Zaedric ran. He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The forest loomed ahead, dark and unwelcoming, but it was their only hope. Behind him, the once-glorious kingdom of Varethia was little more than a smoldering ruin, the fires of its downfall licking hungrily at the sky. The guttural howls of the demons still echoed through the night, a cruel symphony of suffering that followed him into the unknown.
Lyria sobbed as she clung to his hand, her small fingers trembling against his own. The little girl had barely spoken since their mother was taken. Zaedric could still hear her scream, see the horror in her eyes before she was dragged into the abyss. The image seared itself into his mind, an unrelenting brand of loss and helplessness.
But there was no time to grieve. Not yet.
His father had given his life to buy them a chance, and Zaedric refused to waste it.
The dense foliage swallowed them as they plunged into the forest, its towering trees blotting out the light of the moon. Shadows stretched like grasping fingers, and every snapped twig beneath their feet felt like a beacon to whatever horrors lurked nearby.
Zaedric slowed, pulling Lyria to a stop. He pressed a finger to his lips, urging silence. She stifled her sobs, biting down on her sleeve to muffle the sounds. He listened. The wind whistled through the branches, rustling the leaves in a haunting cadence. The cries of the dying still reached them from the distance, but closer, too close, he heard another sound.
A growl.
Zaedric's breath hitched. He turned, scanning the underbrush. He had no weapon, nothing to defend himself with but his own hands, and against those things, that was as good as useless. His heart pounded, the primal instinct to flee warring with the knowledge that running might only make things worse.
Then, from the thicket, a pair of glowing eyes emerged.
Not the burning embers of the demons that had ravaged Varethia. These eyes were golden, gleaming in the darkness like liquid fire. The shape that followed was massive, a wolf unlike any Zaedric had ever seen. Its fur was thick and dark as the night, muscles coiled beneath its form, and it moved with an eerie, unnatural grace.
It was no ordinary beast.
Lyria whimpered, shrinking behind Zaedric, who instinctively shielded her with his body. He had no plan, no hope of fighting something so large, but if he had to, he would go down buying Lyria the time to run.
The wolf took a step forward, its gaze locked onto him. Its nostrils flared as if drinking in his scent. And then it did something he did not expect.
It sat.
Zaedric blinked, his breath caught in his throat. The creature regarded him with an intelligence far beyond that of any mere animal. It tilted its head slightly, ears twitching as though listening to something unseen.
Zaedric dared not move. His mind reeled. Was this another danger? Another supernatural horror spawned by the nightmarish events of the 9th Veilmoon?
And then, the wolf spoke.
Not in words, not in the way a man would speak, but in his mind, a voice seeped through, low and steady, ancient and knowing.
Run no longer, but tread with purpose, child of ruin.
Zaedric staggered back, his mind rejecting what he had just experienced. But the wolf did not attack. Instead, it turned, padding silently into the forest, its glowing eyes lingering on them for only a moment longer before disappearing into the shadows.
Silence stretched between them. Lyria's grip on his tunic tightened.
"Zaedric…" she whispered, her voice small and frightened. "What was that?"
"I don't know," he admitted. But he did know one thing.
Something about this night was changing him.
The fall of Varethia had been only the beginning.
Zaedric pulled Lyria along as they pressed deeper into the forest, the thick underbrush tugging at their clothes. The night air carried the lingering scent of smoke and blood, a grim reminder of all they had lost. He forced himself to focus, to move forward. The weight of Lyria's trembling hand in his own was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Hours passed, or at least it felt like it. The moon had long since hidden behind thick storm clouds, leaving only the dim glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the gnarled trunks of the trees to light their path. Each step forward felt heavier, exhaustion threatening to pull him under.
"We need to rest," he murmured, his voice hoarse from the dry chill in the air.
Lyria merely nodded, her silence unsettling. She hadn't cried in hours. She should have. He wished she would. It was unnatural for a child to hold so much pain inside.
Finding a small clearing, Zaedric ushered her down against the base of an old oak, its roots twisting like skeletal fingers. He knelt beside her, listening once more for any signs of pursuit. The forest was eerily quiet now, as if it too mourned the loss of Varethia.
His stomach twisted at the thought of their parents. His mother's final scream. His father's last stand. The sounds haunted him, looping in his mind like a cursed melody. He clenched his jaw and turned to Lyria, draping his cloak over her.
"Try to sleep," he said, though he knew neither of them would.
She curled up against the roots, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
Zaedric leaned his head back, exhaling shakily. He needed a plan. They couldn't wander aimlessly forever. But where could they go? Who would take them in, knowing they were survivors of a fallen kingdom, a kingdom possibly marked by whatever dark forces had orchestrated its destruction?
His fingers found the dirt, tracing patterns absentmindedly. Then he thought of the wolf. Of its words. Run no longer, but tread with purpose, child of ruin.
What did it mean?
His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling in the undergrowth. His breath caught. He reached for a branch, his only weapon.
And then, a voice. Human.
"Who goes there?"
Zaedric froze. In the darkness, a figure emerged, cloaked and hooded, a lantern flickering in their grasp. The light revealed a face partially shadowed, eyes keen and searching.
Zaedric tightened his grip on Lyria's hand.
"Refugees?" the stranger asked, their voice laced with cautious curiosity.
Zaedric didn't answer immediately. He could lie, he could run, or he could trust this unknown figure.
For the first time since the fall of Varethia, he had a choice.