The world was burning behind his eyelids.
When Arin woke, the smell of smoke was still clinging to his hair. He didn't open his eyes at first — afraid that if he did, the memory of what he saw last would still be waiting for him. The flash of red, the roar of the ground splitting open, his grandfather's voice breaking through chaos —
"Run, Arin!"
He hadn't run.
He'd been flung.
When he finally blinked his eyes open, he found himself lying in dew-soaked grass. The morning was quiet — too quiet — except for a distant, uneven toll of a bell.
A church bell.
He sat up sharply.
Stone walls stood ahead of him, old and cracked, bathed in golden sunlight. The church was small, forgotten by the town maybe, surrounded by crooked graves and wild vines that crawled up its side like the fingers of time.
And yet… there was light.
A faint green shimmer leaking through the open doorway, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
Arin stood on unsteady legs. His grandfather was nowhere. His chest tightened.
Had he really been sent here? Why this place?
He took one step toward the church — and the air seemed to hum.
The green shimmer brightened, swirling, then bursting into a blinding golden flare that spilled across the floor like sunrise.
Arin froze, his heart pounding. The glow responded to him — like it recognized him. The warmth seeped into his skin, tugging at something deep inside, something he didn't understand.
Then just as suddenly, it faded.
Back to that quiet, green glow.
A voice behind him broke the silence.
"You shouldn't be here this early, child."
Arin spun around. A man in a tattered brown robe stood by the church gate, holding a rusted lantern. His beard was silver and his eyes were calm but sharp — like someone who had seen too many things to be surprised by much.
"I… I don't know how I got here," Arin said, his voice trembling slightly. "My grandfather—he—"
The old man raised a hand gently. "Easy, boy. Come inside. You look shaken."
Inside, the church smelled of incense and dust. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, painting the floor in broken colors. Arin's gaze went to the altar — where the golden glow had come from. Now it was just a simple crystal orb, faintly green again.
The old man followed his eyes. "Strange, isn't it? That thing glows gold only when the Pope enters. Haven't seen it shine in years."
Arin hesitated.
He wanted to tell him — to ask why it had glowed for him — but something stopped him. A whisper inside his mind.
Don't.
Instead, he asked, "Do you know where we are?"
"Saint Virel's Church. Edge of the northern plains." The man sighed. "No one comes here anymore except me and the birds."
Arin's hands clenched. "My grandfather… he was there when the sky turned red. I need to find him."
The man's face shifted slightly — curiosity, maybe concern. "Red sky, you say? The capital's south of here. I saw smoke in that direction before dawn. Thought it was just another demon raid."
The word hit him like a knife. Demon.
Something dark twisted in Arin's stomach. He remembered the thing that had crawled out of the earth — the enormous shadow, the screams. His nails dug into his palms.
"They killed everyone…" he whispered.
The old man didn't answer. He only stared at Arin, a strange look in his eyes — like he was studying not the boy, but the aura around him.
Finally, he said, "Rest today. You'll find no one by running blind into ashes."
Arin wanted to argue, but his body gave up before his will did. He sat down on the cold stone bench near the altar. His eyes wandered again to the crystal orb.
Green.
Calm.
Almost peaceful.
And yet — somewhere deep beneath that stillness — he could feel it. A pulse that matched his own heartbeat. A faint whisper that seemed to say,
You're not supposed to be here.
---
Outside, the church bell rang once more — slow and hollow.
Far away, beneath the ruins of the burning city, a figure with silver eyes stood among the smoke. His robe was torn, his breath heavy, but he smiled faintly.
"So that's where you went…" he murmured, staring north. "To Saint Virel's."
The air around him shimmered with black energy — demonic, ancient — yet his gaze was filled not with hatred, but quiet sorrow.
"My dear boy," he said softly. "Forgive me for what's coming."