The boy knelt in the shallows, seawater lapping at his knees, now pink with blood and silence. The fading embers of the campfire, a pathetically small circle of grey ash against the vast, darkening shore, mirrored the hollowness in his chest. He'd built it himself, that fire, gathering driftwood with others… while they laughed and told tales under the bruised purple of the night sky. The leftovers of their meal –a roasted fish bones and scattered scraps of flatbread – lay scattered near the dying flames, a morbid feast for the scavenging crabs already starting to rush closer.
Five bodies lay scattered like driftwood, too still to be sleeping. Their sleeping bags, ripped and stained, were strewn amongst them, stark white against the sand. A half-empty water bottle lay near, the plastic warped and cracked from the heat of the day. The wind, a mournful keening, dragged screams across the sand, but they belonged to no one living. Only the sounds of the crashing waves answered the wind's lament.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He counted. Again. Again. As if miscounting could reverse time. He remembered the way the firelight danced in their eyes as they shared stories, the way the wind had whipped their hair as they played a reckless game of tag along the waves. The cheerful chaos of setting up their tents, the shared laughter as they struggled to erect the delicate structures against the stubborn wind. Now, only the silence remained, broken only by the crashing tide.
He was the only one left breathing.
His fingers were raw, skin split and dirty with dried blood, not his own. The rough texture of the stone, still slick with blood, haunted his memory. He could almost feel the weight of it in his hand again, the abrupt silence that followed. He'd dropped it near the remains of their meager camp, a grim monument of someone's action. The smell of woodsmoke and salt hung heavy in the air, a bloody perfume to the tragedy spreading around him. The once-joyful scene of their camping trip was now a scene of horror, the fire a stark reminder of the warmth and life that had been so brutally extinguished.
The staring, coldly, grief-stricken at the cracked skull of a man, whom he doesn't know. His father lay sprawled nearby, a widening pool of crimson staining the sand, his eyes still open, staring vacantly at the sky. The boy's fingers brushed against a rough piece of a head, an unsightly mess.
He had struck again and again, not out of courage, but desperation. Desperation born of watching his family die, one by one.
A choked sob tore from the boy's throat. Coward, a voice whispered in his head, You could have done something. His mother's lifeless form lay near the remains of their campfire, her face serene in death, a stark contrast to the chaos around her. His sisters appeared to be sleeping dolls with their tiny hands clenched tightly together, their innocence cruelly taken. The smell of woodsmoke and blood filled his nostrils, a nauseating mix.
Too fast. Too senseless. Feeling the crushing weight of their deaths pressing down, too much for him to handle. He pressed his forehead to the cold sand, the rough grains digging into his skin. "I was supposed to protect them," he whispered, his voice lost in the mournful.
The earth trembled beneath him. A low hum resonated through the sand, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the very core of the earth. The waves retreated, leaving behind a vast expanse of glistening sand, an unnatural stillness settling over the beach. Then, a dark shape rose on the horizon, a colossal serpent, its scales shimmering like obsidian under the fading light. Its eyes, vast and ancient, fixed on him. Its mouth, a gaping abyss, seemed to swallow the last vestiges of light.
He rose, barefoot and blood-soaked, his shoulders shaking not from fear, but from the crushing weight of his grief. He stepped forward, the cold water lapping at his ankles. "I couldn't save them," he choked out, tears streaming down his face. "I am a coward. Kill me. Please."
The serpent didn't roar. It simply opened its maw, a yawning abyss promising oblivion. As its jaws closed around him, he felt not pain, but a chilling emptiness, a surrender. Then darkness. Then fragments: his mother's face, her gentle smile, the warmth of her embrace. The crackling fire, the laughter of his sisters, the scent of woodsmoke and sea salt. The stone, cold and heavy in his hand. The screams. The silence. And then, a voice, ancient as the world itself, "All was taken beneath the night… yet beneath that same sky, you shall rise once again."
And then, only the cold, vast darkness.
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In a classroom heavy with dust and quiet sunlight, an old man rested against a worn desk. His hands moved over a leather-bound book that had seen better days. Dust danced lazily in golden beams that filtered through tall, arched windows, catching in the corners of the room like fleeting ghosts.
The old man's eyes, sharp and gleaming with the weight of too many stories, scanned the young faces before him.
"Alright, class," he began, voice rough like gravel but steady, "today, we're talking about something, a myth book I found interesting—the Sundering."
A few students shifted in their seats, some nodding, others staring blankly.
"It says, before the Sundering," he continued, "the world was different. Magic wasn't hidden; it was everywhere. Like the air you breathe, you could feel it humming beneath your skin. Then... everything changed. The world split apart like a broken mirror. The gods? Gone. Maybe swallowed by the darkness, or maybe they just… left. No one's really sure."
"But the magic didn't vanish. It shattered and scattered around the world. Those magic that received their physical form was eaten by the living, and that gave birth to mystical beasts along with mythical beings. Those mystical beasts? They were used as a main ingredient for something they called the Dalan ti—pathways to power. Dangerous, seductive, and not meant for most."
He let the words hang in the air a moment before leaning forward, voice dropping. "Each Dalan ti ties you to a force older than memory. Take the Leviathan's Path, for instance. It offers raw, crushing power—the tides obey you, the ocean listens. But it's a curse as much as a gift. It twists your body, your mind… makes you less human, more something else."
He tapped the mural with a worn finger. "Or the Yggdrasil's Path, where life grows from your fingertips, and the earth itself becomes part of you. Healing, growth, beauty—but the earth wants a price. Lose yourself to it, and you're gone. Nothing but roots and vines left behind. Only those who are willed to wield such power."
The old man's eyes twinkled with a secret knowledge. "There are other paths, each with its own madness, its own monster. Few walk them and keep their souls intact."
A young man near the front leaned in, voice trembling. "How does someone… choose a path like that?"
The old man chuckled—a dry, bitter sound like cracking stone. "That's the thing. Some say paths find you. Others, you stumble onto by accident. But this is what you always remember once you start down a Dalan ti, turning back is a luxury no one ever gets."
"Hmph, such nonsense. It's a myth! We won't learn or use it anyway," a child suddenly remarked. Suddenly, a white light swallowed the room.
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Alone. Confused. His head throbbed in pain that spread through his entire being, a stranger's memories trying to impose their way in, though fractured and incomplete.
Blood, serpent soaring beneath the sky, and the moon were among the visions that tore through the young man's thoughts like wildfire. As it subsided, he was once more alone himself, deep within a ruin.