"AAGHHHHHHH!"
The scream tore through the night like a blade ripping through flesh.
It wasn't the first scream.
It wouldn't be the last.
The sky above the village burned in shades of crimson and coal, smoke rising like tendrils from the throat of a dying god. Flames erupted from rooftops. Walls cracked and collapsed. Steel met flesh in the alleys. Souls vanished into fire.
And in the corner of it all... a boy slept.
His name was Caelen Duskgrave.
Wrapped in a threadbare blanket on the wooden floor of a leaning shack, he lay curled against the cold. A child shaped by hunger, silence, and forgotten prayers. The world could've ended around him—and maybe it already had.
He might never have noticed—
Until the smoke found him.
It slithered through the gaps in the warped roof, crawling under his blanket like a whisper. Like a warning.
Then it filled his lungs.
He jolted upright, coughing, eyes stinging from the bitter sting of ash. The air reeked of pitch, blood, and burnt grain. Panic stabbed at his ribs as he stumbled upright, kicked open the warped door, and stepped into—
Hell.
The village was burning.
Homes he knew were now skeletons of flame. Shadows darted between falling walls. Screams burst through the smoke—then were cut short. Across the field, black-armored figures marched, faceless behind bone-carved helms. Their blades shimmered with cruel symbols.
The Hollow Guard.
Caelen froze.
He knew those masks.
Every child did.
Enforcers of the so-called "Divine Peace"—a lie wrapped in holy scripture. When they arrived, it meant one thing: not salvation, not judgment.
Erasure.
Whole villages vanished beneath their boots. No survivors. No witnesses.
His mother's voice echoed in his mind:
"If the Hollow Guard ever comes—don't fight. Don't scream. Don't ask why. Just hide."
But where?
Their shack was kindling.
The woods? Too far. Too dark. No time.
He stood shaking, legs numb from cold and terror, until a flaming corpse collapsed beside him—an old man he once traded berries with.
Eyes open.
Mouth still.
Caelen ran.
But not away.
Up.
Beyond the edge of the village stood a cliff of black stone. Carved into its face was a forgotten relic of the old world—the Shrine of the First Ember. Forbidden. Feared. Untouched since the old gods fell. No one went near it.
But it was stone.
And flame couldn't eat stone.
He scrambled uphill, slipping over ash and root. Behind him, the sky wept fire. Screams twisted into silence. Still he climbed—lungs burning, legs trembling, heart pounding like war drums.
He reached the gate.
Didn't hesitate.
Threw it open and vanished inside.
Cold.
No screams. No fire. Just the weight of shadow.
The shrine's air was heavy—thick with ancient dust and memory. Pillars lined the walls like forgotten sentinels. At the far end, an altar of black stone sat cracked and abandoned. Above it, a faded mural depicted divine figures kneeling beneath a shattered sky—chains bursting from their backs.
Caelen collapsed into a corner.
Breath ragged.
Eyes blank.
He didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't speak.
He just stared at the far wall while the fire below devoured what remained of his world.
Time fractured.
Hours. Maybe days.
No food. No sleep. Just the dark. And the silence.
But the silence wasn't still.
It watched.
Then came the dream.
No. The vision.
A field of gray ash.
Sky shattered like broken glass, pulsing with red veins.
Colossal corpses littered the land—fallen gods in golden armor, bone wings, shattered halos. All of them pierced by black chains stretching into the heavens.
He walked.
Each step left behind footprints filled with blood.
A voice echoed from above:
"You are empty."
He turned.
No one there.
"Good."
The ground split open.
Tendrils of black smoke wrapped around his legs. Dragged him down.
The sky shattered—
He awoke.
Gasping.
The shrine was no longer dark.
Red light pulsed from behind the altar. Symbols lit up—none like anything he had seen. Not letters. Not runes.
Truths.
They didn't need translation.
They carved straight into his soul.
The altar cracked.
From within rose a crystal—jet black, laced with glowing red veins.
It hovered, humming.
His legs moved on their own.
He stepped closer.
The air grew thick.
Each heartbeat heavier than the last.
This wasn't like the Soulwake crystals he'd seen in the village—where fire sparked from fingers, or wings burst from backs.
No.
This was different.
This was wrong.
This was empty.
And yet—
"Feed."
The voice again.
Colder. Closer.
"Grow."
The crystal pulsed.
"Survive."
Then it lunged at him.
Caelen didn't scream.
It struck his chest like a blow from inside out.
No pain.
Only silence.
A hole opened inside him.
Bottomless.
Hungry.
It devoured everything: his fear, his name, even the breath in his lungs.
His soul twisted.
Visions exploded behind his eyes:
A crownless god screaming at the void.
Chains tearing through the stars.
A child born without fate.
A name ripped from the book of time.
Then—
Silence.
He collapsed.
When he woke again, the shrine was still.
No red light.
No voices.
The crystal was gone.
But something had taken root.
Inside.
A second heartbeat.
Not his.
Not human.
He stood.
Unsteady. Changed.
Not stronger. Not glowing. Not divine.
Just… different.
He stepped outside.
The wind hit him like a blade.
Below, the village was nothing but ember and ash.
No home.
No people.
No mother.
Only him.
Again.
He clenched his fists.
Why was he the one who lived?
Once.
Now again.
There had to be a reason.
Then—
A whisper.
Not his own.
"You will never be empty again."
And so began the story of the boy with no fate—only hunger.