The sky was gray. The clouds hung low like coffin lids, and the smell of unfallen rain filled the air.
Zeo sat at the edge of the village well, staring at the dew that formed strange patterns on the stone surface. In his hand was an old can filled with ashes—the remains of a cat he had burned two days ago. No reason. He just wanted to know how quickly a living thing would melt when doused in oil and wrapped in the hot magic he had created himself.
"Zeo, do you hear me?" the voice of Mr. Garet, the village chief, was sharp. "The other kids are learning to help in the fields. Why are you just sitting there?"
Zeo turned his head slowly. His eyes were empty, like the well itself—deep, dark, bottomless.
"I'm thinking about something, sir," he replied. "Something… big."
Mr. Garet sighed, shook his head, and walked away, cursing under his breath. Everyone in the village knew Zeo was strange. But no one was brave enough to actually do anything about it. They thought he was just a moody teenager, an orphan in need of direction. They were wrong.
Zeo got up and walked to his house—an old hut left behind by his mother who died from a curse many years ago. Inside, he opened a secret floor and descended into a small underground chamber. The walls were covered in ancient, forbidden magic symbols. In the middle of the room was a stone table, and on it lay a black book—an object that should have been destroyed by the kingdom's troops.
He traced the pages covered in blood and ink. There was a new spell he wanted to try tonight. Something that could make fire dance in human form. He couldn't wait.
Because tonight, he would burn down the village's cattle pens. And he wanted to see what it would be like when the smell of burning flesh mixed with the screams of humans who had lost everything.
"Little Chaos first," he whispered softly, a smirk on his face. "Later, the kingdom."
And night fell, along with the beginning of everything.
Night fell without stars.
Zeo stood in the middle of the field, not far from the cattle pen. The cold wind whipped his messy hair. In his left hand, a bottle of rotten fish oil. In his right hand, a piece of paper containing a spell that he had modified himself—ready to use.
He stared at the wooden building. Inside, dozens of livestock were sleeping, unaware that they would be the beginning of a legend that would later be told with fear.
Zeo threw the bottle against the wall of the pen. The glass shattered, the oil spread. Then he pressed the tip of his finger to his tongue, bit it slightly, and wrote a symbol in blood on his palm.
One whisper.
One spell.
And the fire spread like a hungry snake.
The building immediately caught fire, flames licking the night sky. The sound of livestock screaming. Some villagers came out of their homes in panic. They carried buckets, screaming, trying to save what they could.
Zeo stood among the shadows of the trees, watching. His eyes were calm. No guilt. No regrets. Only curiosity… and a little satisfaction.
"ZEO! WHERE ARE YOU?!" Mr. Garet's voice sounded in the distance, rough and panicked.
Zeo turned, back to the path that led to his house. But not to hide. He wanted them to suspect him. He wanted them to be afraid. But it wasn't time to confess yet.
He entered the house, opened the door quietly, and sat down in a chair. When the villagers knocked and entered a few minutes later, he was ready.
"I fell asleep," he said. "What happened?"
Mr. Garet stared at him, his breath ragged. His face darkened. But there was no proof. Not yet.
Zeo pretended to be surprised, pretended to help carry water, pretended to care. And when the fire died down, and only ashes remained, a seed had sprouted: the village was beginning to feel uneasy.
But they didn't know anything yet.
And Zeo? He was counting the steps.
"I want to see their expressions," he muttered as he returned alone to the basement, "…when they realize what they feared was true."