Chapter 2: I Buried Them in Silence, Then I Buried Myself

The flames had died.

But the stink of burnt flesh still clung to the air like a curse. My village was gone. My home? Just blackened bones of wood and ash. No one was left. No one but me.

I should've died too.

I wish I had.

But I didn't.

And that was their mistake.

I dragged myself across the dirt, my arms shaking, my legs limp. Every breath I took was poison—smoke, blood, death. My fingers found her hair first. My sister's. Still warm. Still soft. Her eyes had gone dim, but her face—her face still wore that same gentle expression. Even after everything.

I screamed until there was no sound.

Then I whispered until there was no soul.

I buried them.

With my bare hands.

I tore at the dirt until my fingers bled. Nails cracked. Skin split. I buried my baby brother first. His head, then his toy rabbit. I didn't know how to pray. I didn't want to. I spat at the sky instead.

I buried my mother next. She had no legs to carry her into the afterlife, but I kissed her forehead anyway.

Then my father.

Then my sister.

When I held her, my hands shook. My tears were dry now. My soul had emptied. There was nothing left to give her. So I gave her my hatred. I gave her my rage. I swore to her body that I would make them pay. That I would make the gods pay.

I lay beside her grave when I was done.

And I waited to die.

But death didn't want me.

Something else did.

That night, I dreamed of black wings and red skies. I dreamed of gods with hollow eyes, laughing as mortals burned. I saw a throne of bones and fire—a voice echoed from it:

"You will never be whole again. But you can be sharp. You can be cruel. You can be my blade."

I woke up screaming.

I wasn't alone.

A beast stood there. Not man, not wolf—something wrong. Something twisted. Its eyes were white like bone. Its breath was steam. It didn't growl. It watched.

I didn't run.

It lunged.

I grabbed the rusted sword left in the mud by one of the soldiers—the one who laughed the loudest when my sister screamed.

I didn't swing it like a boy.

I stabbed it like a monster.

Over and over. Screaming. Crying. Laughing. My mind split.

Blood sprayed my face. The beast writhed. And I kept stabbing until my arms gave out.

When it stopped moving, I fell to my knees.

And I laughed.

Not out of joy.

But because I felt alive.

And I hated it.

That night, I stopped being a child. I stopped being human.

I buried them in silence.

Then I buried myself.

Now, something else lives in me. Something colder than death. Something the gods should fear.

They made me watch.

Now, I'll make them bleed.