Two hours before—

  Betty knelt beside Arttu, brushing his hair from his eyes.

  “Hey, Arttu… did you finish the gift for your brother?”

  Arttu’s face lit up.

  “Yes! Look!”

  He held up the drawing with both hands.

  A stick figure meant to be Reid—tiny head, huge arms, parted hair, and a bladed nunchaku drawn with ridiculous care and detail.

  Beside Reid stood all of them: Betty, Roy, Fiona, and Arttu himself, all smiling under a crooked sun.

  Betty’s chest swelled.

  “Oh, sweetheart… he’s going to love this. Truly.”

  Roy chuckled proudly from behind the counter. “And it was way too easy to send him out. Poor kid didn’t suspect a thing.” He clapped his hands together. “Alright! Let’s make this whole place shine for his welcome-back celebration!”

  The tavern came alive.

  Fiona climbed chairs to hang a garland of crooked paper stars.

  Betty set the table with mismatched plates but perfect care.

  Arttu kept running around asking, “Do you think Reid will laugh? Do you think he’ll cry? I hope he cries a little! Happy crying!”

  Even Roy smiled at that.

  Half an hour in, they heard the slow crunch of footsteps outside—steady, deliberate, heavy enough to silence the room.

  Roy whispered, “Everyone hide. We’ll surprise him when he walks in.”

  Betty pulled Fiona behind a counter. Roy nodded at Arttu.

  “Boy… you go open the door, alright? Just act normal.”

  Arttu swallowed nervously, but nodded.

  He walked toward the door, tiny steps echoing in the quiet tavern.

  He reached for the handle.

  A knock struck the wood—sharp, too sharp.

  Arttu startled, but smiled anyway.

  He opened the door, lifting the drawing slightly as he began,

  “Glad to see you again, bro—”

  He froze.

  The man outside was not Reid.

  A stranger filled the doorway—eyes wide and unblinking, smile stretched too thin, too wrong. His breath fogged the cold air like smoke.

  “Hello, little guy,” the man rasped. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  Arttu instinctively stepped back. The man’s hand shot forward, curling around Arttu’s arm.

  Before the grip tightened, Roy moved—fast, protective, furious.

  “Arttu. Behind me. Now.”

  Arttu obeyed instantly, tears already building.

  Roy stood firm, back straight, shoulders wide.

  “Who are you,” he demanded, “and what do you think you’re doing in my home?”

  The stranger tilted his head, that stretched smile never fading.

  “I don’t need anything from you. The child will do.”

  Roy’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Arttu—one last reassuring look.

  Then he stepped forward.

  “Leave,” Roy growled. “Or I make you.”

  A soft pink aura ignited around his clenched fist. Betty gasped quietly from her hiding place—Roy hadn’t used that in years.

  The man laughed—a hollow, giddy sound.

  “I guess that’s your answer then.”

  He moved.

  Roy didn’t even see the strike.

  A single slash, soundless and unreal, tore across his abdomen.

  Roy collapsed, eyes wide, blood spreading too fast across the floor.

  Betty screamed.

  Fiona cried out, a sound that tore through the room like broken glass.

  Betty pushed both children behind her, standing between them and the monster who just cut down the man she loved.

  The stranger’s grin grew wider.

  “Oh… this is going to be fun.”

  He lunged.

  Betty tried—she tried—to hold him back. She took a blade to the ribs, then another to the shoulder. Her legs trembled but she roared with every ounce of strength, slashing at him with her bare hands like a wounded animal refusing to die.

  She leapt at him in one final desperate attack.

  He danced around her, almost playful, carving through her flesh with each movement. The room echoed with his laughter—high, unhinged, delighted.

  Fiona broke.

  “MAMA!” she screamed and ran toward them.

  Time slowed.

  Betty saw her daughter.

  Her mouth opened—but no words came out.

  The man’s blade flashed once.

  Fiona fell, small and silent, her paper stars drifting down beside her like mocking snowflakes.

  Arttu’s scream died in his throat.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He couldn’t move.

  He couldn’t understand why his legs wouldn’t work.

  The stranger turned toward him.

  “Now for you, little—”

  He stopped.

  Something in Arttu shifted.

  His pupils shrank into pinpoints.

  His breath turned shallow.

  His expression collapsed into a hollow, empty void—no fear, no pain, nothing human.

  The air thickened—heavy enough that glasses rattled on shelves. The floor trembled. The walls creaked under invisible pressure.

  The stranger’s smile faltered.

  “…Oh, so it was true.”

  He reached for Arttu’s head.

  The tavern snapped like a breaking nerve.

  A pressure exploded outward—silent, crushing.

  The man’s body jerked violently, blood bursting from his skin in thin red lines, then thicker, then pouring.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  His legs buckled.

  He gasped.

  He fell.

  Dead before he hit the floor.

  Silence.

  And then—just as suddenly as it appeared—the hollow look in Arttu’s eyes vanished.

  He blinked.

  Confusion filled his face.

  Then horror.

  He saw Betty.

  Roy.

  Fiona.

  The stranger.

  The blood.

  His hands trembling.

  “No…” he whispered.

  “No no no no…”

  He backed away, hitting the wall so hard it knocked the breath from him.

  He slid down, knees to his chest, sobs ripping out of him.

  “It wasn’t my fault… it wasn’t my fault… I didn’t do anything… I swear… I swear… it wasn’t my fault…”

  He cried until his voice broke into silent shaking.

  And two hours later, that’s how Reid found him—with the world Arttu loved scattered dead around him, and the boy rocking alone in the dark, repeating the same words he would carry as scars for the rest of his life.

  Reid held Arttu tightly against his chest, trying—failing—to steady his breathing.

  He pressed his cheek to the boy’s hair and whispered, voice trembling so hard the words nearly broke apart:

  “I know, Arttu… I know. I’m here now. I’m here…”

  Arttu clung to him like a drowning child to driftwood, whispering the same shattered refrain over and over.

  “It wasn’t my fault… I didn’t do anything… I swear I didn’t…”

  Reid felt his heart crack with every repetition, each one weaker, smaller, closer to the edge of unconsciousness.

  Slowly, Arttu’s shaking eased as exhaustion won over terror. His voice faded… then fell silent.

  Within moments, he was asleep—face stained with tears, breath uneven.

  Reid swallowed a sob so violently his chest ached.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, forced himself to breathe, and gently carried Arttu to the small bedroom. He laid the boy down, pulling a blanket over him with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Then he stepped back into the tavern.

  The smell hit him first—iron, smoke, something foul and wrong woven through the air.

  Reid walked to Betty.

  Or what remained of her.

  Her body was so torn, so shredded, that anyone else would have looked away. But Reid forced himself to kneel beside her, bow his head, and place his hand over her ruined shoulder.

  “Thank you,” he whispered weakly. “For protecting them.”

  Next was Roy.

  Only one wound—clean, precise, fatal. His face was frozen in shock, like he had never even understood the strike that killed him.

  Reid shut Roy’s eyes gently.

  “Rest well… old man.”

  He moved to Fiona.

  And when he saw her, his knees buckled.

  Her small form lay crumpled near the paper stars she had hung earlier. One of them was still stuck in her hair, stained dark from where her blood had touched it.

  Reid bit his fist hard enough to taste blood just to stop himself from screaming.

  After long, hollow seconds, he forced himself to stand.

  The last body—the killer—lay twisted unnaturally. His spine bent in places that should never bend. His skin torn in thin, even lines as if clawed from the inside. And in the center of his chest was a crater where his heart should have been.

  Cursed aura clung to the wound like thick smoke.

  Even Reid, hardened by years as a knight, felt his stomach drop.

  Whatever killed this man…

  It wasn’t human.

  And most of that aura—thick, black, writhing—was concentrated around the gaping hole in the killer’s chest.

  Reid stared.

  A cold realization crept down his spine.

  He shook it off—violently.

  Not now. Later.

  He checked the tavern one last time, then gathered what little he needed. Carefully, he lifted Arttu onto his shoulder. Even asleep, the boy trembled.

  Reid stepped outside into the frozen night.

  Brog and Drool were asleep at the gate—blissfully unaware.

  Reid silently thanked the gods for that small mercy and continued toward the Iron Pike.

  When Liane saw him, bruised, bloodstained, hollow-eyed, she froze—but Reid didn’t let her speak.

  He set Arttu gently on a bench and dropped two hundred rout into her hands.

  “Keep him safe. Don’t let anyone in.”

  Liane nodded, too stunned to argue.

  Then Reid ran.

  Through the marketplace.

  Up the stairs.

  Across the long corridor toward the mayor’s office.

  He burst through the door.

  The mayor—an older, broad-shouldered man with deep lines of dignity carved into his face—looked up in surprise.

  “Sir Reid? Is something wrong?”

  Reid tried to speak, but his throat clenched. A single tear slipped free despite everything he was fighting to hold in.

  “A man… attacked the Wandering Flame.”

  His voice cracked.

  “Betty… Roy… and… F-Fiona…”

  He couldn’t finish.

  The mayor stood so sharply his chair toppled behind him.

  “What?!” His voice thundered through the room. “Who would dare—”

  “When I arrived,” Reid forced out, “the tavern was covered in it. Curse aura. Thick. Heavy. I think… it was a cult attack.”

  The mayor moved toward the door instantly.

  “We need the guards—”

  “Wait.”

  He stopped.

  Reid’s voice was quieter now, but heavier than steel.

  “The man who killed them… was already dead when I got there.”

  The mayor slowly turned back, stunned.

  “Dead? By whose hand?”

  Reid’s eyes filled with fear he couldn’t hide.

  “He was lying in front of Arttu,” he whispered. “Twisted. Heart ripped out. Lifeless.”

  A silence colder than the night filled the office.

  The mayor’s face drained of all color.

  “…Reid,” he said quietly. “What exactly happened in that tavern?”

  Reid didn’t answer.

  He couldn’t.

  Because he didn’t know how to explain the truth that terrified him more than anything:

  Something in that room had been more monstrous than the monster itself…

  and it had been inches away from Arttu’s heart.

  Reid couldn’t hold his breath any longer.

  His chest tightened, his vision blurred, and then everything collapsed inside him.

  A broken sob tore out of him as his knees buckled, hitting the mayor’s office floor with a dull, echoing thud.

  He pressed his palms into the stone as if trying to stay upright, but his body shook uncontrollably. Tears dripped down, darkening the floor beneath him.

  The mayor—normally stern, composed, and unshakable—rushed forward and placed a steady hand on Reid’s shoulder.

  Reid looked up at him, and the expression on his face was something the mayor hoped he would never see again in his lifetime:

  a knight who had lost everything except the one thing he feared losing most.

  “It wasn’t Arttu… right?” Reid said, voice cracking like shattered glass.

  His breath hitched.

  “Arttu didn’t… didn’t do this. Right? Right? RIGHT?”

  His panic rose so fast it almost sounded like a scream.

  He pressed his hands to his face, pulling at his hair.

  “I— I know he wouldn’t— I know he wouldn’t— but then— then I saw— I saw that man— that hole— that aura— and I— why? WHY? WHY?!”

  The mayor placed his second hand on Reid’s other shoulder and slowly, firmly pulled him into an embrace.

  “Reid,” he murmured, steady and quiet, “look at me.”

  Reid’s trembling slowed. Barely.

  The mayor continued,

  “Do you truly believe that child—your brother—would ever do something like that?”

  Reid’s lip quivered. He shook his head desperately.

  “No… of course not… h-how could I ever believe such a thing…”

  His voice fell to a whisper.

  “…But then I think… if not him… then why… why did this happen to us?”

  He collapsed into the mayor’s arms once more.

  The mayor held him until the shaking finally softened, offering what little comfort he could.

  Night passed like a cold, endless breath.

  And when morning came, nothing changed—

  except that now the grief was shared.

  Brog and Drool stood at the front, wearing black for the first time in their lives.

  Liane was quiet, hands trembling as she held flowers.

  Villagers came despite the cold—some crying openly, some stunned into silence.

  Three graves rested side by side atop a gentle snowy hill.

  Fiona’s grave held her tiny baby doll, placed lovingly by Arttu.

  Betty’s grave had her old rolling pin, cleaned but still scarred with decades of cooking.

  Roy’s grave bore his axe—weathered, heavy, and placed with reverence.

  Reid and Arttu stood before them, hands clasped tightly.

  Arttu’s grip was so firm it hurt, but Reid never loosened his hand.

  They stared at the graves as if staring into the exact moment their world shattered.

  Promises unspoken.

  Laughter silenced.

  Warmth frozen forever in the earth.

  The wind blew softly, as if trying to whisper an apology it knew would never be enough.

  Reid bowed his head, tears falling silently.

  Arttu said nothing.

  His eyes were empty.

  As if part of him had been buried too.

  Far away—beyond the snowy forests, beyond the borders, hidden within the obsidian mountains—

  a grand hall stretched out beneath torches burning blue.

  And in the center of that hall sat a throne made of black steel and bone.

  On it rested a young man with long, dark hair cascading over his shoulders like a curtain of shadow.

  One of his eyes was a deep, dark black—

  but the other glowed faintly with a cold, unnatural blue aura, swirling like a frozen flame.

  His features were delicate, almost deceptively soft—like a prince carved from marble.

  Handsome. Serene. Almost gentle.

  But the way he lounged on his throne—

  the way his fingers rhythmically tapped the armrest—

  the way the air around him hummed with quiet danger—

  there was no mistaking it.

  Not a noble.

  Not a savior.

  He was a storm waiting to be unleashed.

  A man approached him, kneeling.

  “Lord Lucius,” he reported, voice trembling, “we found the child’s location. But… the man sent to retrieve him was found dead.”

  Lucius’s lips curled slowly, beautifully—almost too beautifully—into a smile.

  “Oh…?”

  His voice was smooth, calm, almost playful.

  Like someone hearing good news.

  “So he died?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Lucius leaned back on his throne, fingers brushing through his dark hair as he breathed out a soft laugh.

  “Well…” his smile sharpened, “…fine. He was incompetent anyway.”

  The messenger bowed and fled.

  Lucius raised his glowing eye toward the high ceiling of the hall.

  The blue aura intensified, swirling like frost caught in a storm.

  His voice dropped into a whisper—dangerously warm, almost affectionate.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to try again.”

  He paused, the smile widening into something chillingly fond.

  “After all…”

  “…you’re far too special to let slip away…”

  He closed his eyes, savoring the name.

  “…Arttu.”