The sphere of metal shifted, groaning as its molten seams peeled apart. Smoke and ash drifted through the cracks. Slowly, it opened.
Cale looked down.
Tiana’s eyes met his.
"Daring, aren't we," she murmured, a tired but teasing smile on her lips.
Cale suddenly realized their faces were mere inches apart. Heat rushed to his face.
She was fine.
Relief crashed over him.
He rolled to the side, giving her space. She shifted upright slowly, wincing but alert.
Cale exhaled sharply, his breath shaky. Then he lifted his gaze.
And froze.
The hamlet was gone.
The square—once lit by lanterns and filled with laughter—was now a smoldering ruin. Buildings were shredded, timber splintered, rooftops collapsed. Rubble still smoked in heaps. Fires licked lazily at what remained, and glowing embers drifted through the air like dying fireflies.
Ash blanketed the earth like snowfall.
"No..."
Cale’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
There was no sound. No crying. No voices. No footsteps.
Nothing.
Not a single sign of life.
Dozens of people.
Families.
Children.
Gone.
Tears welled in his eyes and spilled silently down his cheeks as he stared at the devastation. He stood, his legs shaky, and stumbled forward. His boots crunched through broken glass and scorched wood. His breath caught in his throat as something flickered in the corner of his vision.
Wisps.
Faint, glowing lights—blue, green, soft white—drifting above the ruins like tiny stars. Spirit wisps.
The villagers.
Their souls lingered.
Watching.
Cale dropped to his knees.
"This is because of me..."
His voice broke. The words rasped from his throat like broken stone.
He covered his face with trembling hands. The battle replayed in his mind. Every choice. Every hesitation.
Selene’s voice echoed through the storm of memory:
"You lack intent. And one day, it will cost a life. Maybe more."
He had thought her harsh.
But she had been right.
His thoughts spiraled—every missed opportunity, every path not taken.
He could have ended it.
A spike from the ground. One thought, and sharpened metal could’ve ended the leader instantly.
A decisive slash. No hesitation. Just one lethal strike.
Chains of iron. Pin him down.
But he had held back.
Because he didn’t want to kill.
And now they were all dead.
He pressed his palms to the earth, sobbing.
Then—a presence.
He looked up.
A small wisp floated before him, pale blue and softly glowing.
It pulsed gently.
Then it spoke.
"Mister...?"
The voice was young. A boy’s.
Cale’s heart cracked.
The wisp took shape—flickering gently into the image of a child, maybe seven years old, with tousled hair and wide eyes.
"Have you seen my mama? And the others?"
Cale opened his mouth to respond.
But no words came.
The boy's expression fell. He looked around, confused.
"Where is everyone...?"
Cale tried to breathe. Tried to speak. But the weight crushed him.
He could only kneel, his vision blurred by tears, as the boy’s spirit flickered, then slowly faded into the air.
And all that remained was silence.
And the weight of what he hadn’t done.
He had chosen not to kill.
And the village had paid the price.
He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.
He didn’t need to look to know it was Tiana.
But he couldn’t meet her gaze.
His head remained bowed, his black hair falling like a veil to hide his tear-streaked face. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his gauntlets groaning .
"Let’s go home," she said softly, her voice quiet as a breeze.
"It seems death follows me," Cale murmured, the words nearly swallowed by the silence around them.
He thought of Tristan.
He thought of the dozens—no, the hundreds—of lives that had ended because of him. The faces blurred together: laughing children, kind villagers, innocent strangers. Their laughter, their smiles, now nothing more than echoes in the ashes.
Their deaths gripped his soul in an iron vice.
Tiana stood beside him, her expression unreadable.
"You didn’t know this would happen," she said, trying to offer him something—anything.
Cale said nothing.
But he stood up.
His legs trembled slightly beneath him.
Tiana looked at him for a long moment. Then she spoke.
"This is how life is, Cale. People die. And they will always die. You can’t stop it. None of us can. This is the world we live in. The strong survive. The weak... they don’t."
Cale slowly lifted his head.
His eyes, rimmed red from weeping, locked onto hers.
There was no anger in them.
Just sorrow.
Just the weight of too many graves.
"It may sound cruel at first," Tiana continued, her voice steady but without cruelty, "but that’s how it is. The longer you live... the more you suffer... the more you see how much pain is all around us. And most of the time, we choose to ignore it. Because if we truly saw it—truly felt it—we'd never be able to move."
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
She turned.
And she walked.
Her steps were slow, steady, but heavy.
Cale followed.
He didn’t speak. Neither did she.
No words passed between them as they walked through the ruins, the ashes whispering beneath their feet.
Just two silhouettes against the burning sky.
Both carrying their own ghosts.
Archimedes was waiting for them.
The owl perched silently on a branch beside the shack, his bright blue eyes watching them descend the path. His feathers shimmered faintly in the fading light, his presence calm, yet heavy with understanding.
Tiana walked ahead, her steps slow and deliberate. She reached the door and paused for a heartbeat before opening it. The wooden frame creaked softly as she stepped inside.
Cale followed.
The scent of herbs and old wood lingered in the air. Once comforting, it now felt hollow.
As he entered, a soft green glow appeared beside him. Xentar emerged, his form pulsing gently like a lantern flame.
"What’s with those faces? What happened?" the wisp asked, drifting closer.
Cale didn’t answer.
He walked to a chair near the hearth and sat down heavily, arms resting on his knees, shoulders slumped. His gaze dropped to the wooden floor beneath him.
Xentar hovered uncertainly. "Something very bad, I take it?"
Cale nodded once.
"The hamlet has been destroyed," he said, voice flat and brittle. "Everyone is dead."
Xentar said nothing.
He flickered briefly, then vanished.
Cale’s eyes lingered on the space where the wisp had been.
Silence filled the room.
He stared down at the floorboards, breathing shallow. The weight of everything pressed against his spine like a stone.
Then the stairs groaned.
He looked up.
Tiana stood at the landing.
She had changed. High leather boots, a plain dark tunic, and a long robe with a deep hood. Her expression was calm, distant.
"We need to leave," she said, voice firm but not unkind. "There’s a good chance others will come. If the cult doesn’t hear back from their first group, they’ll investigate."
She crossed the room and handed him a folded bundle of clothes—simple, durable, travel-worn.
"Put these on."
Cale took the bundle and nodded. Tiana turned away, arms crossed as she gave him his privacy.
The silence stretched.
When he finished dressing, they walked to the door together.
Cale paused.
He looked back at the room—the drying herbs on the walls, the scattered books, the quiet warmth it had once offered. He had barely gotten the chance to live here. And now he was leaving.
They stepped outside.
Tiana stopped.
She raised her hand, palm open. Her voice changed—low and resonant, weaving words older than memory.
Mana surged to her fingertips.
The shack trembled.
Then, like dust caught in a wind, it dissolved.
Wood, stone, warmth—gone. The space where it had stood now empty, save for the fading scent of magic.
Tiana lingered.
She looked back one last time at the place she had called home for so many years.
A breath escaped her lips.
Then she turned and walked forward, her steps quiet.
Cale followed.
Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of memory clinging to his boots like ash.
Behind them, the wind whispered through the trees.
And the clearing stood silent.
As if nothing had ever lived there at all.
Xentar appeared quietly beside Cale.
The wisp hovered low, his usual brashness nowhere to be found. His soft green glow pulsed slowly, dimmer than usual, as though even his light mourned.
"I can’t believe it’s gone..." he murmured, voice hollow. "That place stood for so long."
The path ahead twisted through dense trees, but Cale’s gaze remained downcast. He glanced toward the little flame of a spirit drifting at his side, but said nothing.
They walked in silence for a time, the forest whispering around them.
"The hamlet—it was built by a group of adventurers," Xentar finally said. "Three, maybe four centuries back. I was young then. Proud. Dangerous. A creature no one dared challenge."
His voice trembled—not with fear, but with the weight of memory.
"I still remember their faces like it was yesterday. I suppose anyone would remember their killer’s face," he added softly.
Cale paused mid-step.
He looked at Xentar—truly looked at him.
But the wisp drifted forward, lost in thought.
Cale swallowed hard and followed, his footsteps quiet behind Tiana.
"After they killed me," Xentar continued, "they harvested my body. My horn, my hide... all of it. Unicorn parts fetches a steep price. And with that gold, they built the hamlet. Their paradise in the forgotten wilderness."
A bitter laugh echoed faintly from his glowing form.
"I watched them build it. Raise homes. Start families. Grow old. I watched their children do the same. Generations passed like clouds, blown by winds I could no longer feel."
His glow dimmed further, turning into a deep, muted green.
"For a long time, I hated them. That hamlet felt like a mockery. A monument to my death. Something beautiful had died so they could warm their hands by a hearth."
He drifted slightly ahead, his voice quiet.
"But time... dulls even the deepest wounds. Eventually, I understood. I would’ve died regardless—whether to old age or a stronger beast. That’s the truth of the forest. And at least from my death, something was made. Something that endured."
A soft breeze stirred the leaves. Xentar’s light shimmered faintly, fragile as candlelight.
"I used to dream of vengeance. But in time, watching them live... watching the laughter, the songs, the way love passed from one generation to the next—it became... entertaining. And then, strangely, comforting."
He rose slightly, drifting over a patch of ferns.
"Even those who never knew my name, who walked on ground soaked with unicorn blood—they made that land a home. I suppose, in a way... I became part of it."
He turned back to Cale, his green light steady again, though fainter than before.
"And now it’s gone. All of it."
He lingered in the air.
"I don’t feel angry. Not even vengeful. Just... hollow."
They walked in silence once more.
The forest remained unchanged—vast, eternal, and indifferent.
In the silence that followed, grief walked with them.
The sun had barely risen above the treetops, casting golden rays through the thick canopy as Cale and Tiana moved silently through the forest. The woods felt endless, the air damp and heavy with dew. They had been walking for what felt like hours, each step taking them deeper into the wilderness.
Eventually, Tiana stepped over a fallen tree and sat down on its mossy trunk. She gave Cale a quiet wave, motioning for him to join her.
He did, without a word.
She leaned gently against his side and closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the forest—rustling leaves, chirping birds, the distant groan of old trees shifting in the wind.
Then the stillness was broken.
Archimedes descended from the canopy, wings spread wide as he landed gracefully on a low-hanging branch. His feathers shimmered like starlight in the early morning sun. He hooted once, sharp and deliberate.
Tiana's eyes opened. She studied the owl for only a second before speaking, her voice cool and measured.
"A group of wolves is approaching," she said, her tone low. "Not ordinary ones. Moonfangs."
Her gaze sharpened.
"A small pack," she added, already rolling up her sleeves. Her body tensed, though her face remained calm and unreadable.
Cale stood, his expression darkening. He turned his gaze toward the path ahead, already sensing the tension in the air. He inhaled deeply.
In response, dark metal began to surge from his skin. It rippled over his frame in smooth, flowing patterns. Plates formed, clamping into place with sharp metallic clicks. His hands morphed—flesh replaced by clawed gauntlets of blackened steel, each talon curved and gleaming like obsidian blades.
Then came the beasts.
From the shadows of the trees, they emerged.
The Moonfangs.
Massive wolves, larger than any natural predator. Their fur shimmered like strands of silver-blue silk. Their muscles coiled beneath their skin like serpents ready to strike. Glowing eyes, pale as the moon, glared from the underbrush. They didn’t bark. They didn’t growl.
They moved like wraiths—silent, deadly, swift.
And then they charged.
Cale met them without hesitation.
The first wolf leapt at him, jaws wide and snapping toward his neck. Cale ducked, rolled under it, and slammed his armored shoulder into its ribs. The force sent the beast flying, its body crashing into a tree with a bone-snapping thud.
Another lunged from the side. Cale twisted mid-step, catching it mid-air with his claws and slamming it into the ground. It let out a sharp yelp, dazed.
But he wasn’t finished.
Cale moved like a force of nature—dodging, spinning, striking. His body was fluid and relentless. Every attack calculated. Every movement refined. He struck with control: a sweep of his leg, a shove with his shoulder.
He didn’t kill.
He disabled.
One by one, the wolves fell, not dead but unconscious or stunned.
Then the last wolf stepped forward.
It was larger than the rest. A scar ran across its flank. Blood trickled from one leg, and it limped. Yet it stood tall, unyielding.
Cale approached slowly, his claws still extended. His stance was low, ready.
The wolf’s lips peeled back, baring teeth.
And it lunged.
Cale reacted.
His claws rose, the killing strike ready.
Then—
He saw its eyes.
Wide.
Terrified.
There was no hatred in its gaze.
Only fear.
Confusion.
Pain.
He froze.
His hand hovered inches from the creature’s throat. He couldn’t do it. Not now. Not like this.
The wolf struck, seizing the moment, jaws aimed for his throat.
But it never reached him.
A bolt of blue energy split the air like lightning.
It struck the wolf in the side.
The beast screamed—a guttural, agonized sound. It convulsed violently before crumpling mid-leap.
It hit the ground with a final, echoing thud.
Smoke curled from its singed coat. The scent of charred flesh and ozone hung heavy.
Cale turned.
Tiana stood behind him, arm raised, fingers still glowing with residual magic. Her face was cold, unreadable.
"You hesitated," she said.
Cale looked back at the body.
The metal covering his form retracted. His hands trembled.
He knelt beside the fallen creature, his hand hovering over the blackened fur.
It was still warm.
There had been no hatred in that wolf.
And now, nothing.
He exhaled slowly.
The sounds of the forest returned—whispers of wind, rustling leaves, the faint whimpers of injured wolves scattered nearby.
Tiana stepped softly, past the still bodies and the scent of smoke. She said nothing at first, only knelt beside him.
Her voice came gently.
"You wanted to kill it."
Cale didn’t move.
His jaw tightened, eyes locked on the scorched fur of the wolf.
"But you didn’t. Because in the last second, you stopped yourself."
Still, no answer.
Tiana watched him closely. The way he didn’t blink. The way his breath barely stirred.
"You wanted to prove you could do it," she continued. "That you could finally cross that line. You thought maybe killing something would make you feel powerful. In control. Not helpless. Not guilty. Not broken."
That word—broken—landed hard in the air between them.
Cale's shoulders tensed. His fists clenched.
But still, he said nothing.
"You think if you can become ruthless," she whispered, "if you just stop feeling—then you won’t be hurt again. You won’t fail again. You won’t have to care."
He blinked slowly, his eyes dull, as if staring at something that wasn’t there.
Tiana’s voice softened, more fragile now.
"But that’s not strength, Cale. That’s surrender."
His lips parted, barely audible words slipping through.
"I don’t know who I am anymore. All I wanted was to be a hero. Someone who people would look up to."
He looked down at his hands as if they didn’t belong to him. Hands meant to protect. Hands that had failed. Hands that almost killed.
All his life, he had defined himself by what he gave to others—his time, his strength, his loyalty, his care. The helper. The protector. The one who mattered only because he was needed.
But no one needed him now.
The hamlet was gone. Tristan was gone. He had no idea what had happened to Mirelle and Davion. Even the wolf was dead, not because of him, but despite him.
And in that vacuum of purpose, something darker began to bloom.
A hollow place.
Where guilt could curdle into rage.
Where devotion could twist into control.
Where compassion could rot into cruelty.
He had wanted to be needed. To be enough. To be everything for everyone.
And now?
He felt like nothing at all.
He stood slowly. Mechanical. Quiet.
Tiana didn’t stop him.
He walked a few steps into the trees and stopped, his back to her.
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of what he might become.
And the fear that, deep down, he no longer cared if it was good or bad—only that he never felt helpless again.
Are the pictures cool or nah ?
