The heavy wooden door of the barracks dormitory creaked shut behind Henry, the sound unnervingly loud in the sudden stillness. Leaving Sophia, even just returning to the shared austerity of his assigned bunk, always felt like stepping from fragile warmth back into a familiar, chilling solitude. The brief sanctuary they carved out in stolen hours dissolved, leaving behind the stark reality of his life - a life defined by relentless duty, guarded secrets, and the ever-present weight of the past.
He moved through the dimly lit rows of empty bunks - most soldiers were either on late patrol, seeking fleeting pleasure in the city's seedier districts, or already lost to exhausted slumber. Reaching his own narrow cot, Henry sat heavily on the thin mattress, the weariness settling deep into his bones, a different kind of fatigue than the physical exhaustion of training. This was the soul-deep weariness of constant vigilance, of carrying burdens no one else could see.
For a long moment, he simply sat there, letting the quiet press in around him. Then, with the slow, deliberate movements of long habit, he began his nightly ritual. Unlacing the worn leather ties of his tunic, he pulled the rough fabric aside, exposing the skin over his left breast. He placed his calloused left palm flat against his chest, directly over his heart. Closing his eyes, Henry drew upon the residual energy coiling within him - the strange, potent aether that fueled his unnatural endurance and swift recovery.
He channeled the energy slowly, deliberately, pushing it from his core, through his arm, and into the palm resting against his skin. Beneath his hand, a faint warmth spread, followed by a prickling sensation. As he focused his will, intricate crimson lines began to materialize on his skin, glowing faintly in the dim light, weaving themselves into the disturbing image of a stylized skull. The tattoo wasn't permanent ink; it existed only when interacting with his aether, a hidden brand, a secret mark.
The crimson skull seemed almost alive as it pulsed beneath his touch, greedily drawing the energy he fed it. Henry felt the familiar draining sensation, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over him as the tattoo absorbed his power. He continued the process, pushing more and more aether into the mark, until a deep, shuddering sigh escaped his lips and his reserves felt almost completely depleted, leaving behind a hollow ache. He lowered his hand, leaning back against the rough wall, breathing heavily.
He glanced down at his chest. The crimson glow faded rapidly, the lines retracting, vanishing back into his unmarked skin as if they had never been. Eight years. For eight long years, ever since his awakening, ever since that horrifying day the Dark Reaper fell and this unsettling mark had first appeared whenever he channeled his aether, he had performed this ritual every night. Pouring the day's accumulated energy, the strange power he didn't fully understand, into this hidden reservoir, this crimson sigil. He didn't know precisely what it was, or how long it would take to fully awaken whatever power it held, only that it felt intrinsically linked to the other secret he guarded so closely: the Mystic Sense.
Cryptic records salvaged from ruined temples and half-forgotten church archives hinted at such things - hidden reservoirs of power, unique senses born from traumatic events or strange inheritances. His own fragmented memories of the Dark Reaper encounter, the monster's uncanny ability to sense intent, seemed to confirm the Sense's existence, its transference. Though General Zalogr's sharp eyes hadn't detected it, Henry knew it was there. It was a constant, low-level hum beneath his awareness, a unique perception of the world he had painstakingly learned to control and conceal. He instinctively knew this hidden power, this Sense, was an invaluable asset, potentially his greatest weapon or his most dangerous secret. Tonight, after eight years of patient, draining effort, the tattoo had finally felt… full. Sated. As if some threshold had been reached. What that meant, he didn't yet know.
Leaning back fully onto the thin mattress, exhaustion pulling at him like a physical weight, Henry allowed his awareness to shift, testing the passive state of his Mystic Sense. Beyond the familiar rough-hewn ceiling timbers his physical eyes beheld, a different kind of sight bloomed within his mind's eye - a spectral, three-dimensional map of his immediate surroundings. The dormitory… our room… Torsan asleep two bunks down… Lumos snoring softly across the aisle. He recognized it instantly, the intuitive clarity still unnerving after all this time. The passive radius was limited, perhaps ten meters, a constant sphere of low-level awareness that cost him nothing.
Curious despite his fatigue, he pushed a fraction of his remaining, newly settled aether into the Sense, actively expanding its reach. The mental map zoomed out - twenty meters, encompassing the corridor outside, the empty bunks further down. Thirty meters. He felt the familiar, telltale drain on his reserves now, a noticeable pull. He knew from experimentation he could push it further, perhaps to fifty meters, but the cost increased exponentially. Maintaining that wider range would deplete him completely in minutes. For now, thirty meters was enough. He could "see" the night guard pacing silently at the far end of the hall, feel the subtle drafts of air whispering under the ill-fitting door. It offered no offensive power, no enhancement to his physical abilities as far as he could tell, but the awareness itself… that was potent. The church records spoke of its ability to perceive hostility, danger, negative emotions - facets he hadn't yet dared to truly test or explore. He also knew it was a power whispered about in legends, coveted by nations, warriors, even the demigods themselves. And somehow, impossibly, it resided within him. Slowly, he thought, letting the expanded sense retract, the drain ceasing. Slowly, I'll learn to wield it.
Sleep tugged at the edges of his consciousness, the profound exhaustion from the ritual pulling him down into darkness. And as he drifted, the barriers in his mind lowered, allowing the ever-present ghosts of memory to surface, sharp and unwanted…
. "Hello, I'm Sophia." The little girl said, waving her hand slowly in front of Henry's face.
He looked at the girl before him. Brown hair, golden eyes like crystal fragments containing a bit of honey dissolved in the evening light, not harsh, not mystical, but simply… warm.
"Hello… hello, I'm… Henry." His voice faltered, feeling aches all over his body, not understanding what was happening.
"Father and Mother told me you fainted. Are you hungry?" Little Sophia continued asking solicitously.
"Ah.. yes.., I fainted because I was hungry." Henry answered dismissively, but it was also the truth; during the past five days of fleeing, he had only drunk stream water and eaten wild fruits along the way. He truly was faint with hunger.
"You're very lucky, you know. My father saw you floating unconscious nearby so he pulled you ashore. You almost died." Sophia's clear voice helped Henry realize his current situation.
"Thank you, thank you everyone…. My migrating group was robbed, I fled from there several days ago." Henry tried to rationalize his presence here.
"Poor child, you must be very hungry. Take this and eat." The woman handed a piece of dry bread to Sophia, who dipped it into a cup of warm soup then offered it to Henry.
"Eat this, bread dipped in warm soup is easier to eat."
Henry's trembling hands took the food from Sophia; the bread soaked in soup melted softly in his mouth. He wasn't sure what flavor it was, only knew it was incredibly delicious; this was the taste of being cared for. Henry suddenly remembered his former family, remembered the pitiful woman deceived by the traffickers. He ate, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Why are you crying? Is the food not good? Or are you hurt somewhere?" Sophia asked worriedly.
"No no, the food is delicious, it's just been a long time since I've eaten something this good. Thank you…. thank you all very much." Henry explained confusedly, bowing his head to continue eating.
The man and woman took a deep breath together, looked at each other for a moment, the woman nodded, then the man sat down in front of Henry.
"Boy, do you want to come with us? Our family isn't wealthy, but we still have enough dry bread for you." His voice was deep and warm.
"Really… really? I can go with everyone?" Henry's voice trembled.
"Of course, as long as you don't mind our dry bread." The woman smiled gently.
"Yes, ma'am, sir, thank you very much." He cried while thanking them.
"It's time for us to leave now. Sophia, get on the cart." The man raised his voice when he heard the call from the migrating group. He lifted Henry onto a cart carrying goods, already piled quite high.
"You must still be tired, just lie there and rest to regain your strength."
Sophia ran over, jumped onto the cart, and sat next to Henry. She quietly took a cloth to wipe Henry's face, poured water for him to drink, then sat close beside him, humming a pleasant tune. While her father pushed the cart and her mother walked alongside. Then, amidst the steady rocking rhythm of the cart, amidst the crunching sound of wheels on gravel and the distant calls of birds… Henry fell asleep.
.
…Not the comforting dark of sleep, but a different darkness, thick and suffocating, tainted with the metallic coppery tang of blood and the chilling cold of death. He remembered struggling, a crushing weight pressing down on him, something heavy, stiff, and unnervingly still. Panic flared, raw and primal. He shoved, squirming, heart hammering against his ribs, and jolted upright, throwing off the object pinning him down.
It was a corpse. A man he vaguely recognized from the caravan, eyes wide and staring in a mask of final terror, mouth agape in a silent scream that would never end. His chest had been brutally torn open, the dried blood forming dark, obscene patterns on his simple tunic.
Henry recoiled violently, scrambling backward on the blood-slick ground, gasping for air that felt thick and poisoned. His hands trembled uncontrollably. The scene that swam into focus around him was a canvas ripped from the deepest levels of hell, a nightmare made terrifyingly real.
Where just hours before there had been the bustling, hopeful energy of the refugee caravan - laughter, muttered conversations, the creak of wagon wheels, the lowing of oxen - now there was only utter devastation under a sky that seemed to hold its breath, choked with black smoke and the coming night. No cries of sorrow pierced the unnatural quiet, no survivors wailed in despair. Only the desolate whistling of the wind through the skeletal remains of shattered wagons and the frozen, staring corpses.
He stumbled to his feet, legs shaking. Each step landed on something yielding and soft - a discarded bundle, a broken crate, or worse… a severed hand, a fragment of a body. He forced himself not to look down, bile rising hot and acrid in his throat. This was no mere bandit raid. This was annihilation. Everything - wagons, animals, people - had been crushed, torn apart, pulverized. Horses lay headless, sturdy supply wagons overturned and splintered like matchsticks, all submerged in a grotesque, nightmarish morass of shattered wood, spilled grain, and cooling flesh.
He clenched his fists, trying desperately to quell the violent tremors wracking his small frame. What… what happened here? What kind of monster…
He moved numbly through the horrifying stillness, the silence broken only by the wind and the frantic pounding of his own heart. His breath came in ragged hitches, the air thick and heavy, seeming to crush his lungs. Then he stopped. His blood ran cold.
Amidst the carnage, beside the overturned remnants of the simple cart that had carried him just hours before, sat a small, terribly familiar figure.
Sophia.
She sat on the ground, directly in a pool of already darkening blood, her small legs tucked beneath her. Her eyes, those warm amber eyes that had shone with such innocent kindness, were wide, fixed on something unseen, utterly empty. Devoid of light, of life, of recognition. Her brown hair, usually neat, was matted and tangled, clinging to her pale face in sticky clumps of gore and mud. The simple dress she had worn, the one her mother had carefully mended, was now dyed a uniform, gruesome crimson.
Her parents lay beside her. The father, the man who had pulled Henry from the raging river and offered him a place in their family, was sprawled on his back, one arm outstretched protectively towards his daughter even in death. The mother lay huddled against him, her hand still clutching his tightly, as if they had faced the final, unimaginable horror together, finding solace only in each other's presence.
Henry swallowed hard against the knot constricting his throat. He wanted to call her name, shout it, break the terrifying spell of silence, but no sound would come. He took a hesitant step closer, then another, his movements slow, deliberate, almost fearful, as if the slightest noise might shatter the fragile stillness that held her captive.
She didn't cry. No sobs wracked her small frame, no whimpers escaped her lips. She just sat there, silent and still as a stone statue carved from grief. And it was that very silence, that utter lack of response to the surrounding Armageddon, that tore at Henry's heart more violently than any scream could have.
He knelt before her, carefully navigating the debris and gore, feeling utterly lost in a sea of helplessness. What could he say? What could he possibly do in the face of such absolute desolation? Part of him, the terrified child within, yearned to flee, to run screaming from this place of death. But another part, something new taking root in the wreckage of his own shattered past, refused to leave her.
He reached out a trembling hand, hovering hesitantly in the air before finally, gently, placing it on her small, blood-soaked shoulder. "Sophia…" His voice was a choked whisper, barely audible even to himself.
She didn't react. Didn't flinch, didn't turn. Her vacant gaze remained fixed on the middle distance.
He swallowed again, fear tightening its icy grip around his chest. "It's me," he tried again, his voice trembling. "It's Henry…"
Still no response. He froze, then carefully, slowly, placed his hand over hers where they rested, ice-cold and limp, in her lap. Her skin felt unnervingly cold, devoid of any warmth, like touching marble. He squeezed her fingers gently, trying to impart some of his own meager warmth, some sign of life.
"We… we have to go," he whispered, the words feeling inadequate, absurd against the scale of the tragedy. "We can't stay here. I'll… I'll take you somewhere safe."
At that, finally, something flickered behind her eyes. She blinked slowly, her pupils vast and dark, seeming to reflect an endless abyss. Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head to look at him. But she said nothing. Her expression remained utterly blank.
Henry felt each beat of his own heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, echoing in the horrifying silence. He waited, desperate for her to speak, to scream, to cry - anything but this terrifying emptiness.
But she remained silent. Only then, did tears begin to track silently, slowly, down her pale, dirt-streaked cheeks. Fat, silent tears that seemed to carry the weight of all the world's sorrow.
Henry bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting back his own rising tide of grief and terror. He inched closer, gently, awkwardly wiping away the wetness with the back of his hand. "I'll stay with you," he choked out, the words forming a vow even as he spoke them. "I won't leave you here. I promise."
Then, carefully, he wrapped his thin arms around her small, stiff frame, pulling her gently towards him. At first, her body remained rigid, unresponsive. But then, very slowly, something seemed to break within her. A shudder ran through her, then another. She leaned against him, her small form trembling uncontrollably, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing left in a world that had just dissolved into blood and chaos.
Henry held her tightly, burying his face in her matted hair, trying to shield her with his own inadequate presence, wanting her to feel, somehow, that she wasn't utterly alone in this abyss.
After a long, shuddering moment, Sophia whispered, her voice so faint, so broken, that Henry had to strain to hear it above the whistling wind. "Where… where will we go?"
Henry looked up, past the devastation, towards the bruised horizon where faint rays of dying light still struggled against the encroaching darkness. He didn't have an answer, only a desperate resolve. "Anywhere," he whispered back, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Anywhere but here."
Carefully, he helped Sophia to her feet. Her legs were unsteady, threatening to buckle. He supported her slight weight, then turned and bowed his head deeply before the lifeless forms of the kind man and woman who had shown him compassion in his darkest hour. I couldn't save you, he thought, grief and guilt churning within him. But I will protect her. In your stead. I swear it. It was the only payment he could offer for their selfless act, a debt he would carry for the rest of his life.
And as the two broken children took their first, faltering steps away from the scene of slaughter, leaving behind the only kindness Henry had known since losing his own family, they saw faint lights flickering in the distant woods. Not the warm lights of a village. The cold, moving lights of torches. They were no longer alone. But in the brutal world of Tehra, Henry already knew, danger came not only from the monsters that stalked the wilds, but just as often from those who called themselves human.
Back in the pre-dawn chill of the barracks dormitory, Henry lay still on his cot, caught in the lingering grip of the memory. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, his breathing shallow. The weight of the past, the burden of his secrets - the Mystic Sense, the crimson tattoo, the vow sworn in blood - settled heavily upon him, ghosts that sleep offered no escape from.