Art_Artist

Caelen feels the pain of others and carries it as his own.

In the quiet village of Hearthollow, he lives a life of sacrifice, healing wounds he never received and bearing grief he never caused. His is a curse of empathy beautiful, unbearable, and isolating.

But when a bloodied, terrified girl stumbles from the woods and collapses in his arms, Caelen is thrust into a fate far greater than quiet suffering.

Shadows are rising.
Kingdoms are bleeding.
And Caelen may be the only one who can mend a broken world not with a sword, but with sorrow.

Ashes of the kindhearted

Flames clawed at rooftops, smoke curled like serpents through the night air, and the cries of the innocent echoed like knives against stone.

Caelen and Elira stood atop the hill, the world lit in shades of red and black.

Hollows stalked the streets—twisted beasts of silence and hunger. Their presence called to Caelen's curse like a dirge. The pain—raw, immediate, pleading—flooded into him. His scar flared bright, searing against his chest.

"We can't stop," Elira said, her eyes fixed on the temple's faint glow in the distance. "He's close. If we linger, we'll lose the last gate."

The curse screamed for him to act.

"They're dying," he whispered. "I feel them. Children. Mothers. Their fear is louder than fire."

Elira's jaw clenched. "You can't save everyone."

"If I walk away," he said, "I'm no different from him."

His voice was steel. "I have to try."

Then—"Then we fight together."

They descended into chaos.

The Weeping Blade ignited in Caelen's hand—its glow defiant against the dark. Each swing was fueled by grief, his body trembling with borrowed sorrow. Elira moved beside him, a whirlwind of precision and flame, her eyes burning with fury.

They cut through beasts. Through despair.

The villagers huddled behind shattered walls, clinging to hope as Caelen bore their fear. He pulled their pain into himself like breath—letting it guide his hand, letting it feed the fire that refused to go out.

The Hollow commander fell last, crumbling beneath Caelen's blade as dawn crept over the horizon.

But Caelen was on his knees.

Elira caught him before he fell.

The villagers gathered—tearful, grateful—but their warmth could not ease the weight in his chest. Caelen had given them what he could. What he could never get back.

"We lost time," Elira said quietly, her expression dark. "He's moving faster. Closer now."

He looked back at the village—at the lives he'd refused to abandon.

Elira's hand found his shoulder.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "That's why I stay with you. Even when it scares me."

The road ahead burned with urgency.

He bore the chains of compassion willingly—and they did not break.

Together, they turned toward the temple's call, the fire behind them still smoldering, but the light within burning brighter than ever.

Chapter 33: Chains of Compassion