Sam’s pupils widened.
He saw him.
He was walking straight toward him.
What do I do?
“Run!” someone shouted, grabbing Sam’s wrist and pulling him forward.
Sam tried to bolt.
Too late.
Crunch.
IMPACT.
Face slammed into the mud.
Air torn from his lungs.
A boot pinned him down.
“Well, well. Who the hell are you?”
The voice was lazy. Mocking.
The man towering over him was a bandit—broad-shouldered, a jagged scar across his cheek.
A dagger danced in his hand, reflecting flickers of dying light.
“Peeking, are we? Not very polite.”
Sam tried to crawl back.
His legs wouldn’t move.
The boy who had saved him stood frozen nearby, pale as death.
The bandit took a step forward.
Unhurried. Casual. Almost lazy.
“Still young, aren’t you?” he chuckled darkly.
“Sorry, kid. You saw too much. There’s not many options left now…”
He glanced aside.
For a moment—fear flashed in his eyes.
“If I leave evidence… they’ll quarter me.”
A voice inside Sam’s mind:
Kill him. Now.
He swallowed hard.
Heart pounding like a war drum.
“No need to be scared,” the bandit grinned.
“It’s already over.”
Strike first.
“W-Wait…”
“Wait? Hah! Fine, take your—”
He lunged.
Blade slashing downward.
NOW!
“Incinerate!”
The word ripped out of Sam’s throat.
Flash.
Flames exploded from his palm.
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The bandit didn’t even have time to scream.
Fire engulfed him.
A single, choking cry—and silence.
His skin cracked like porcelain.
His body crumbled.
Ash.
Silence.
The stench of char.
Sam staggered back.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His fingers trembled.
“I…”
The world swam.
His vision dimmed.
Strength drained like blood from a wound.
He dropped to his knees.
Pain.
“Stand… up…”
“Hey. You alive?”
A voice.
Sam raised his head.
The boy stood before him—mud-covered, young. Gripping a rock like a shield.
“Who… are you?” Sam rasped.
“I’m… Kyle.”
Sam tried to breathe.
A deep hum in his chest. Black static in his mind.
Memories—carriage. Screams. Blood. Ash.
He had killed.
You did the right thing.
Sam clenched his teeth.
“No… I didn’t mean to. He just… vanished…”
Kyle was shaking.
His fingers white from gripping the rock. Eyes darting between Sam and the scorched ground.
“I won’t hurt you,” Sam said quietly.
Pause.
“You… human?”
Sam lowered his gaze.
“…I don’t know.”
Silence.
Just wind rustling through the trees.
The scent of smoke still lingered.
The sun was slipping behind the treeline.
The forest thickened like ink.
Hunger. Weakness. Cold seeping in.
I need shelter…
A howl.
Distant. Low.
Kyle flinched.
Sam’s head snapped up.
Crackling.
Nearby.
“That…”
The howl echoed again. Closer.
Sam licked his cracked lips.
“Run.”
Kyle didn’t argue.
***
Elsewhere…
A cathedral.
The scent of wax. Stone columns towering toward the vaulted ceiling.
A bishop stood before the altar, robes whispering against marble.
Behind him, a stained glass window diffused soft, colored light.
A messenger had arrived.
“All according to plan?” the bishop asked.
“N-No, sir…” the knight stammered, visibly shaken.
A heavy silence settled.
“Repeat that?”
“There was a riot… the slaves scattered. Some are still missing.”
“The girl?”
“With them. But the boy’s gone. As well as a few women. And…”
“And what?”
“One of the guards was… killed. By magic. Possibly a Shadow Worshipper…”
The bishop’s lips curved.
“Shadow Worshippers? Hah. You noble-born fools still believe in fairy tales?”
“Fairy tale?!”
“Oh, absolutely. The Church invented them.”
He turned, eyes gleaming faintly.
“What is a Shadow Worshipper?”
“I… don’t know. Heretics? Followers of false gods?”
“Exactly. No one knows. But they all fear it.”
And fear… was easy to control.
He faced the altar again.
“Go. I’ll send Nick and a few knights into the forest.”
The knight bowed stiffly and retreated.
Behind the bishop, the stained glass caught firelight.
Politics and holy lies. Blood and shadow.
The games were just beginning.
Sam didn’t win. He survived. And that’s sometimes harder.
This was a turning point for the tone—did it hit right?
Any feedback, impressions, or predictions are super welcome.
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