Banished From The World I Once Were

I woke to the sound of birds chirping, their melodies weaving through the crisp morning air. A soft, gleaming light caught my eye—the chalice, now vibrating gently as it transformed into a necklace. Its glow pulsed faintly before settling around my neck.

Pain surged through my body, every movement a struggle. Even lifting a single finger sent waves of agony rippling through me. Scratches and bruises marred my skin, but they were already healing, leaving only my tattered dress as a reminder of my fall. I took a slow, measured breath before carefully rising, wary of sending my body into shock from sudden movement.

I took in my surroundings—a vast forest stretched endlessly around me. The rustling wind, the distant call of birds, and the grotesque hum of insects filled the air, an eerie symphony of nature. But beneath it all, a faint, metallic scent lingered—blood. Even from here, the remnants of battle tainted the breeze.

I had to return. I needed to see what had become of my kingdom after that horrific night.

With each step forward, I forced my aching body through the uneven terrain, climbing over roots and trudging through damp earth. The further I went, the stronger the stench became—blood, fire, and decay. The battle had been so brutal that even from a distance, the air was thick with its aftermath.

At last, I reached the gates.

What was once a proud kingdom now lay in ruins. Smoke curled from the remains of charred buildings, and the scent of death clung to the air. I braced myself, expecting to see the wyverns still circling above, their monstrous wings casting shadows over the wreckage. But the skies were empty.

Nothing remained now but ashes and silence.

I stepped through the broken gates, my breath hitching at the sight before me. What was once a thriving kingdom—filled with laughter, bustling markets, and towering spires—had been reduced to smoldering ruins. Ash drifted in the air like dying embers, coating the ground in a fine, gray dust. The streets, once paved with polished stone, were cracked and littered with debris.

The silence was deafening.

I walked cautiously, my bare feet pressing against the scorched earth. The scent of burnt wood and decaying flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Bodies lay scattered in the streets, their forms twisted in unnatural angles, some still clutching weapons in their lifeless grips. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to keep moving.

I turned a corner and nearly tripped over a fallen banner. The royal sigil, now torn and stained with blood, lay crumpled in the dirt. A sharp pang shot through my chest as I bent down, my fingers brushing over the once-proud emblem of my lineage.

How had it come to this?

I had to press on. My palace stood at the heart of the kingdom, and if anything remained, it would be there.

I weaved through the desolation, past hollowed-out buildings and collapsed towers. Occasionally, I spotted remnants of life—shattered pottery, a child's wooden toy, a necklace still clinging to the throat of a fallen noblewoman. Each fragment told a story, a reminder of the people who once thrived here.

Then, in the distance, I heard something.

A sound—soft, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably alive.

I froze, my breath shallow. Was it an animal scavenging through the wreckage? Or was someone still here?

Heart pounding, I followed the sound, my fingers tightening around the necklace at my throat.

If there were survivors… I had to find them.

The sound grew louder with each step, no longer just a distant echo but something distinct—cries, weak yet desperate. My heart pounded as I quickened my pace, navigating through the rubble. Then, beneath a pile of collapsed debris, I saw it.

A hole, barely large enough for a person to fit through, hidden beneath the ruins of a crumbled building. From within, muffled sobs and trembling voices called out for help. My breath caught in my throat.

Children.

My people's children, trapped beneath the wreckage, their small hands reaching up through the cracks in the debris. Their faces, streaked with dirt and tears, peered through the narrow opening, their eyes filled with fear.

I dropped to my knees, ignoring the pain that shot through my limbs, and began clearing away the broken wood and stone. My fingers bled as I dug, but I didn't stop. The weight of the fallen structure was too much for them to push through on their own.

"Hold on," I urged, my voice trembling. "I'm here. I'm going to get you out."

One of the children, a small girl with matted hair and a tear-streaked face, clutched the arm of a boy beside her. "P-Please," she whimpered. "The others… They're hurt."

I gritted my teeth and pushed harder, shoving aside jagged beams and burnt fragments of what used to be a home. My strength wavered, my body still weak from my fall, but I couldn't stop—not now.

Finally, with one last desperate heave, I cleared a large enough space for them to crawl through. One by one, the children stumbled out, their frail bodies covered in bruises and dust. Some clung to each other, sobbing, while others simply stared at the devastation around them, their young minds struggling to grasp the horrors they had witnessed.

I counted them. Seven in total.

I knelt before them, brushing soot from the youngest girl's face. "Are there more?" I asked gently.

The boy, no older than ten, shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "Our parents… they brought us here when the rebellion came." He swallowed hard, eyes glistening. "They told us to hide—to stay quiet, no matter what. They covered us with wood and blankets… then they left." His small hands trembled. "We heard them screaming. We heard everything."

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the quiet sobs of the younger ones.

Pain twisted in my chest. How many more had perished? How many were still out there, waiting for help that would never come?

I looked back at the ruins, then at the children, their small hands clinging to the edges of my tattered dress.

I had to keep them safe. I had to find shelter.

Even if my kingdom had fallen, its people—its future—still remained.

And I would not let them be lost.

I gathered what little remained of the fallen structures—broken beams, shattered planks, and torn fabric—piecing them together to form a makeshift shelter. The process was slow, my body still weak from my fall, but I pushed through the exhaustion. The children huddled together, their small forms trembling, whether from fear or the creeping cold, I couldn't tell.

Once the shelter was secure enough to block the wind, I turned my attention to the fire. I pressed my palm against the dry wood and drew a deep breath. The familiar warmth of my magic stirred within me, pooling at my fingertips before I let it flow. A thin cut formed across my hand, and from the crimson droplets that welled up, flames sparked to life. The fire crackled hungrily, casting flickering light against the ruined walls around us.

The children flinched at first, their wide eyes fixed on the unnatural glow of my blood-born flame. But as the warmth spread, melting away the biting chill of the night, their tension slowly eased.

I found a tattered blanket among the debris and draped it over their frail shoulders. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep them from shivering. One by one, their frightened faces softened, exhaustion finally taking hold.

The boy who had spoken earlier sat closest to the fire, staring into the flames with vacant eyes. I knelt beside him, my voice softer now. "What's your name?"

He hesitated, as if the answer had been lost in the horror of the night before. Then, finally, he whispered, "Elias."

I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You were brave today, Elias."

His lips quivered, but he said nothing. Instead, he clutched the blanket tighter around himself and lowered his head.

I turned my gaze to the darkened ruins of my kingdom. The cold wind carried the scent of ash and death, a cruel reminder of all that had been lost. But here, beside this fragile fire, seven lives remained.

Leaving the children behind, I made my way toward the Blood Vault, my heart pounding with each step. The rebellion had taken everything from me—my kingdom, my people, and my father. But even in death, I needed to see him one last time.

The entrance to the vault loomed before me, the once-impenetrable stone doors now slightly ajar. My breath hitched. I could see signs of the rebels that had forced their way in aside from the grotesque monster that killed him. Had they defiled his body?

The path to the vault felt longer than it should have. My body moved on its own, but my mind was trapped in the horrors of last night—the moment my father fell before my eyes, his lifeblood staining the treasures of the vault.

I stepped through the broken entrance, my breath unsteady. The place where I lost him.

The torches still burned, their light casting grotesque shadows across the stone walls. Blood pooled on the ground where his body had lain. The air was thick with the scent of iron and decay.

I forced myself forward.

His body remained atop the treasures, just as I had left it when I was forced to flee. His once-proud form, now still, his face frozen in his final expression—not of fear, but of defiance. He had met death standing tall, even as the rebellion struck him down.

I swallowed hard, stepping closer. My knees threatened to give out, but I refused to fall.

"Father…" The word came out barely above a whisper.

I reached out, brushing my fingers against his cold hand. I had failed him. If only i could have done more. I should have been able stopped them.

But something was different.

The sight of him—defiled, disturbed, desecrated—broke something deep within me.

I fully dropped to my knees, my hands clutching the cold stone as a wretched sob tore from my throat.

They had not left him in peace. Even in death, they had stripped him of his dignity, his final rest stolen just as his life had been. His royal cloak—gone. His robes—shifted, as if ransacked by filthy hands searching for something they had no right to take. And the symbol, carved into the altar, a brand of their treachery—a reminder that they had won.

I gasped for breath, but it felt like I was drowning.

It hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

Like a thousand daggers piercing my chest, each one twisting deeper, carving through my soul as cruelly as the rebels had carved into this sacred place. My father—once unshakable, once the unyielding pillar of this kingdom—lay before me like a forgotten relic of the past, discarded by those who had taken everything.

I reached out, my trembling fingers grazing the bloodstained fabric of what little remained of his robes. Cold. Stiff. Lifeless.

Tears streamed down my face as I pressed my forehead against the palm of his cold hands, my body shaking from the weight of my grief. I could not protect him. I could not save him.

"I-I'm sorry…" The words broke from my lips in a whisper, my voice raw from the agony pressing down on my chest. "I'm so, so sorry..."

There was no answer.

No warmth of a hand on my shoulder. No reassuring voice telling me to rise, to be strong, to endure.

Only silence.

And the sound of my own shattered sobs echoing through the empty tomb.

My limbs felt like lead, my body weighed down by exhaustion and grief, but I refused to leave him there—in the cold, dark vault where he had been slain, surrounded by shadows and defilement.

I could not carry him.

So, I dragged him.

The journey through the ruins of the palace was agonizing. His body scraped against the shattered marble floors, his once-proud figure now limp beneath my trembling hands. A king reduced to this. I clenched my jaw, willing myself forward even as my vision blurred with tears.

Through the broken halls where he once walked with dignity.Through the bloodstained corridors where his voice once commanded order.Through the remains of a kingdom that had failed to protect him.

Until finally, I reached it.

The throne room.

Where he belonged.

The great chamber, once a symbol of power, now stood in ruin. The banners that bore our crest hung in tatters. The marble pillars that had held this place together were cracked and broken, much like the kingdom itself. The throne, his throne, stood alone amidst the destruction—silent, waiting.

With the last of my strength, I pulled him toward it. If there was no tomb fit for a king, then let his throne be his coffin.

I knelt beside him, barely able to steady my hands as I reached for the broken crown.

It had fallen in the struggle, its golden frame bent, its gemstones dulled by blood and dust. Carefully, I placed it upon his head—though it no longer shined, it was his, and it belonged to him until the very end.

A farewell.

The final rite.

By tradition, I should burn him. Set his body to flames, release his soul from this shattered world.

But as I looked upon him, still and lifeless beneath the ruins of what once was, my hands faltered.

I had already lost him once. Could I bear to lose him again?

The flames trembled at my fingertips.

The fire that i have kept hidden—now wavered, flickering uncertainly as if mirroring the hesitation in my heart.

I swallowed hard, my throat raw with unshed tears.

"Father…" My voice broke. "I don't know if I can do this…"

But if I did not, his body would rot, left to the decay of time like the rest of this ruined kingdom. He deserved better. He deserved peace.

I inhaled sharply, steadying my trembling hands. For him.

The flames wavered at my fingertips, flickering in hesitation just as I did.

I had never release my flames before. It had always been inside of me, an extension of my will, a force cowardly hide from the world. Yet now, as I stood before my father's lifeless body, I decided.

Setting the pyre would mean truly letting him go.

Once the flames took him, there would be nothing left. No body to hold. No face to look upon. Only ashes, carried away by the wind.

My hands trembled, my vision blurred with fresh tears.

"Father… forgive me."

With a deep, shuddering breath, I let the fire take form. The warmth of it brushed against my skin as I raised my hands, the golden embers dancing in the air like lost stars. And then, gently—almost tenderly—I set the flames upon him.

The fire caught slowly at first, licking at the edges of his robes, spreading across his form like a soft embrace. Then it grew, wrapping around him in golden light, consuming him with a warmth that felt both cruel and merciful.

I did not move. I did not blink. I watched as the flames took him.

The scent of burning fabric and flesh filled the air, but I did not recoil. This was tradition. This was his farewell.

He was going home.

The silence of the throne room was broken by the softest of footsteps.

I turned my head slightly, my breath catching in my throat.

The children.

The very ones I had pulled from the ruins.

They stood at the edge of the chamber, their small faces pale in the glow of the fire, their eyes filled with grief too heavy for their young hearts to bear.

They did not speak, but their grief was written in every trembling breath, every hesitant step closer to the flames that carried their king away.

One girl, no older than seven, clutched the hem of her tattered dress. Her small shoulders shook, and her lips parted as if to say something—but no words came. Instead, she pressed her forehead to the stone floor, her frail body curling inward, as though trying to make herself small enough to disappear into the grief consuming her.

Beside her, a boy, barely past childhood, stood rigid. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw locked tight, fighting against the sobs that threatened to escape. His face twisted, his sorrow warring with something deeper—the helpless anger of a child who had lost everything and could do nothing to change it.

Another child, the youngest of them all, let out a soft whimper, barely a sound over the roar of the fire. She reached out with tiny, trembling fingers, as if she could grasp something—her king, her protector, the world she had known before it crumbled. But all that met her touch was empty air.

Tears slipped down their dirt-streaked faces.

Still, they did not wail, nor did they scream.

Instead, they wept silently, their pain held deep in their chests, too raw, too overwhelming for words.

One by one, they knelt beside me.

One by one, their small hands pressed together in solemn prayer.

Though they were too young to fully understand the weight of this loss, they knew enough—they knew that the man before them had protected them, had ruled with strength, had been a figure of safety in a world now turned to ash.

Now, he was gone.

The fire burned on, embers rising like fading stars into the night.

And in that moment, I realized—these children had no homes to return to. No parents waiting for them.

They were like me now.

Alone.