Then the blood came.

Elena didn't see the wound at first. She only saw the way her mother gasped, as if the air had been stolen from her lungs. The way her eyes widened, her fingers twitching. The way her lips parted, searching for words that never came.

Then the red bloomed—dark and deep, spreading from her chest like ink spilling across a page.

A perfect, razor-thin hole.

Elena's mind refused to process it.

Her mother collapsed to her knees first. Then, slowly, as if the world had decided to be cruel and let her feel every second of it—she fell the rest of the way, her body hitting the wooden floor with a soft thud.

Elena couldn't move.

Couldn't speak.

Couldn't even breathe.

The world blurred.

Her hands trembled, reaching—but not reaching. She should move, she should run to her, she should say something, anything.

But her body refused.

A shuddering breath broke the silence.

Eric exhaled, his head tilting slightly. "Ah. That was a clean one." He turned his palm over, admiring the way the air still hummed between his fingers.

He glanced at Elena.

"Would you look at that?" His tone was almost conversational, his voice smooth, untouched by guilt or remorse. "I used a Lance."

Elena's breath caught.

A Lance.

Just like Lance.

Eric's lips curled. He crouched, leveling his gaze with her frozen, unblinking stare. "That's fitting, don't you think? Your brother's name. The thing that just took your mother's life."

Elena's body locked up.

She was shaking, but she didn't even feel it.

A storm of emotions crashed through her—grief, terror, rage, disbelief—but they were all fighting, tangled into a knot so tight she couldn't think straight.

Her mind screamed at her to react. To cry. To run. To fight.

She did nothing.

Her knees buckled.

She dropped, her small hands pressing against the wooden floor, her breath shallow and erratic.

It was too much.

Too fast.

Too wrong.

A voice snapped through the air.

"Are you seriously still in here?"

Elena barely registered the sound of boots approaching, the way the door swung open with an impatient creak.

Another man entered, his expression one of pure irritation. His face was sharp, his dark hair tied back, his armor smeared with soot from the fires outside.

Eric barely glanced at him.

The newcomer scowled. "What the heck are you doing? The others are already finishing up outside. You were just supposed to kill them and move on."

Eric tilted his head, smirking slightly. "I got distracted."

The man let out an exasperated sigh. His eyes flicked to the little girl, still kneeling beside her mother's body, her breathing unsteady.

"You left a brat alive?" His disgust was immediate. "Tch. I'll fix that."

But before he could move—

A hand shot out.

Eric's grip landed firmly on his wrist.

The man froze.

Eric's fingers were loose, almost casual, but the weight of his gaze was not.

"I changed my mind," Eric said lightly. "Let's leave this one."

The other man's eyes narrowed. "That's not what we were ordered to do."

Eric didn't answer.

He just looked at him.

The shift was subtle. There was no threat in his posture, no outward malice in his expression.

But his eyes—

Something in them turned cold.

The man hesitated.

A flicker of unease passed through his face before he clicked his tongue in irritation. "Fine. Waste your time however you want." He ripped his wrist free.

Then he turned and stalked away.

Eric exhaled, amused. He glanced at Elena one last time.

"You should thank me," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. "Not many get to see the world twice."

Then he left.

Elena was alone.

The weight of everything crushed down all at once.

Her hands curled, her nails scraping against the wooden floor, her chest rising and falling in short, gasping breaths.

She felt like she was sinking.

Drowning.

The edges of her vision darkened.

She collapsed.

And the world went black.

...

Elena stirred.

A dull ache throbbed in her skull, and for a moment, she was caught between dreaming and waking. The scent of damp earth and crushed grass filled her nose. A warm breeze brushed against her cheek. Somewhere above, leaves rustled, their soft whispers barely reaching her ears.

She opened her eyes.

Bars.

Thick wooden bars, crude and rough, lashed together with coarse rope. Sunlight spilled between them, casting striped shadows on the ground beneath her. She lay on a floor of tightly woven branches, the texture digging into her skin.

A cage.

Her fingers curled weakly, her mind struggling to catch up.

She tilted her head.

A tree.

Not just any tree—a giant. Its gnarled trunk stretched high into the sky, its roots sprawling like the limbs of a sleeping beast. The cage was bound to it, tied firm against its ancient bark. But it wasn't the only one.

In the distance, other cages.

Some hung from smaller trees. Others sat upon the grass, clustered together. Figures sat slumped inside them, their forms hazy through the morning light.

Elena's breath hitched. Where—

"You're awake."

The voice was rough but kind. A man's.

She turned her head.

An old man sat beside her, his long white beard swaying slightly in the breeze. A jagged scar ran over his right eye, disappearing into his wrinkled skin. His clothes were tattered, dirt clinging to the fabric.

He watched her carefully.

"They brought you in late last night," he said. "You've been asleep for hours."

Elena didn't move.

Her thoughts felt slow, foggy. The world around her felt wrong.

She swallowed. "...Where?"

The old man exhaled, shifting slightly. "A holding camp, I assume. They bring people in, put them in these cages, then take them away." His voice was quiet, almost tired. "I don't know where they go."

Elena's hands twitched. She glanced past him, scanning the other captives. Men. Women. Children. Elderly.

The realization sank in like a stone.

She wasn't alone.

But the people around her were strangers.

Not her mother.

Not her village.

She looked down, her small fingers clenching into the dirt.

The old man watched her carefully. Then, after a moment, he sighed.

"I had a daughter once," he murmured.

Elena barely reacted.

"She was your age." His voice softened. "Seeing you… it reminds me of her."

Elena's throat felt tight.

Her thoughts twisted, tangled, her mind desperately trying to grasp something—anything—that made sense.

But the last thing she remembered was—

Lance.

Her breath shuddered.

The old man hesitated, then gently placed a hand on her back.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, Elena broke.

A ragged sob tore from her throat, and she crumbled, burying her face into the old man's chest. Her small body trembled violently, her fingers clinging onto his torn cloak as if holding on to something—anything—could stop the world from falling apart.

The old man said nothing.

He just held her.

But someone else wasn't as patient.

A loud bang struck the cage.

"Shut the heck up," a voice snapped.

Elena flinched.

A bandit stood outside the cage, scowling. His leather boots kicked up dust as he stepped forward, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Cry all you want, but do it quietly. If I hear another damn sound, I'll make sure you never make one again."

Elena's body locked up.

The old man's grip on her tightened slightly, his jaw clenching.

The bandit sneered, kicking the cage once more before turning away.

As he walked off, silence took hold.

Elena didn't cry anymore.

She sat there, motionless, her face still pressed against the old man's chest.

The old man didn't speak.

But his hand trembled against her back, and when she finally pulled away, she saw it—

His one good eye was damp.

Yet he didn't let a single tear fall.

Not for himself.

But for her.

—End of Chapter.