> The horizon bled crimson and black, not with the hues of a setting sun, but with the relentless burn of a land devoured. Jagged silhouettes of what were once structures clawed at the smoke-choked sky, their fiery wounds painting streaks of orange against the perpetual twilight.
Underfoot, the ground was a treacherous carpet of ash, soft and yielding in places, hardened into brittle crusts in others, each step a silent testament to the inferno that had swept through. The air itself tasted of cinder and ruin, a heavy, suffocating presence that clung to the lungs and stung the eyes.
Within the skeletal remains of buildings, the final vestiges of life were being consumed by the relentless flames. The charred forms of humans and animals lay scattered amidst the debris, their flesh and bone surrendering to the fire, joining the growing layers of soot that blanketed every surface. It was hard to imagine now, amidst this utter devastation, that this place had once been a lively village, filled with the sounds of laughter, the bustle of daily life, and the warmth of hearth fires.
The solemn silence that had fallen was suddenly broken by a sharp crack, followed by the grinding sound of debris shifting and collapsing. From the heart of the ash and ruin, a pale youth crawled, his movements weak and desperate, barely clinging to the fragile thread of life. He was the only one left. His eyes, wide and unfocused, darted across the desolate landscape as if he couldn't comprehend the scene before him. 'It has to be a dream, his mind screamed, a desperate plea against the overwhelming horror.
I'm dreaming, right? No... The chilling realization crashed over him, heavy and absolute. This was not a nightmare; this was reality.
A silent sob escaped his lips as the weight of understanding settled in. 'But how can this be? All those hard works and training, all for nothing?! The encouraging words of the elders, the hope they all had, all the bravery of the youths... For what? Just to die?!
A ragged gasp tore through his throat as the horrifying truth solidified. "Uncle and aunt... dead," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper in the vast silence. "The village elders are dead too, the brave warriors of the village also dead... everyone was dead." His gaze fell upon the smoldering remains around him, a fresh wave of despair washing over him. "I'm the only one alive?" he whispered, his voice laced with disbelief and a burgeoning sense of guilt.
"Just why didn't I die! Death, why spare my worthless life?!" He had spent his last reserves of strength to pull himself from the most immediate danger. He tried to look around, but he couldn't move. All he saw was the moon shining on his pale face.
Everywhere around him was dead silence; he could even hear his own heartbeat, a slow, weak thrum against the stillness. Fine particles of ash drifted down, settling on his skin. The wind, a cold whisper through the ruins, tugged at his tunic, which was now nothing more than tattered rags. He was utterly tired, a bone-deep weariness that went beyond physical exertion. His mind felt numb, a dull ache behind his eyes. He couldn't even register the pain of his broken body any longer, as if that, too, had surrendered. All he wished for at that moment was death, a final release from the torment that surrounded him and the emptiness within.
But it seemed even the world itself wasn't kind enough to grant him that gift. How ironic, he thought dimly, the edges of his awareness blurring. 'Never in my life would I have imagined that I'd wish for death. He tried to force a laugh, a bitter, mocking sound, but his body wouldn't respond. He couldn't even feel the muscles in his face. There was only a detached awareness, a silent witness to his own fading existence. Now, utterly spent, his limbs felt like lead, and a numbing cold crept further into his mind. No more tears would come; his grief was a dry, aching void. He simply lay amongst the ruins of his home, his gaze fixed on the smoke-filled sky, surrendering to the inevitable.
As darkness began to claim his consciousness, a final, weak whisper escaped his lips, a question lost to the wind: "The Northern Heralds... why?" And with that, he succumbed to the blackness.