The night was drowned in an endless ocean of flames.
Charred buildings leaned like broken skeletons against a blackened sky. Ash rained down in soft, endless drifts, covering what little remained — burnt wood, shattered stone, and the faint outlines of what had once been a town.
Through the ruins, a boy walked alone.
His coat, torn and heavy with soot, dragged behind him. His steps were slow, almost mechanical, as if every footfall was an anchor tying him to the wasteland he had created. In his hand, a flickering blue flame danced — no longer the warm light of life, but a cold, haunting remnant of destruction.
Kael's violet eyes, dull and exhausted, stared blankly ahead.
The scarf wrapped around his neck — dark red and tattered — was all that remained of her.
Of Elara.
And as the embers floated like dying stars around him, Kael's memory pulled him back to the night where it all began…
---
Two Months Earlier
The winter winds were merciless that night.
Kael staggered through the crooked alleys of the slums, each breath a thin mist in the frozen air. His body, still weak from the wounds of his escape, finally gave out behind a small, worn-down tavern.
The world blurred into darkness.
When he awoke, it was to the scent of warm bread... and a voice.
"Hey... you're awake."
Kael's tired eyes blinked open to see a girl kneeling beside him, holding a bowl of soup. She couldn't have been older than fifteen — hair the color of honey, eyes bright with a stubborn light.
Despite the chill, she smiled.
"I figured you'd be starving," she said, placing the bowl in his hands. "You can work it off later."
That girl was Elara.
And the place she called home was a tiny tavern tucked between the slums and the river, about fifteen minutes' walk from the long, crumbling bridge that connected both halves of the slum.
The tavern was barely more than a shack — crooked beams, cracked windows, a creaky door that screamed every time it opened. Yet inside, it was warm. Somehow. Somehow, it felt alive.
Elara worked there alone. Her parents had died years ago, swept away by plague or famine — no one knew anymore.
Still, she smiled. Still, she stayed kind.
Kael barely spoke those first days. He washed dishes, scrubbed tables, hauled water — anything to repay her. Most of the time, Elara filled the silence herself, rambling about customers, the weather, her silly dreams.
Sometimes, Kael found it annoying.
...But sometimes, without even realizing, he found himself listening.
At night, after closing, Elara would gather the leftover food into a basket. Together, they would walk the dusty roads and leave bread and stew for the starving children, for the beastkin who huddled in the alleys, shivering and forgotten.
"You shouldn't waste it on them," Kael muttered one evening, pulling the basket back toward the tavern.
Elara only smiled and pushed it into his arms.
"The world's cruel enough," she said. "We have to be kind, even if it's hard."
Kael didn't understand it then.
Maybe he still didn't.
But he carried that basket anyway.
He found a hope in this messed up world.
But soon it will turn into despair.
To be continued...