Ash clung to every surface—the cobbled streets, the charred beams, even the wind that slid through ruined doorways. Cinders drifted like snow in the dim light, settling on eyelashes and shoulders. Bramblehollow lay miles behind them; here, in the borderlands, the war had left nothing but scorched earth and shattered lives.
They found the journals in the cellar of the last standing home. Its door hung from one hinge, soot-blackened and warped by heat. Inside, half the roof had collapsed, but beneath broken joists and tangled beams, a battered chest held three tattered diaries.
Lira knelt, brushing ash from the nearest volume. "This one belongs to a soldier in the vanguard." She cracked it open. The pages were singed at the edges; ink ran where sweat or tears had fallen.
"At dawn we advanced on the village. They offered no fight—only terror. I heard them wailing in the alleys. The Captain said, 'Fire the houses; spare no one.' So we did."
Her voice was soft as a prayer. As she read each word aloud, the cellar walls brightened with a living memory. Dust swirled and the air hummed.
Vision One: The Slaughter of Dawn
They saw it as though peering through a shattered lantern.
The village at sunrise, half its rooftops aflame. Soldiers in perfect formation marched from house to house, their blades dripping. An old woman stumbled from her door, clutching a bundle of rags. A sword rose above her; she never screamed. Children pressed against walls, wide-eyed, as arquebuses thundered in their faces.
Men and women alike fell without mercy. The haze of smoke and blood was so thick that Caelum's vision trembled—and when he blinked, the cellar returned.
Caelum sank to one knee, hand pressed to his chest. The shard beneath his cloak pulsed, fierce and hot. A fire sparked in his veins, coiling around his heart. It was more than anger or grief—it was a wrath he'd never known, an ache for justice that scorched his soul.
Bram knelt beside him. "Caelum?" His voice was low, trembling. "Are you all right?"
Caelum forced his breathing steady. "I… I feel their pain." The shard's rhythm hammered in reply. He closed his eyes. "And something else… a fire."
Bram laid a hand on his shoulder. "We'll keep going."
They pressed forward into the village square. Ash-blackened stones bore silent witness to the carnage: overturned carts, shattered mugs, a child's wooden toy half-buried in soot. No one remained—only echoes and wind.
In a collapsed building, they found her: a girl no older than nine, huddled in a corner. Her eyes were wide and empty, her lips quivering but making no sound.
Lira knelt and offered water from her flask. The girl took it mechanically, eyes never leaving Caelum's. In her small hand she clenched a torn page—part of a diary, its text smudged beyond clear reading.
"Speak to her," Bram whispered.
Caelum approached on unsteady legs. He knelt at her level, heart burning with that same heat. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "For what happened here."
The girl's lips moved, but no sound emerged. She opened her hand to reveal a single line of legible ink:
"I tried to hide them all. But I could not save my mother from the flames."
Caelum felt the shard pulse again. He closed his eyes, letting the shard draw him in.
Vision Two: The Cellar of Mourning
The girl's memory unfolded around them:
A mother crying in the dark, scorched by fire. She clasped her daughter's hand, whispering apologies. Outside, embers rained through a broken window. The girl watched her siblings' door collapse under a soldier's boot. She pressed her back to the wall, rocking, repeating her mother's name as the flames swallowed them.
When the vision ended, the girl's silent tears fell onto Caelum's cloaks. For the first time, he did not flinch from his wrath. Instead, he felt pity—a deep, aching sorrow that mingled with his anger.
Lira wrapped an arm around the girl, gathering her to comfort. Bram placed a steadying hand on Caelum's other shoulder.
They emerged from the ruin at dusk, the three of them carrying both the weight of what they'd seen and the flickering hope that it might mean something.
Bram lit a small fire in the square, and they sat in a rough circle. The girl lay between Lira's knees, drawing shapes in the ash with her finger.
Caelum stared into the flames, the shard's glow faint beneath his cloak. He could still feel that fire beneath his ribs—wrath, yes, but also a power untapped. He did not yet know its name.
Lira looked up at him. "We can stop this," she said. "These journals—they show us their crimes. We can bring the Captain to the fey council. We can make him answer."
Bram's jaw tightened. "He'll never submit. He'll hide among the ruins—or strike again."
Caelum rose, the girl's eyes following him. He knelt beside the small figure and placed a gentle hand on her head. "I promise," he said, voice quiet but resolute, "he will face justice."
The girl met his gaze for a long moment, and Caelum felt in her eyes a spark of trust—fragile but real.
As night deepened, they gathered the journals and the torn page. Caelum held them close, letting the shard's pulse steady his breath. He was no longer just an observer. He felt a power stirring—a heat that would one day unleash his Judgment Sight, a gift and a curse.
But not tonight.
Tonight, they had a path: the Captain's last known camp at the edge of the burnt woods. They would face him in the dawn's half-light, bearing witness to every crime he had committed.
Caelum stood, shoulders squared. "Rest now," he told Lira and Bram. "Tomorrow, we act."
They each nodded, settling against the ruin's stones. The fire crackled low, and the girl fell asleep in Lira's arms.
Above them, the cinders drifted—silent stars over a land that yearned for justice.
And deep within Caelum's chest, the shard pulsed once more, quieter now, but with a promise of the power to come.