Ishlar Tondir stood silent in the bunker, tears streaming down his cheeks. The weight of their loss crashed down on him, and he could no longer hold back the sobs. The other children huddled nearby, eyes swollen and red, but they straightened their backs, clenching their fists. Grief would have to wait. If they didn't steel themselves now, they might not live to grieve tomorrow.
Valiz, bloodied and leaning heavily against the wall, slowly lifted his hand and placed it on Vanthelis's shoulder. His eyes met his son's—full of sorrow, pain, and something deeper: a flicker of defiance.
"My son," Valiz said, his voice hoarse, "this is a teleportation scroll. I acquired it from a cyclops during the war, a one-use artifact tied to a location I marked long ago."
He passed the scroll to Ishlar. "You're the only one among us who can still use mana. Mine's been drained. Use this. The coordinates are embedded in this locket."
Ishlar took the scroll and locket with a sharp nod, tears still in his eyes. He began the incantation, focusing his mana as arcane symbols glowed across the scroll's surface.
Valiz stepped back, watching the runes light up.
I will have my vengeance, Valiz whispered in his heart. He clenched his jaw. This is not the end. They think they've won—but I will survive. I will make them regret ever turning their blades against our bloodline.
Suddenly, a cry echoed from above: "They're here!"
The sound shattered the tense silence like glass.
Valiz's eyes widened. For the first time in decades, he felt it—fear. A cold, suffocating dread crawled through his chest. Not even the beasts of the war had made him feel like this. But now, facing betrayal from former allies, knowing the last remnants of his people were just children… this was different.
"Shit," Valiz muttered under his breath.
He turned and grabbed a sword—an old, chipped blade resting in the corner. It wasn't much, but it would do. He took his place at the corridor entrance, body trembling from wounds and exhaustion.
He turned to Vanthelis one final time. "Vanthelis! Don't trust anyone outside our clan! The world is full of smiling liars!"
With a heavy breath, he reached for a book on the shelf and pulled it free. A loud click echoed through the chamber as the secret stone door began to close.
"Father!" Vanthelis cried out, lunging toward him.
But the slab of stone slammed shut before he could reach him.
Above, heavy footsteps sounded—golden-robed warriors pouring into the hall. The Pope stepped forward, his expression smug.
"Well, hiding in your child's bedroom like a rat," he sneered. "How poetic."
"Pope Angelo," Valiz said, his voice low. "This madness… it's not too late. You can stop this."
"Stop?" The Pope chuckled. "Then kill yourself, Valiz. Save us the effort."
Valiz didn't respond with words. Instead, he lifted his blade and charged, slashing toward them with what little strength remained. But his body failed him. Each movement sent a searing pain through his limbs. His blade scraped armor but couldn't cut deep.
Still, he fought.
Every swing was slow, every step unsteady—but he pressed on. Blood poured from reopened wounds. The Pope's knights circled him like wolves, laughing.
Then—a deep, drum-like pulse echoed through the air.
The teleportation had succeeded.
Valiz stumbled but grinned through bloodied lips. They made it…
He turned back toward the corridor, imagining his son's face. Be strong, Vanthelis. Live... and remember everything.
"You!" the Pope snarled. "Get those brats! They're gone but not far!"
A warrior stepped forward to follow the lingering trace of mana left behind. The Pope wasn't about to let the last survivors slip away.
But Valiz wasn't done.
He turned once more, dragging his sword along the ground. "You won't reach them," he growled.
The Pope raised his hand lazily. "Kill him."
Blades shimmered in the torchlight. Valiz exhaled slowly. I will have my vengeance… Even if I die here, my son will carry the fire.
Far away, in a dusty, forgotten mansion surrounded by overgrown forest, a soft hum of magic faded into silence.
The teleportation had worked.
Vanthelis stumbled forward, his boots scraping against the stone floor. "Where… are we?" he whispered.
Old portraits lined the walls. White cloth covered the furniture. The air was thick with the scent of age and dust. Around him, the children looked about nervously. Ishlar was exhausted but breathing hard, clutching his staff.
"Father?" Vanthelis called, his voice cracking. But there was no answer.
He turned in all directions, searching for the one face he longed to see. But only silence greeted him.
"No… no…" he whispered, falling to his knees.
Tears streamed down his face, and he buried his head in his hands. Ishlar gently placed a hand on his shoulder, then guided the younger children deeper into the mansion, searching for food and safety.
Vanthelis remained there, unmoving, as grief wrapped itself around him like a shroud.
But beneath it all… a fire burned.