The hut was small, suffocating in its silence. Outside, the world burned—but inside, a father's voice remained steady, a fragile shield against the chaos.
"Listen carefully, Elya," his father whispered, pulling him close. The boy's white hair caught the dim glow of a single candle, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering flame. "You need to understand how we got here."
His father's calloused hands trembled as they brushed through Elya's hair, a gesture both tender and desperate.
"Once, long ago, humans and witches lived in harmony. It wasn't perfect—nothing ever is—but it was peaceful. We built cities together, tended the same fields, celebrated the same harvests. Your mother..." His voice softened, aching with memory. "Your mother used to tell me stories of those days, when magic and mundane walked hand in hand."
Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. His father's grip tightened.
"But peace, my son, is always fragile. One day, creatures appeared—monsters born from something we couldn't understand, something that felt wrong. They came from the edges of the world itself, clawing through reality as if it were paper. The humans called them Tenebris. Shadows without mercy. They devoured everything—crops, livestock, hope. Entire villages vanished overnight, leaving nothing but silence and ash."
The baby stirred in Linda's arms across the room, a soft whimper quickly hushed. His father glanced at them, then back to Elya.
"Fear does terrible things to people, Elya. When we're afraid, we look for someone to blame. And the humans... they blamed the witches. 'They summoned these demons,' they said. 'They brought this curse upon us.' It didn't matter that the witches were dying too, that they fought alongside us, that they bled the same red blood."
His father's eyes grew distant, haunted.
"The whispers became accusations. Accusations became witch hunts. And the hunts became a war that never should have been. The witches didn't fight back—not really. They couldn't bear to raise their hands against the people they'd once called friends, neighbors, family. So they vanished, melting into the shadows, hiding in places even light forgot."
Outside, boots hammered against cobblestone. Closer now. His father's voice quickened, urgency bleeding through the measured tone.
"Cities burned. Fields turned barren. The cries of the innocent became so common, so constant, that people stopped hearing them. And in all that chaos, in all that hatred..." He cupped Elya's face, golden eyes meeting golden eyes. "Children like you became targets. Children born of both worlds, carrying magic in their veins and humanity in their hearts. They feared you most of all."
A tear slid down his father's weathered cheek.
"I need to protect you... and your mother... and your baby sister, okay?" He pulled Elya into a fierce embrace, as if he could squeeze all his love, all his strength, into this one moment. "Elya... don't be scared. I'm here."
But his voice trembled, betraying the lie they both knew it was.
"Over here, my lord!"
The shout cut through the night like a blade. A soldier's silhouette appeared at the window, his face twisted with something between duty and dread.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the roar—a sound of pure, unrestrained fury that shattered the fragile quiet. King Ashveil's voice carried the weight of madness and authority in equal measure.
The door exploded inward.
Splinters erupted like shrapnel, scattering across the dirt floor in a violent spray. The candle guttered and died, plunging them into near-darkness broken only by torchlight from outside. King Ashveil stood framed in the doorway, his armor gleaming with fresh blood—though whether it was his own or someone else's, Elya couldn't tell.
His sword—a massive thing of steel and silver—gleamed with cruel promise.
Elya's father moved without thinking, shoving his son behind his back with one arm while dropping to his knees with practiced deference. Tears already streaked his face, glinting in the torchlight.
"King Ashveil... please..." His voice cracked, splintering like the door had moments before. "Spare my family. I'll go with you. I'll do whatever you ask. Just... please... don't harm them. They're innocent. My children are innocent."
For a moment, silence.
Then Ashveil laughed—a sound devoid of warmth, of humanity, of anything resembling mercy.
"Innocent?" He stepped forward, boots crunching on the broken door. "There is no innocence in tainted blood. No redemption for witchborn filth."
"My lord, I beg—"
"Get your dirty paws off me!"
The sword flashed. Elya's father had reached out, grasping at the king's boot in supplication, and Ashveil rewarded the gesture with cold steel. The blade bit deep into his father's arm, slicing through cloth and flesh with sickening ease.
Blood sprayed across Elya's face—warm, wet, real.
His father cried out, a sound of agony and despair that would haunt Elya for the rest of his life. But even bleeding, even broken, he didn't move away. He planted himself between his family and the king, trembling hands rising to form a barrier of shimmering light.
It was beautiful, that barrier. Threads of golden magic woven together like hope made tangible, pulsing with the last of his father's strength.
Elya clung to him, small hands fisting in the back of his father's blood-soaked shirt. His golden eyes were wide, reflecting the barrier's glow—and something else. Something that flickered in their depths like embers waiting to ignite.
"Run!" His father's voice was a desperate rasp. "Linda, take the children! Run!"
Linda didn't hesitate. She clutched the seven-month-old baby to her chest with one arm and seized Elya's hand with the other, yanking him away from his father's back. Tears streamed down her face, but her jaw was set with grim determination.
She bolted for the window.
Behind them, King Ashveil sneered. "Pathetic."
One swing. That's all it took.
The barrier shattered like glass, golden shards dissolving into nothing. The sword continued its arc, passing through magic and flesh as if neither offered resistance.
Elya's father didn't scream this time. The sound he made was softer—a wet, gasping exhale. A sound of ending.
"Don't look back!" Linda hissed, hauling Elya toward the window. "Don't look back, baby, please—"
But Elya looked.
He saw his father collapse, saw the pool of crimson spreading beneath him, saw the light fade from eyes that had been golden like his own. Their gazes met for just a heartbeat—and in that moment, Elya saw everything his father wanted to say. I'm sorry. I love you. Survive.
Then Linda pulled him through the window, and the moment shattered.
They ran.
The night air was cold against Elya's tear-streaked face, but he barely felt it. His mother's hand was iron around his wrist, pulling him forward even as her breath came in ragged gasps. The baby wailed against her chest, tiny cries swallowed by the sound of pursuit.
Boots thundered behind them. Torches cast dancing shadows across the narrow alley.
"Don't let them escape!" King Ashveil's voice boomed, dripping with venom. "Kill them all!"
They burst from the alley into open ground—a field that led to the cliff's edge, to the forest beyond, to escape—but soldiers were everywhere, closing in like wolves circling wounded prey.
Linda's legs pumped faster, desperation lending her speed she didn't know she had. Almost there. Almost—
The spear took her in the left leg.
She felt the impact before the pain—a solid thunk that sent her sprawling forward. Elya tumbled with her, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The baby's cries intensified, piercing the night.
Pain exploded through Linda's leg, white-hot and blinding. She looked down to see the spear's shaft protruding from her thigh, blood already soaking through her dress. Her vision swam, but she forced herself to focus.
A shadow fell across her.
The soldier loomed above, his face hidden beneath a helm, anonymous in his cruelty. He reached down with methodical calm and plucked the baby from Linda's weakening grasp.
"No..." Linda's voice was barely a whisper. "Please... no..."
The soldier held the infant at arm's length, studying her tiny face. She'd stopped crying, startled into silence by the stranger's touch. Her eyes—golden, like her brother's, like her father's—blinked up at him with innocent confusion.
He smiled.
It was the worst smile Elya had ever seen. Worse than King Ashveil's sneer, worse than the hatred in the mob's eyes. This smile was pleased. Satisfied.
"Innocent now," the soldier murmured, almost gentle. "Evil later."
The sword rose.
"NOOOO!"
Linda's scream tore through the night, raw and primal, a sound of grief so profound it seemed to shake the very earth. She lunged forward, trying to reach her daughter, but her wounded leg buckled. She collapsed again, helpless, forced to watch as—
Elya squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sound. That wet, final sound. Or his mother's sobs that followed, breaking apart into something beyond words, beyond reason.
When he opened his eyes again, the soldier was walking away, wiping his blade clean.
Linda was shaking, her whole body convulsing with sobs, but her hand still gripped Elya's. She pulled him close, pressing her forehead against his.
"Listen to me," she gasped, her voice shredded. "Listen, Elya. Listen."
He couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Could only stare at her with eyes too wide, too knowing.
"Don't hate them," she whispered, and somehow there was fierceness in her broken voice. "They're ignorant. They're afraid. Don't... don't let their hatred make you cruel. Promise me."
More torches. More boots. They were coming.
Linda's trembling hands fumbled with something at her neck—a chain, thin and silver, with a pendant Elya had never seen her remove. She pulled it over her head and fastened it around his neck instead, her fingers shaking so badly she almost couldn't manage the clasp.
"This... this will protect you," she breathed. "When the time comes... you'll understand."
The cliff edge was just behind them. Linda dragged herself toward it, pulling Elya with her, leaving a trail of blood across the dirt. Every movement was agony, but she didn't stop.
At the edge, she looked down. It was a long drop—terrifyingly long—but the forest below was thick with undergrowth. A fall that might kill an adult could be survived by a small, light child.
It was a chance. The only chance.
"Go," Linda whispered, positioning Elya at the edge. Her hands framed his face, memorizing every detail. "Survive, my love. For me. For your father. For your sister. Survive."
"Mama—" It was the first word he'd spoken since the door broke open, and it came out strangled.
"I know, baby. I know." She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose—frantic, desperate kisses that tasted of salt and copper. "I love you. I love you so much. Now go."
She pushed.
Elya's stomach lurched as gravity claimed him. For a moment, he was weightless, suspended between earth and sky, the stars above and the darkness below. He saw his mother's face receding—saw her smile, broken and beautiful, as she blew him a kiss.
"Bye, my love..."
Then the world rushed up to meet him.
Branches tore at his clothes, his skin, his hair. Elya tumbled through the canopy, hitting limbs and leaves, the impact jolting through his small body again and again. Then—thump—he hit the ground.
Soft earth. Moss. Undergrowth that cushioned the fall just enough.
He lay there, stunned, staring up through the gaps in the trees at the cliff's edge high above. Torchlight flickered there. Shadows moved. Then—a flash of steel. A woman's scream cut short.
The torches moved away.
Silence settled over the forest like a burial shroud.
Elya couldn't move. Couldn't process. His mind felt fractured, splintered into pieces that wouldn't fit back together. Father. Sister. Mother. Gone. All gone. In the span of heartbeats, his entire world had been reduced to ash and memory.
He pressed himself against the nearest tree, bark rough against his back, and pulled his knees to his chest. He should cry, he thought distantly. Should scream. Should something.
But he just sat there, shivering—not from cold, but from a hollowness so complete it felt like he'd been scooped out from the inside.
That's when he heard it.
A whimper. Soft, broken, familiar in its pain.
Elya's head turned slowly. Through the darkness and the undergrowth, two points of light gleamed—eyes reflecting what little moonlight filtered through the trees.
A creature emerged from beneath a fallen branch, no bigger than a rabbit, limping on a damaged paw. Its fur was the color of midnight, matted with dirt and what might have been blood. Its ears drooped, and its body trembled with each labored breath.
But its eyes—molten gold, just like Elya's—held a pain he recognized instantly.
The creature saw him and froze. They stared at each other across the small clearing, two wounded souls in the darkness. The creature's whimper came again, softer this time. Questioning.
Are you hurt too?
Did you lose everything too?
Elya found himself nodding, though he wasn't sure the creature could understand the gesture. Tears—finally, finally—began to slip down his cheeks, hot and silent.
The creature took a tentative step forward. Then another. Its movements were slow, cautious, as if it expected Elya to lash out or disappear.
But Elya didn't move. He just watched as the creature crossed the space between them, limping and shaking, until it stood directly in front of him.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.
Then, with a soft cry that sounded heartbreakingly human, the creature leaped into Elya's lap.
Elya's arms came up instinctively, catching the small body and pulling it close. The creature burrowed against his chest, burying its face in the folds of his blood-stained shirt, and let out a keening sound of pure grief.
And Elya broke.
He buried his face in the creature's fur—soft despite the dirt, warm despite the cold night—and sobbed. Great, heaving sobs that shook his entire body, releasing the horror and pain and loss he'd been holding in. The creature cried with him, their tears mingling, their bodies shaking in tandem.
They had both lost everything. Family. Home. Safety. The world had shown them its cruelest face, had taken everything they loved and crushed it beneath its heel.
But in this moment, huddled together in the darkness, they weren't alone.
Elya's fingers tangled in the creature's fur, holding on like a lifeline. "I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered, voice raw and broken. "Not like... not like them. I promise. I promise."
The creature nuzzled deeper against him, a soft sound of trust that made Elya's chest ache and soothe simultaneously.
Above them, the stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, indifferent to the suffering below. The forest whispered with night sounds—rustling leaves, distant calls, the soft rush of wind through branches.
And in a small clearing, lit only by moonlight, a white-haired boy and a midnight-furred creature clung to each other, alone but together.
For the first time since the world ended, Elya felt a tiny flicker of something in his chest. Not hope, not yet. But the space where hope might grow, given time.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Didn't know if they'd survive the night, let alone the days beyond. Didn't know if the hatred that had destroyed his family would eventually find him too.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
Elya pulled the creature closer, feeling its heartbeat against his own, and whispered into the darkness:
"We'll survive. For them. We'll survive."
The creature's golden eyes met his, reflecting understanding beyond words.
And in that moment, a bond was forged—not of magic or blood, but of shared loss and desperate hope.
A bond that would shape everything to come.