Arthur Nordhil:

The village was in flames. Bodies lay scattered among the smoldering wreckage—friends, neighbors, comrades. The stench of burning wood and flesh choked the air, sharp and acrid, but I couldn’t focus on that. Not when the cries had died, not when the weight of failure pressed on my chest like a crushing stone.

We’d faced raids before—small, manageable skirmishes. This wasn’t a raid. It was a slaughter. A ransacking.

They came when we were at our weakest, during Nikolai’s coming-of-age feast. The village had been celebrating, defenses down, hearts light. Now, only ashes and blood remained.

My arms trembled, not from exertion but from the knowledge that we couldn’t save everyone. We never could. I’d always known that in the abstract, but facing it, living it—it tore at something deep inside me.

And worse, my family was nowhere to be found. Nikolai had been seen running into the forest. Eir and Freya? No word. My mind screamed to abandon the fight, to go after them, protect them. The selfish part of me whispered that if they were safe, I could accept the rest. But I shoved that thought down. The village needed me. If Nikolai was out there, I had to trust him to protect his mother and sister.

I steadied my breathing and raised my hand. Water gathered around my palm, swirling and coiling before condensing into a tight sphere. I fired. A bandit collapsed, a sharp thud against the dirt.

Another bullet. Another bandit. I’d spent hours refining this spell after Nikolai bested me in sparring. Faster. Deadlier. The water bullets tore through their bodies, each shot precise, each death necessary.

But the bandits kept coming, wave after wave. They weren’t mages, but their numbers crushed us, overwhelming our militia. My spells drained my mana quickly as their added power required more mana. I gritted my teeth, my fingers trembling as the strain built.

The sounds of battle raged around me—steel clashing, spells roaring, people screaming. The ground shook under the rumble of earth magic. The air crackled with heat and smoke.

Then with a final deathly scream... silence.

Not true silence—the fires still burned, crackling like a distant drumbeat. But the screams were gone. No more clashing swords. No more dying cries. Just the hollow, echoing destruction.

I lowered my arm, my breaths coming in short gasps. Then I saw him—a bandit stepping from a burning house, a sack slung over his shoulder. Blood stained the windows behind him, and flames licked at the edges of the frame.

My body moved on instinct. My arm raised, a bullet of water formed, and I fired. The spell ripped through his skull before he could even notice I saw him. He fell to the ground, lifeless.

I stood there, frozen, the echoes of my own heartbeat loud in my ears. The world felt distant, unreal. For a moment, I let myself hope—hope that it was over. That I could find them now, that they were still—

I turned and saw her.

My mother.

She lay in the dirt, her body limp, her head... gone.

My knees buckled, and I collapsed before her.

The tears came streaming down my face, but I was silent.

This wasn’t just failure. It was the destruction of everything I’d sworn to protect. My family. My people. My home.

Nikolai Nordhil:

That one wasn’t even the leader? My mind raced as I stared at the bandit’s lifeless body, water still pooling around his face. My “Forced Drowning” technique was cruel, barbaric even—but men like him deserved nothing less.

The others weren’t so lucky either. I’d beaten two more, but they bled out before I could get answers. Their deaths felt hollow, like a victory without meaning.

By the time I stumbled back into the village, dread clung to me like a second skin. Silence greeted me. Not peaceful, not calm—more like the suffocating stillness that follows a scream.

The streets were a nightmare. Bodies lay where they’d fallen, their faces frozen in terror. Faces I knew. People I’d laughed with, trained with, lived alongside. Now, they were gone, reduced to nothing more than bloodstains on the earth.

Smoke hung thick in the air, curling from charred homes and smoldering rubble. It stung my eyes, burned my throat. Beneath it all was a scent I could never forget—the acrid, sickening stench of burning flesh.

The village was destroyed. Walls that once sheltered us had crumbled, windows shattered, blood staining the dirt paths we’d walked so many times before. The weight of it all pressed down on me, threatening to pull me under.

I forced myself forward, scanning the ruins for any sign of life. My heart thudded in my chest, every step heavier than the last. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.

My father knelt by a figure on the ground, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. My stomach twisted as I drew closer, and the figure came into focus—Grandma.

Her body was lifeless, her head turned at an unnatural angle. She’d been there for me, healed my wounds, reminded me I was supposed to be her grandson, not the fighter I’d been in my past life. And now…

“Grandma?” My voice came out as a whisper, fragile and breaking.

Dad turned to me, his face streaked with tears, his eyes hollow. When he saw me holding Freya, alive and unharmed, he staggered to his feet and pulled us into a crushing embrace.

“Freya,” he choked, his voice breaking. My sister stirred and began to cry, clinging to him as if she could feel his anguish. Her small sobs only made his worse, raw and guttural, shaking his entire frame.

Tears burned hot against my cheeks as the weight of it all finally crushed me. I saved my sister. But the village? Gone. The people I grew up with? Dead. My father and I fought until we had nothing left, and for what?

My Dad and Freya were safe—that should’ve been enough. It should have been. But the hollow ache in my chest told me otherwise. Safety didn’t erase the bodies in the streets, the smoke rising from charred homes, or the screams that still echoed in my ears.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. The pain helped, grounding me in the moment. I had done what I could. I had fought, I had saved Freya.

For the first time in years—maybe even lifetimes—I let myself cry, not as a warrior or a fighter, but as a boy who had lost his home.

Dad’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Where’s your mother?”

Before I could answer, she stepped out from a nearby house, her face pale but unscathed. Relief flooded my Dad’s face, and he pulled her into our huddle.

“Thank the Five Gods,” he whispered, his voice trembling. For a moment, we just stood there, holding onto each other like the world wasn’t crumbling around us.

But it was.

When others began to emerge—those who’d hidden during the attack—the grim reality settled over us all. Ninety percent of the village was gone, slaughtered. The survivors huddled together, their faces pale, their eyes empty.

Dad turned to me later, his voice hoarse. “How did you save Freya? How did you stop them?”

I met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside me. “I killed them,” I said simply. The words felt heavy, final.

His face crumpled, his tears returning with renewed force. “My son... having to kill at your age... I’ve failed you. I’m a failure of a father.”

“No!” I shouted, the word sharp and desperate. “No, Dad! You’re not a failure. You protected the vil—”

“PROTECTED WHAT?!” His roar silenced me, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. “They’re all dead, Nikolai! Everyone! I couldn’t stop it!”

The anger drained from him as quickly as it came, leaving only a broken man. He sank to his knees, his head hanging low. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

We spent the next few days combing through the wreckage, searching for survivors. There were none.

When it was clear we couldn’t rebuild, Dad called the remaining militia together. They calculated with the current supplies we have we could not survive the winter. Their decision was unanimous: we had to leave. The capital was our only hope.

The days leading up to our departure were a blur of frantic preparation. We salvaged what little we could—food, water, tools. By the end, all we had was one wagon, barely large enough to carry the supplies and the few who remained.

We couldn’t even bury the dead. There were too many. Thin blankets were the best we could manage, their lifeless forms a haunting reminder of what we’d lost.

On the morning of our departure, Dad blew a mournful note on his horn. The sound echoed through the ruins, a final farewell to the place we’d once called home.

As the wagon creaked forward, I looked back one last time. The village was gone, replaced by smoke and ash. Ahead lay the unknown, and with it, the weight of everything we had to rebuild.