Zareth dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as they sank into the cold, rain-slick cobblestone. He crawled toward what remained of Miral's body, each movement slow, as though his limbs were moving through water.
The suffocating pressure in the air lifted, but it brought no relief—only the clarity of horror. In less than ten minutes, his entire world had been torn apart. His mother lay dead. His younger brother had been taken. And all of it was because of a war that, just an hour ago, had been nothing more than a distant rumor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound echoed faintly, not from the rain, but from the blood still seeping from Voralth's incomplete sigil that once hung in the air. Each crimson drop struck the cobblestone with a sound far too loud in the silence, mingling with the light patter of the rain until it seemed as though the sky itself wept for the village's fate.
Zareth's gaze locked on Miral's face. Even in death, there was a faint smile—soft, almost maternal—as though she'd left this world believing her children would be safe. The blood-stained rain fell on his skin, tracing down his cheeks and mixing with his own tears.
The screams, the smell of iron, the looming dread—they all faded, replaced by the torrent of memories flooding his mind. He saw the day Miral's husband brought him home, a five-year-old abandoned rabbitkin shivering in the rain. He saw her warm, steady gaze as she accepted him without hesitation. He saw Kaelen's first steps, the joy of their father's voice before death claimed him, the simple peace of their last shared dinner. And then, the chase. The black werewolf's claws. Miral's death. Kaelen's capture. His own helplessness.
He clenched his fists, the sharp pain of his nails digging into his palms the only thing anchoring him to the present.
Somewhere deep inside, something began to stir.
Zareth's fingers curled into the wet stone until they ached, the rain-washed blood seeping between them. His chest felt hollow, yet something hot and bitter began to pool deep inside, curling and twisting like smoke in a sealed chamber.
The grief didn't fade—it hardened.
Every memory of Miral's smile now felt like a blade. Every image of Kaelen's terrified face seared itself into his mind. They weren't just wounds; they were chains, locking him to this moment, refusing to let him walk away unchanged.
Somewhere in the chaos of his mind, one thought began to burn brighter than all others.
Never again.
Never again would he watch the people he loved be torn from him. Never again would he stand powerless while monsters decided his fate.
The rain of blood still fell, pattering against the stone, each drop a reminder. Zareth lifted his head, staring at the faint glow of the sigil Voralth had left behind. It pulsed weakly, but he could feel it—an echo of the demon's presence, like a trail leading into the darkness.
His body trembled, not from fear this time, but from something else—something sharp, dangerous, and unyielding.
He didn't know how yet. He didn't know when.
But he would go after them.
And he would bring Kaelen back.
Or die trying.
Somewhere far above, thunder cracked through the red-stained clouds, as if the world itself had heard his vow.
An hour later, Zareth's body stirred.
Slowly, like a machine grinding back to life, he pushed himself upright. Something was different. The innocence in his eyes was gone, the light that once warmed his face snuffed out.
Mhmph… He exhaled, the sound heavy and hollow. Rising to his feet, he gathered Miral's lifeless body into his arms. Her weight was nothing compared to the burden pressing on his chest. Without glancing at the chaos around him, without answering the cries and screams that still tore through the air, he turned toward the forest.
His steps were steady. Purposeful.
Deeper and deeper he walked, until the noise of the village faded behind him. In a quiet clearing, he set her down gently, kneeling beside her. Then he began to dig—bare hands clawing at the soil.
The earth was hard, the roots stubborn. Soon his nails split and his palms bled, but he didn't stop. Not until the hole was deep enough to cradle her.
He laid her inside, brushing away a stray lock of hair from her face. For a long moment, he stared at her faint smile, committing it to memory.
"I promise," his voice was low, steady, almost cold, "I will rescue Kaelen. He and I will return one day to greet you. This, I swear on your grave. But for now… go. Be with Dad. I know how much you longed for him."
He covered her face with soil, the sound of each handful dull and final. When the last clump fell, he remained still, head bowed, as the wind rustled the leaves above.
Something inside him broke that day.
And from that break, something far worse began to grow
Years later, they would whisper his name in the same breath as curses.
They would speak of a boy who once wept in the rain of blood… and rose with eyes that never wept again.
Children would be warned not to linger in the woods after dark, lest the Rabbit-Blooded Wraith find them. Orc warlords would spit his name with hate and fear, remembering the clans he burned to ash. Even demons—creatures born without mercy—would hesitate at the thought of crossing his path.
But that was still far away.
For now, in the clearing where a fresh grave rested beneath the trees, Zareth turned his back on the life he once knew. His bare, bleeding hands curled into fists. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, and each one carried him closer to the kind of man who could walk into the demon realm… and take back what was his.
The day Miral was buried was the day the first shadow of Nyx'thar's greatest nightmare began to move.