The wind carried the scent of rain and pine as the sun dipped behind the hills, painting the sky in gold and ash.
Birds fled the forest as though they sensed something no human could.
On the edge of a quiet village, a boy sat on the steps of a small wooden house, his legs swinging freely. His grandfather sat beside him, an old man wrapped in a brown cloak, eyes half-closed as if listening to the world breathe.
"Grandpa," the boy asked, "why do people pray if gods never answer?"
The old man chuckled, low and warm, like distant thunder. "Who told you they don't?"
The boy frowned, scratching his head. "They never say anything back."
"Ah," the old man murmured. "Maybe silence is their answer. When the wind bends the trees, does it need to shout to show it's there?"
The boy thought about that. He was used to his grandfather's strange answers—always half riddle, half truth. Sometimes they made sense days later. Sometimes never.
He kicked a pebble down the path. "You always say confusing things."
The old man smiled faintly. "That's because the world isn't made of simple ones and zeros, my boy. Even light carries shadows, and even shadows remember the light."
The boy didn't know what that meant, but he liked the sound of it.
The night deepened. Fireflies began to dance around the fence. The village bell rang once—a signal for prayer. The old man rose slowly, joints creaking. "Come, let's light the lantern. The stars will come soon."
The boy followed him inside their small house. The walls were lined with dusty books and strange trinkets—small crystals, runes carved on bone, and a sword that looked far too heavy for an old man to wield.
He'd once asked where the sword came from. The answer was always the same:
> "From a place that doesn't exist anymore."
Tonight, though, the air felt different. There was a pressure in the air, a strange hum beneath the silence, like the world was holding its breath.
The boy felt it too. "Grandpa?" he whispered. "Is something coming?"
The old man paused, his eyes flickering toward the window. For the briefest moment, they glowed faintly—red like embers. But when he looked back, they were normal again.
"Perhaps," he said softly. "But not everything that comes is meant to harm us."
He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Do you remember what I told you about fear?"
The boy nodded. "That fear means something important is nearby."
"Good. Hold onto that."
A distant sound rumbled through the valley—low, deep, and wrong. The ground trembled. The lantern flickered violently. Then, far beyond the hills, the sky split. A column of crimson light shot upward, carving through the clouds like a blade.
"Grandpa!" the boy shouted.
The old man's face hardened, the softness gone. He grabbed the boy's wrist. "Listen to me. No matter what happens, you run toward the light that burns gold, not red. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded, terrified. "What's happening?"
But before an answer came, the door shattered inward. A wave of heat and force threw them apart. The boy crashed into the floor as the ceiling cracked. Outside, screams filled the air. The horizon was burning.
Through the smoke, the boy saw it—something vast and dark moving among the flames. A horned silhouette, its wings blotting out the stars. The air itself bent around it, like the world was breaking under its presence.
The old man rose to his feet. His cloak burned away, revealing marks carved into his skin—ancient runes glowing crimson. His voice deepened, carrying power.
"Stay behind me," he ordered.
The demon roared, and the sound tore through the night like thunder and agony combined. The boy clutched his head, his vision blurring.
The old man raised his hand, and symbols flared in the air—circles within circles, spinning. "You should not have come here," he whispered to the creature. "Not tonight."
He turned to his grandson, eyes fierce and sorrowful. "Forgive me. I wanted you to see the world slowly… not like this."
The boy reached out. "Grandpa, wait—"
The old man pressed a hand against his chest. The boy felt warmth surge through him, golden and wild. The world around him shattered into light.
Then—silence.
---
When he awoke, he was lying on stone. Cold, hard, unfamiliar.
Rain fell gently on his face. Above him stood the old church at the edge of the village—the one people said had stood since the First Era.
The boy sat up weakly. His clothes were torn, his ears ringing. The village was gone—nothing but smoke and embers beyond the hills.
He staggered toward the church door. It creaked open at his touch.
Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. Candles had melted into pools of wax. And at the far end, near the altar, something glowed faintly green—a circular relic set into the wall, like a living jewel.
The boy had seen it once before. It always glowed softly, the priests said it was a "sign of God's gaze." Nothing more.
But now, as he stepped closer, the light began to shift. From green to gold. Then brighter—blindingly so, filling the entire church with warmth.
The boy stumbled back, eyes wide. The air felt alive. For a second, he thought he heard a whisper—ancient, soft, almost kind:
> "So… the light remembers."
Then it faded. The glow dimmed back to green, as if nothing had happened.
Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned sharply. A priest had entered, frozen at the sight of the fading golden light. His face went pale.
"Child," the priest whispered, "what have you done?"
"I—I didn't do anything," the boy stammered. "I just walked in."
The priest rushed forward, eyes wide in disbelief. "The relic… it only shines gold for the Holy One. Only for the Pope himself."
The boy didn't understand. He looked back toward the relic. "It just… happened."
The priest made the sign of prayer, trembling. "Then Heaven itself has marked you."
But the boy wasn't listening anymore. His gaze wandered to the window—the direction of his home. Smoke still rose in the distance. The wind carried faint echoes of screams, fading.
He clenched his fists.
"Grandpa…"
A single tear slid down his cheek, mixing with the rain.
That night, he stayed in the church, lying on the floor beneath the relic's faint glow. He dreamt of red skies, broken wings, and his grandfather standing between two worlds—one of flame, one of light—reaching out to him but fading before he could grasp his hand.
When morning came, he awoke with a single thought burning in his chest:
He had to find him.
No matter what he was, no matter what truths lay buried beneath the ashes—he would find his grandfather.
And somewhere deep within him, something stirred. Something golden, old, and alive.
---
Far above, among the clouds that still carried ash, a shadow watched.
A pair of eyes—crimson, sorrowful—glowed faintly as the wind carried a whisper.
> "Forgive me, child. The world will call me monster before it calls me kin."
Then the shadow faded into the storm.