Aftermath And Ash

Aftermath And Ash

The smell of scorched wheat and

scorched flesh lingered like a ghost over the farmland.

Smoke still curled lazily from the collapsed frame of the barn where the Minotaur had finally fallen. Its hulking corpse had already begun to disintegrate into ash and bone — the last cruel joke of the Ashen. What remained was unnatural, gnarled. The bones twisted in on themselves like they'd tried to reject the human shape they once served.

A gust of warm wind stirred the wheat, and with it, the ash began to drift.

Flare sheathed his sword with a soft clack, the lightning along the blade's edge fading as if exhaling. He stood still for a moment, his shield resting on his back, eyes locked on the remains.

That was too smart. Too aware. Too precise.

He didn't say it aloud. Not yet.

Behind him, Marcos had one hand pressed to his temple and the other holding a comm-link to his mouth.

"We're clear," the captain said into the receiver, voice flat and hard. "Open up."

A long moment passed before the sealed hatch on the silo hissed and slowly cranked open. Dust and heat poured out with it, followed by trembling figures—three men, two women, and a teenage boy. Dirt-stained, sweat-drenched, and pale with shock.

One of the women let out a sharp sob the moment her eyes landed on the body—or what was left of it.

"Papa…" she whimpered.

The teenage boy immediately moved to her side and pulled her close, shielding her from the sight. One of the men took his hat off and crushed it in his hands. "Damn fool," he muttered, voice thick with sorrow. "Stubborn old mule. Wouldn't even wear the monitor."

Marcos turned at that.

"Wait. What?" His tone dropped. "He

wasn't wearing his health monitor?"

The group shifted uncomfortably. The older man—tall, gray-bearded, with a farmer's permanent tan and hands calloused from decades of labor—nodded. "Said it was an invasion of privacy. Said he didn't need some machine tellin' him how he felt."

Marcos exhaled, hard. "It's not about how you feel. It's about how close you are to dying and taking everyone else with you."

He didn't raise his voice, but there was a steel edge to his tone that shut down any response before it could rise.

One of the women stepped forward—older, maybe in her sixties, with deep-set lines and tear-reddened eyes. "We didn't know he was so sick. He just… he collapsed. And then the

screaming started. We barely made it to the panic room."

Her voice cracked, and she looked at Flare. "He wasn't like that, sir. He was good. He—he loved his grandkids. He wouldn't have wanted this."

Flare's throat tightened. He didn't look away. "I know," he said softly.

They never do.

The truth was, the man who had once laughed on this land, who had probably built that barn with his own hands, had been long gone the moment he took his last breath.

The Ashen didn't leave pieces of people behind. They consumed everything, remade it in fear and wrath. Whatever had once been gentle in that man died when his soul was ripped open by the corruption that pulsed through all of them.

Flare knelt down, brushing a few ash flakes from the earth. He didn't speak. Just listened to the sound of the survivors crying, of Caim pacing restlessly behind him, of Claire humming some pop song under her breath to fill the silence.

Then Marcos stepped beside him.

"We need to talk," the captain said

under his breath.

Flare rose. The two men walked a short distance away, down the slope where the wheat grew in perfect golden rows. The sun was low now, casting long shadows across the field. It should have been beautiful. Should have been peaceful.

Instead, it felt… wrong.

"You saw it, right?" Marcos asked,

low.

Flare nodded.

"That thing feinted. Drew Caim in with

an opening. Then swung wide. That's not instinct."

"It was a trap," Flare confirmed. "A deliberate setup."

Marcos ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, spiking it further. "Ashen don't do tactics. They rush. They charge. They lose themselves. But this one—he waited. Watched. That's not just new… that's impossible."

There was a beat of silence. Then Marcos added, almost absently, "My wife… she hesitated too. Just once. Like she wanted to scream before she struck."

Flare's brow furrowed.

"You think… they're changing?" he asked.

"I don't know," Marcos admitted. "But if this is the start of something new… something worse…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Flare glanced back toward the barn ruins, then at the grieving family.

"We'll take samples from the remains. Have the lab analyze the core. Maybe there's something different in its makeup."

"Maybe," Marcos muttered. But his tone

was grim.

Back at the wreckage, Caim stood staring at the place where the Minotaur had tricked him. His blade was slung over his shoulder, still warm from the final explosion. His freckled face was pinched in frustration.

Stupid. Stupid. You saw the opening. You wanted the opening. You forgot the rule: if it looks easy, it's not real.

His sister came up beside him, twirling one of her bloodied Ulaks like a baton.

"Awww, don't pout, flame-boy. You're still my favorite walking detonation hazard."

Caim didn't answer.

Claire tilted her head. "You okay?"

He finally spoke. "I almost died. I almost got us killed."

Her bubbly expression faded slightly. Then she bumped her shoulder against his.

"Almost doesn't count. You're still here. Next time, blow its ugly head off first, then pose for the hero shot."

He cracked the faintest of smiles.

From down the slope, Marcos and Flare returned. Flare gave a nod to the family. "We'll have someone here to decontaminate the site. The remains are safe, but don't touch anything."

The older woman nodded numbly.

Flare turned away and muttered to Marcos, "Let's head back. I've got a bad feeling in my chest, and I'm not chalking it up to dust."

"Yeah," Marcos said quietly. "Same here."

They walked off toward the waiting transport, wheat brushing their sides, the sun dropping lower into a blood-orange sky.

Behind them, the wind stirred the ashes once more.