The scent of ash reached Camus long before his village came into view. It was a faint, metallic tang at first, carried on the crisp morning air, but with every desperate step, it grew heavier, richer, mixed with something else: the cloying sweetness of blood. Dread coiled in his stomach, a cold, hard knot that tightened with each beat of his frantic heart. He pushed past the last twisted oak, its branches skeletal against the dawn, and the world broke open. His home, the quiet cluster of stone and timber that had always been there, was gone. Just a ruin. Smoldering timbers sagged into piles of blackened rubble. Columns of smoke, thick and oily, clawed at the bruised purple sky. The familiar path that led to his family’s cottage was now a wasteland of shattered pottery and discarded weapons. No movement. No sound. Only the crackle of dying embers, a whisper of wind through the devastation. The silence was the loudest thing, a gaping maw that swallowed every memory of laughter, of shouting children, of the blacksmith’s hammer. Camus stumbled forward, his boots crunching on scorched earth. He looked for anything, a sign, a survivor, a face. His breath hitched in his throat. He saw the first body slumped against a half-collapsed wall, a man from the village guard, his leather tunic sliced open, his eyes wide and unseeing. Then another. And another. Each face was a familiar one, now frozen in terror or agony. Old Elara, the baker, lay sprawled near her ruined oven, a dark stain spreading beneath her. Young Finn, the apprentice weaver, was half-buried under a fallen beam, his hand still clutching a shard of bone. His throat closed. He pressed a hand to his mouth, tasting bile. This wasn't a raid. This was an eradication. Every house. Every life. A meticulous, brutal cleansing. Panic threatened to seize him, a primal urge to scream, to run. But something deeper, colder, began to stir beneath the fear. A detached observer, already cataloging the devastation, searching for patterns, for answers. He found himself studying the precise angles of the wounds, the way the stone had fractured, the distinct charring patterns on the wood. His mind, unbidden, was recording. He forced his legs forward, moving through the carnage, his eyes scanning for the familiar blue door, the small window box. His cottage. It was nothing but a pile of ash and splintered wood now, the stone chimney standing like a broken tooth against the sky. His heart pounded against his ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. He clawed through the debris, ignoring the burning sting in his hands, driven by a terrible certainty. He overturned a charred beam. Beneath it, half-covered by a fallen roof slate, lay his mother. Her eyes were closed, her face serene in death, but a crimson blossom had spread across the front of her simple linen dress. Camus dropped to his knees, the world blurring around him. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. It was still warm. Too warm. He wanted to weep, to wail, to rage against the injustice, but no sound escaped. Only a dry, rasping gasp. His father was beside her, his body shielding hers, a crude iron spear clutched in a death grip. And then, his little sister, Elara, barely six years old, curled up against his father's side as if seeking comfort even in her final moments. A small, wooden bird, carved by Camus years ago, lay clutched in her tiny hand. The sight shattered whatever composure he had left. He didn't just see them. He saw the last moments, imagined the terror, the struggle, his father’s futile defense, his mother’s desperate embrace. The images seared themselves into his mind, vivid and unforgiving. His photographic memory, usually a silent servant, was now a cruel master, replaying every detail. He didn't know how long he knelt there, the world reduced to the four bodies, the smell of their cooling blood, the unbearable weight of grief. He was numb, hollowed out, stripped of everything. His village, his family, his future. All gone. Then, a faint sound, carried on the wind. The distant clatter of armored boots. Footsteps. Coming closer. Not the wind. Not his imagination. --- Instinct, sharp and sudden, cut through the haze of his grief. Danger. He had to hide. He glanced wildly around, his eyes locking onto the mound of bodies that included his family. A sickening thought, but the only one. He scrambled, pushing, pulling, desperate to create a space. He wedged himself beneath his father’s body, the rough wool of his tunic against Camus’s face. His mother’s arm lay across him, heavy and cold. His sister’s small, unmoving form was pressed against his side. The stench of blood, iron, and burnt flesh was overwhelming in the confined space. He pulled his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Dust and ash choked his nostrils. He tried not to breathe, tried not to move, every muscle screaming with the effort of stillness. He could feel the cold dampness of the earth beneath him, the pressure of dead weight above. The footsteps grew louder, closer. Multiple sets. The distinct clang of heavy plate armor. Voices, guttural and harsh, speaking a language Camus didn't understand, but the tone was unmistakable: victorious, dismissive. These were the monsters who had done this. A boot crunched on debris just inches from his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to betray him. He felt the vibrations through the ground, through the bodies pressed against him. He heard a grunt, a sigh, then the sound of metal scraping against stone. They were cleaning up. Confirming their kill.

Chapter 1: Scarlet Dawn, Obsidian Fall