Fire consumed Morvain.
The black sky trembled beneath the iron wings of Stella's war machines. Bombs fell like judgment, fire roared like gods returning to finish what they had started. Screams choked the air—too many to count, too far gone to name.
The old woman clutched the boy against her chest as the windows rattled with distant gunfire. Her breath was shallow, heart pounding in a rhythm she could no longer control.
She tore back the rug in the corner of her home. Beneath it, an old wooden panel—the hidden storage she had once used for her late daughter's dowry. Books, a few coins, dried herbs, useless now in a world devouring itself.
She laid the child inside.
His white hair was already stained with blood, his dark blue eyes watching her.
"You'll be alright," she whispered, voice shaking. "Don't make a sound. Please."
She placed the plank back—crooked, not flush—but there was no time to fix it.
The door slammed open.
Two soldiers stepped in—boots slick with blood, rifles still smoking. The insignia of Stella on their shoulders gleamed through the ash and flame.
The woman turned to them slowly.
Behind her, the village screamed. Mothers clutched dying children. Men begged for mercy. A farmer was shot through the window—the bullet splitting skull from spine. His blood painted the glass in thick, sick splashes.
The soldiers didn't hesitate.
They raised their rifles. She didn't beg.
The shots rang out—twice.
She fell forward, her old frame crumpling like dried leaves. Blood spilled from her chest, flowing in thick streams through the cracks in the floor.
Some of it dripped into the hidden storage.
Onto the boy's pale face.
The infant didn't move. He didn't cry. Blood trickled into his eyes, thick and warm, veiling his dark gaze in red.
He blinked. Slowly. Silently.
Above, her hand twitched—alive, but barely.
The two soldiers stepped deeper into the house, boots thudding on worn wood.
He glanced at the old woman's body, then at the shattered remnants of the home.
"Pitiful," he said. "Wrong place, wrong time. All for the Emperor."
"Kyle," one of them muttered, shoving aside a broken chair, "are you starting to feel merciful
now?"
Kyle scoffed. "Hell no."
They moved without urgency, rifles lowered now. The house had nothing—no resistance, no threat. Only ghosts and blood.
Kyle's eyes swept to the bed, and then he stopped.
"Wait…"
The corpse of a young woman lay there—white hair cascading across the sheets, her body still untouched by rot. Even in death, she looked almost sacred.
"By the Empire…" Kyle whispered. "She looks… perfect."
His comrade turned and frowned. "Don't."
"I'm just saying—look at her. You ever seen anyone like that up here? Like a noble from the old stories… damn shame."
Kyle stepped closer, fingers twitching, eyes hungry. "Still warm too…"
He reached out.
But then—
Clack.
Something shifted beneath his boot. A wooden creak. The loose plank.
He looked down. Blood had seeped into the grain, staining it dark. The board wasn't flat. It moved slightly as he adjusted his weight.
"What the…?"
He kicked it aside.
There, nestled among dusty books and copper coins, lay the boy.
White-haired. Blood-soaked. Eyes open.
Staring straight up at him.