John's thoughts wouldn't settle. They circled like vultures, drawn to the memory of the boy, to the way he had run, terrified and breathless, with those armoured men in pursuit. Knights—at least that's what they looked like. Kingdom-forged steel, grim purpose in their eyes. But why? What kingdom would send trained soldiers after a child?
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he glanced down at the fallen men—three of them now unconscious, scattered like broken marionettes across the frozen earth. The cold bit at his skin, but the silence that followed the fight was colder still, thick and uneasy.
Nearby, the boy knelt in the snow, arms wrapped around himself, trembling. His head hung low, as if he were still trying to hide from death even though it had passed him by—for now.
"Arcos," John said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, steady but gentle.
The boy lifted his head, his face pale, haunted. His eyes were wide, too wide for someone his age—eyes that had seen too much, too soon. His breath hitched.
"Why were they chasing you?"
For a heartbeat, Arcos didn't speak. Then, in a voice barely more than a breath, he whispered, "The village…" The word trembled on his lips, full of a fear so raw it scraped at the edges of John's chest. He looked up at John, desperation flooding his gaze like rising water. "Please… mister. My village… it's in danger. You have to help them."
John stared at him for a long moment. There was a look in the boy's eyes he recognized—a hollow, broken sort of fear. The kind born when everything safe in the world has been torn away.
He gave a slow nod. "All right. Lead me there."
Without another word, Arcos turned and took off into the trees, snow flying with each frantic step. John followed close behind, his pace effortless but tense, muscles coiled like a spring. The deeper they moved into the forest, the more the cold seemed to fade, replaced by a slow, simmering dread.
Then the smell hit them—acrid and heavy, smoke thick in the back of his throat.
John's eyes narrowed. Black tendrils rose through the tree line ahead, curling into the pale sky like the fingers of something monstrous.
Arcos faltered, his breath catching.
"It's… it's just a campfire," the boy whispered, though his voice betrayed him. He didn't believe it—not really.
Neither did John.
They broke through the last of the trees, and the world changed. Firelight flickered on twisted silhouettes, and what should've been the peaceful stillness of a village evening was replaced by the smothering weight of ruin.
Smoke hung low like a shroud. Houses were little more than hollowed husks. Charred beams jutted out of the snow like ribs. Bodies—some whole, some not—lay strewn across the ground in poses that suggested desperate final moments. Some had been cut down mid-flight, others… burned alive.
John stopped, his breath fogging in the cold. He didn't speak. He couldn't.
The child froze. One moment, he'd been walking beside John, clinging to some fragile hope—and the next, he was still as stone, staring at the wreckage before him. His breath caught sharp in his throat. His eyes, wide and glistening, reflected the broken world around him. He didn't cry. Not yet. He just stood there, small shoulders quivering, unable to make sense of the horror laid out before him.
Beside him, John stopped too. The weight of the scene hit him like a blow to the chest. He looked at the boy, and in that hollow stretch of silence, searched for words. But what words could make this better? What comfort existed for this?
The boy took one uncertain step forward, then another. His legs trembled beneath him, but he didn't stop. His tears began to fall, quiet and slow, sliding down his dirt-smeared cheeks as he moved through the ruins of what had once been his home. John followed, saying nothing. He didn't need to. The grief hanging in the air was heavy enough to drown in.
The village had been gutted. Blackened wood and scorched earth stretched in all directions. Ash clung to the air, and the silence… the silence was suffocating.
The boy's eyes flicked from body to body. A neighbour who used to toss him fruit from the market stall. A friend he'd raced through alleyways with not even a week ago. Parents cradling their children in their final moments—arms wrapped around them in futile protection. The boy kept walking. Not because he wanted to, but because something deep within him refused to stop. As if his soul knew where he was needed.
When he finally reached the remnants of his house, he stopped.
The structure was gone—nothing but a pile of blackened timbers and crumbling stone. Smoke still rose in faint, ghostly tendrils from the rubble. And there, just outside the ruin, lay two figures.
His mother. His father.
"Mom… Dad…" the boy whispered, the words cracking in his throat. He dropped to his knees with a soft thud, his whole body folding into itself as he crawled the last few feet.
Then the sobs came. Gut-wrenching, raw, and desperate. His small hands clutched at their clothes, their arms, their faces, as if he could hold onto them tightly enough to bring them back.
"Please… don't go," he cried, burying his face against his mother's chest. "Don't leave me. Please… come back…"
John stood a few steps away, his heart breaking with every sound the boy made. He had seen war before. Had seen loss, and fire, and death. But this… this was different. There was something unshakable about the sight of a child unravelling under the weight of sorrow that should never have been his to carry.
And John couldn't stop it. Couldn't fix it. All he could do was stand there—helpless and hollow.
His jaw clenched, and for a moment, all he could hear was the wind whispering through the ruins and the boy's choked sobs. Then came the questions. The fury.
Who would do this? What kind of cruelty would send soldiers into a peaceful village and leave behind only ashes and corpses?
And then it hit him. That armour—the faint glint of metal on one of the fallen attackers—it was familiar. Too familiar.
There was only one kingdom he knew that would order something like this. Only one with enough darkness in its heart to burn innocence to the ground without a second thought. The same kingdom that had been hunting him for years.
Taking a deep breath, he scanned the ruined village again, the charred remnants of homes, the smouldering ash filling the air, and the eerie silence that hung over the place like a suffocating shroud. His eyes fell on the boy, standing motionless, still clutching the lifeless bodies of his parents. Grief etched deep lines into the child's face, a haunting sight that made John's heart ache.
John took a step forward, his eyes locked on the boy, wanting—desperately—to say something. Anything. A word of comfort, a promise, even a lie. But the moment shattered before he could speak.
A violent crash split the silence like thunder. The ground convulsed beneath their feet. A figure plummeted from the sky, hitting the earth with such brutal force that a shockwave rippled outward, sending ash, dirt, and smoke billowing in every direction. Cracks raced through the ground like jagged lightning.
John turned sharply, shielding the boy—Arcos—as the newcomer rose from the impact. Dressed head to toe in stark white, the figure stood still, silent, a smooth, featureless mask reflecting the glow of the flames that had begun to lick at the wreckage.
"You're a hard one to find, John," the figure said, voice devoid of warmth. Each word dropped like ice between them. As they stepped forward, they raised a hand, palm open. A dark, flickering glow gathered there—slow, deliberate, and deadly. "Now… die."
There was no warning. No time to think.
A jet of black fire tore through the air toward them, howling like something alive. The heat was unbearable, the energy around it crackling with malice, twisting the very air into something wrong.
"Hold on!" John cried, wrapping his arms around Arcos. He surged upward, launching into the sky just as the flames devoured the ground where they had stood. The blast struck with cataclysmic fury, leaving behind nothing but scorched ruin.
Above it all, John hovered, breath coming in ragged gulps. He clutched Arcos close, the boy trembling in his arms, too stunned, too broken to speak.
"You okay?" John asked softly, glancing down at him.
Arcos didn't answer right away. His gaze was locked on the ground far below, where smoke still curled from the earth. Where his home had been. Where his parents had fallen.
When he did speak, it was a whisper—a raw, cracked breath. "No…"
Tears welled in his eyes, silent and heavy, until they spilled down his cheeks. He didn't try to stop them. Didn't look away. He couldn't.
John tightened his grip. "I'm getting you out of here. Somewhere safe," he said, his voice low, steady—steady for the both of them.
The boy said nothing. He simply buried his face against John's chest, small hands gripping tightly as if afraid the world would vanish if he let go. His shoulders trembled. He didn't look back. He couldn't.
Without another word, John turned and flew into the distance, the wind rushing past as he carried Arcos toward safety.