Icariel woke to pain.

His vision blurred. Cold night air scraped against the open wounds and bruises that mottled his skin. Each breath burned in his chest. The sky above was a canvas of soot and smoke, the stars smeared out by ash. His body screamed with agony, yet what chilled him most was not the pain.

It was where he was.

Mjull. His home.

But it wasn't home anymore.

He was suspended—arms tied above his head like butchered meat, wrists raw from the ropes, blood crusting over torn skin. His feet dangled inches off the ground, spine crooked against the cold post. His clothing hung from him in rags, soaked in dried blood and filth. The scent of smoke, iron, and decay curled into his nose.

And then he saw her.

Elektra.

She moved with elegance and malice, her black-and-white armor gleaming in the torchlight like a second skin of death. Her smile was sharp, cruel. She approached slowly, savoring every step as though walking toward a feast.

Her hand gripped his jaw. Squeezed.

"Look who finally woke up," she cooed, mocking warmth dripping from her tongue. "I was starting to think you'd miss your own funeral."

She shoved his face aside and snapped her fingers.

The torches roared. Flames erupted unnaturally, like beasts let off their chains. The firelight swept across the village, illuminating a scene from hell.

Crimson Bears.

Eight of them.

Their eyes glowed with dull, mechanical cruelty. The same creature Galien had slaughtered only hours before.

And beyond them—

The villagers.

Dozens of them.

Huddled, trembling, their eyes glassy with despair. Some wept. Others stared into nothing. Children clung to mothers. The old clung to prayer. And at the front, on her knees—

Irela.

Galien's wife.

She cradled the charred corpse of her husband in one arm, and the severed head of her son in the other. Her wails tore through the night like a banshee mourning a cursed world.

Icariel's mind fractured.

His chest heaved. Rage. Terror. Grief. Guilt.

"You... bitch," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You aren't human. You—this? For what?"

Elektra tilted her head. Her smile widened.

"For what? Oh no. The what is standing in front of me."

His blood turned to ice.

"What... do you mean?"

She leaned close, breath hot against his face. "Because of you."

The villagers began to murmur. Their eyes fell upon him. Fear replaced mourning. Betrayal replaced grief.

"Icariel..." Chief Helos stepped forward, voice trembling. "Is this true? Did you... did you bring this upon us?"

"No! She's lying! Please! I would never—"

Elektra's hand cracked across his face. Her voice thundered. "You dare deny it? You threw the axe. You cost me a one-time-use divine relic. You made me bleed."

She pointed to her armor. "Do you know what this is worth? You made me waste it on you."

The villagers recoiled. Their whispers turned to sobs. Their sobs to anger.

"I should never have taken you in," Helos muttered.

"Stop it!" Irela screamed, tears still streaming. "He's just a child! He helped Galien! He was like family to him and me!"

Her voice shook the air. For a moment, the silence trembled with doubt.

Helos looked away. "I spoke too soon… Forgive me. There's no hope left. Let us at least die in peace."

And then—

Steel flashed.

Blood fell.

Irela's head hit the ground with a wet thud.

Elektra's sword gleamed. Her smile returned.

"Oops."

The screams came like a tidal wave.

The villagers lost what remained of their sanity. Mothers threw themselves over their children. Men shouted. Elders wept.

And Icariel—

He broke.

The screams faded to white noise. The blood became colorless. The heat became numbness. Something inside him shattered.

He watched. Hanging. Helpless.

A witness to annihilation.

And Elektra wasn't finished.

"This is your gift, brat," she said, raising her hand. She spoke in a language older than the trees.

The Crimson Bears growled in answer.

And then they moved.

Into the crowd.

The massacre began.

Claws. Fangs. Blood.

Limbs torn. Bones crushed. Screams rose like fire.

And Icariel—he was no longer present.

Not in mind. Not in heart.

Only in instinct.

His breath slowed. His muscles stopped trembling. His eyes—once wide with horror—now narrowed.

A single truth filled his soul:

Survive.

He was not like the others. He did not mourn family. He did not weep for the dead. He feared one thing only.

Death.

And it was here.

Right in front of him.

[End of Chapter 5]