The lake was behind him now.
Or was it still ahead? The question no longer had meaning.
Dawn's awareness floated between fragments of time, pulled into memory so vivid it no longer felt like recollection—it was presence. Reality shifted into familiarity, and familiarity into dread.
He was twelve again. Feet bare, hair wind-tossed and face flushed with excitement, as he dashed across the golden plains that flanked the city. Dust kicked up behind him as he sprinted, heart hammering with childish joy. The Sun hovered in the sky, never quite setting, its light casting long, dreamlike shadows across the land. That was the way of the world. That was home.
He felt grass brushing against his ankles. Sunlight—not the golden Solara light of the academy, but a familiar, warming light—kissed his skin. When his eyes opened, he was a child again.
The breeze carried the scent of the fields, of wildflowers and tilled soil. A small city sat in the distance, its clay-brick buildings stacked upon gentle hills. This was home.
He heard laughter—his own. A younger, wilder voice. Barefoot, he raced across the fields, hair tousled and eyes lit with wonder. Behind him, an old man called out. The baker.
"Boy! If you run any faster, you'll grow wings!"
Dawn grinned, spinning mid-step before darting toward the city gates. He remembered every stone, every face. Orphans weren't often treated kindly, but he had somehow carved a place here. The apothecary woman who taught him to read. The smith who gave him metal scraps to play with. The retired Prime who shared stories of starlight and destiny.
A quiet love bound this city. A warmth that embraced him even in poverty. A place of belonging.
He had returned late that day, as he wanted to catch a game he recently dound in a certain area of the forest.
But as his bare feet touched the first stone path of the city, that joy drained from him.
Then came the smell of smoke.
His younger self paused, nose twitching.
A cloud billowed over the rooftops, and the bell in the center tower rang—not the high, chiming bell for festival—but the deep, slow toll that meant danger.
"Is it a drill?" his younger voice asked, confused.
But no. Even now, watching as a spectator through time, the older Dawn knew. This was no drill.
He felt himself pulled forward, no longer the child, but something tethered to the boy. He ran into the city just as the first screams began. Smoke curled into alleys. The scent of burning wood, flesh, and blood filled the air.
Bodies.
So many bodies.
The same streets he had walked for years were now soaked in red. Familiar faces—friends—lay strewn across the cobblestone. The apothecary's stall had collapsed. Her bloodied hand reached out from beneath the rubble.
Children cried. Flames danced.
---
Warriors in robes the color of dried blood moved through the chaos. They bore no insignia, only spiraling marks etched into their skin and armor. Their eyes were vacant—lifeless yet filled with manic devotion.
Cultists.
Worshippers of fallen Celestials. The darker ones, whose names had been stricken from lore.
They struck with precision, as if guided by unseen strings. The city guards fell too easily. None had been prepared for this kind of attack.
A man, once the city's shield, stood his ground.
The veteran Prime knew he would die here.
He had once stood on the celestial battlefield. Had fought beasts that swallowed stars. But age had taken much from him.
Still, he stood firm. His Mortal Shell groaned beneath old armor, and his Resonant Layer flickered with dying starlight.
A cultist lunged. He parried. Another came, blade dripping shadow. He dodged.
He fought for the children screaming behind him. For the soul of this place. But his strength waned.
As the killing blow neared, he met the attacker's eyes and found no hatred. Only devotion. Twisted, blind devotion.
---
The child watched the man fall. Watched the red pool widen.
"No," he whispered.
He turned to run—anywhere. But everywhere was blood. Screams. Fire.
He found the baker's shop. Burned down. Bodies inside.
He found the smith. Head crushed.
He fell to his knees, body shaking, eyes wide.
"No, no, no..."
The world twisted around him.
The horror pierced deeper than the blood itself. It wasn't just death. It was the desecration of peace. The ending of dreams.
He screamed—not aloud, but within. A scream so sharp it echoed across his soul.
---
By now, the Cultists had noticed him. The lone survivor, a child. Their eyes were dull with violence, hands soaked in blood. And they looked up.
One pointed. A child's figure had entered the ruin.
"A survivor," someone muttered.
"An offering maybe," another growled.
They came for him. He ran, he screamed, he called for help.
No one answered.
He was caught. Beaten. Dragged to the camp. His legs kicked but they were strong. Much too strong.
The days after blurred into one another. A nightmare stretched across days and nights. They didn't kill him. They tortured him. As if his endurance were an offering to something.
They broke his bones, then healed them only to break them again. They carved into his skin strange marks, watching how he screamed. They whispered things in his ear. Tied him beneath the stars and asked him to forget his name.
But he didn't forget.
Dawn remembered. Even now. Every moment.
He never begged. Never gave them the satisfaction.
They hated that.
One night, as the fires burned low and the stars grew clearer in the endless sky above, he lay curled in chains, too weak to move. His breath was shallow, cracked lips bleeding.
And then—it came.
A whisper. From nowhere. From within.
From beyond.
It was not like the voices of the torturers. It was smooth. Velvet laced with ruin.
"Do you want revenge?"
Dawn's eyes fluttered. His thoughts were fevered, but the voice cut through like cold water.
"They will not stop. They never do. Do you want them to suffer?"
He did not speak.
"Say it," the voice whispered. "Say what you want."
And in the depths of his soul, in the pit of his shattered being, something awoke. A desire so pure and sharp it could slice stone.
---
To Be Continued