The stars glittered softly in the quiet night sky, their gentle light mingling with the steady chorus of crickets singing through the stillness of the farm. Fireflies flickered lazily, their glow dimmed as the acrid smoke from the burned home slowly crept through the air, suffocating the fragile magic of the night.
Suddenly, a flash of light cut through the darkness. The Man jolted upright, confusion clouding his eyes as he struggled to place himself. Then the scent hit him—a familiar, bitter smoke, choking and sharp—and his heart clenched with dread.
He turned toward the ruins of the house.
"No… no, gods, not again! Why have you brought this upon me once more?!" he cried out, his voice cracking in the stillness. Clenching his fists, he dug his nails into the dry earth, trying to ground himself as memories of pain and loss swirled violently in his mind.
For a moment, he forced his emotions into silence—as if turning a switch off inside himself.
He shuffled back to the broken tool he had used that morning, gripping it tightly. Then, with mounting fury, he began to dig—not gently, but with savage strikes, each blow hitting the earth harder than the last. The tool snapped under the force, shards of dirt flying into his bloodied face. Rage twisted his features as he punched the ground with raw desperation, breaking through the surface.
But even this fury was not enough to hold back the flood of grief.
He sank to his knees in the hole he had made, the darkness around him a mirror of the heaviness inside. Minutes passed in silence, until at last his ragged breath steadied and his mind quieted enough to function.
Slowly, he climbed out of the grave-sized pit and, with a heavy heart, approached the smoldering remains of the home.
Memories rushed back, vivid and cruel—the children's laughter echoing through the halls, the games they played in the fading light, their mother humming softly while preparing the evening meal, telling stories of heroes long past.
He moved carefully through the ruins, searching for any sign of the family.
Among the charred debris, he found the aunt—who had come to stay only a year ago after losing her own family to a savage beast in the south. Gently, he lifted her lifeless form and carried her to the grave he had dug.
Tenderly, he laid her down.
He continued through the wreckage and found the little girl's doll, singed but intact, and the wooden sword he had carved for the boy. Placing them carefully to the side, he reached deeper into the rubble—and then his hand met a tiny, cold grasp.
The child's hand.
Pain erupted in his chest, unbearable and sharp.
He whispered brokenly to the heavens above, voice raw with sorrow: "I begged you… let me live alone, away from the world, or at least grant me a fragment of happiness. I begged you. I did all I could, everything I thought might appease even one of you damned gods."
With trembling hands, he lifted the rubble—and there, held together by their mother's arms, lay the children.
The sight shattered him. His throat felt tight, as if choked by the very stones he had moved that morning. His hands shook uncontrollably; breaths came in desperate gasps.
Tears poured down his face like a relentless waterfall, but he knew he must still himself. For them.
He wiped his face and carefully arranged the bodies—mother and children, aunt and toys—side by side.
There was no family blanket to wrap them in, no ornate coffin made by loving hands. There was only this earth, cold and unyielding.
He covered them with soil, pushing the largest stones he had cleared earlier over the grave.
With a shaking hand, he carved words into the heaviest stone:
"Here lies the Brewer Family—A loving mother, a caring aunt, a brave son, and a beautiful daughter."
Beneath, he traced a smaller rock with a single, simple phrase:
"I am sorry."
As he rose, the distant sound of hooves broke the silence. A horse and carriage approached along the road.
The father had come home early.
The man watched as the father stumbled from the carriage, panic twisting his features. He rushed toward the ruins, eyes wild.
"Please," the father gasped, clutching the man's arm, "tell me my family is alright, Diomede."
Tears blurred Diomede's vision, but he said nothing. Only stared.
The father's gaze drifted behind Diomede—toward the freshly dug grave.
"No, no, I won't look," he pleaded desperately.
"Please," he begged, voice cracking, "tell me… my children… were spared this fate."
Diomede gripped the man's arm firmly, pulling him toward the grave.
The father collapsed beside it, wailing into the night with raw anguish that tore at Diomede's soul.
Then, anger replaced grief.
"I curse the day you pulled me from that field of corpses!" the father shouted, eyes blazing. "I curse you, Diomede!"
Diomede looked at him, silent, words failing him.
Without a word, he turned away and crossed the wheat fields to the small hut he had called home for eight long years.
Inside, he moved methodically, knocking over furniture in a sudden burst of fury. He tore through the floorboards, flinging splinters aside.
At last, he found what he sought: a large chest, just big enough to hold a man.
His eyes darkened with hatred and dread.
Whispering a word in a forgotten tongue, he opened the chest.
Inside lay a brown fur cloak wrapped around a great sword and two twin axes, their handles carved with bear likenesses, all bound in worn wrappings. Beneath them rested a suit of heavy armor—scarred, rune-etched, battle-worn.
With deliberate care, Diomede donned the armor.
Memories surged unbidden—horrors of war, terrible deeds, blood spilled in foreign lands. The weight of these instruments of death felt like the cold embrace of an old lover long thought lost.
He tied the armor tightly, slid the great sword onto his back, its dark blade swallowing the moonlight rather than reflecting it.
The twin axes found their place at his belt.
A heavy sigh escaped him as he draped the fur cloak over his shoulders.
The father stumbled into the room, voice trembling with desperation.
"You think this will do any good?" he asked bitterly. "All this will do is bring trouble to everyone around you. Like my family, you'll get someone killed."
Diomede met his gaze steadily.
"I am truly sorry, Brunos, for the curse I brought to you and your family."
He wiped his face one last time. The pain and sorrow faded, replaced by a cold, emotionless mask.
In a dead tone, he said, "Those who did this came from Umar. I'm going there—to find answers. I pray the days ahead become easier to bear."
Without another word, he slipped into the night, swallowed by shadows along the road.
Brunos kicked the chest angrily as it vanished from this realm with a strange, warping sound.
"Figures," he muttered, then turned back to the hut.
All through the night, he tossed and shattered what remained inside.
By mid-morning, a group of men from the village approached, their faces drawn and haunted.
They cried out in anguish as they neared Brunos.
Turning to him, they spoke with the same disbelief, "They hit here too! Why would they do this?"
Brunos, confused, demanded, "Explain! What happened?"
A soft, deep voice rose through the crowd. The town elder stepped forward.
"They came for all who lived on the edges of the town, accusing them of being demons. Then, they turned on their families—calling them half-bred spawn of devils."
Brunos sank to his knees, overwhelmed.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why do they do this to us? We're nothing but farmers and hunters."
The elder placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
"We don't know why. If not for Fjord, who was out in Canoot's wheat field, we would never have known what happened."
Brunos looked around at the others—fellow villagers who had lost loved ones.
One farmer spoke up, voice tight with grief.
"They performed a spell. Sent us to another place. When we returned, everything was gone. The farms destroyed. The same sight you've seen."
Brunos shook his head.
"I wasn't here," he said. "I had just come back from trading at the road inns last night."
The farmers exchanged glances.
"So… they just attacked your family?" one asked.
Brunos stood, voice firm.
"No. They must have thought Diomede was the head of the household."
"Where is he now?" another asked.
Brunos pointed toward the dark road.
"He said they were from Umar. He's going there to find answers."
The farmers stared down the path Diomede had taken.
The elder stepped forward, voice grave.
"That man has borne the burden of many lost souls. I pray this tragedy holds true meaning from the gods."