The western sky had just begun to unveil its evening masterpiece. Giant brushstrokes of fiery orange, deep violet, and soft rose stretched above the jagged mountain peaks, creating a vista that would normally make Zaefal pause and admire on his way home from his father's tool shop. Tonight, that beauty was merely a silent backdrop to the simple warmth within their small house.
Inside, the aroma of Mother's chicken broth soup mingled with the scent of fresh whole-wheat bread just pulled from the small clay oven in the corner of the kitchen. The warm glow of several oil lamps flickered softly over the worn but sturdy wooden dining table where the Zaefal family gathered.
"And you know, Father," Lior began his story, his mouth still half-full of bread, "The bird... its color was bright blue! Like a flying sapphire! I swear I've never seen anything like it!"
Eira, their ten-year-old sister, leaned forward, her round, curious eyes wide. "Then, did you catch it, Brother Lior? Did you catch it?" she asked hopefully.
Lior grinned broadly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Almost! I was so close! I crept up like the greatest hunting cat in the kingdom! But just as I was about to pounce..." He paused for dramatic effect, "...it flew zig-zag like a drunken dancer, Father! Then it dived right over my head and... well..." Lior ruffled his thick brown hair exaggeratedly. "...left a little white 'present' right here!"
Eira's laughter burst out, crisp and free, like the chime of small bells. "Ewww! Gross!" she exclaimed between giggles.
Their father, a sturdy man with the rough hands typical of a toolmaker, chuckled softly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "That's payback for trying to bother a free creature, son. Just let the bird fly."
"But its color was so beautiful, Father," Lior defended himself, though his smile remained wide. "I just wanted a closer look."
Their mother, Elara, smiled gently as she ladled more soup into Eira's bowl. "Next time, just bring your sketchbook and pencil, Lior. Maybe you can draw it," she suggested in her calm voice. "And you, Zaefal," she turned to her quieter, older son, "You're very quiet tonight. Did another interesting book catch your eye at the shop?"
Zaefal, his shock of stark white hair catching the flickering lamplight, shrugged slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. He had just finished his bowl of soup. "Just some old notes on the mechanics of the old city gate, Mother. Not very exciting, really." He glanced at Lior. "At least not as exciting as a blue bird pooping on someone's head."
"Hey!" Lior protested, but he laughed along with the others.
A comfortable silence enveloped them for a moment, filled only by the soft clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls and the gentle hiss of the oil lamps. Moments like these—so ordinary, so peaceful—were treasures to Zaefal. The world outside these walls, the one he often read about in his books of strategy and history, was filled with chaos, war, and dark ambitions. But here, at this dinner table, with the people he loved most, the world felt safe. It felt eternal.
But eternity was merely an illusion.
The first thing to break the peace wasn't a loud noise, but a sound that was wrong. The howling of the stray dogs in the distance. Usually just typical territorial barking, but tonight it sounded different. Higher pitched, more frantic, like unending yelps of fear.
Zaefal's father stopped chewing, his head tilted slightly. "Those dogs sound agitated tonight."
"Probably just a wolf down from the woods again," Lior said casually, scooping up his last spoonful of soup.
But then, another sound began to filter in. Faint at first, like a whisper on the wind. But it quickly grew clearer. Shouting. Not the cheerful shouts of children playing or the calls of merchants in the night market that would be starting in the square. These were screams. Short, sharp, filled with terror.
The Zaefal family looked at each other. The spoon in Mother's hand paused mid-air. The smile faded from Eira's face, replaced by a frown of confusion.
"What's that?" Eira whispered, her voice small.
"Maybe... maybe just a brawl at the tavern?" Father tried to reassure them, but his eyes narrowed with vigilance as he got up and walked towards the small window facing the town center.
The screams grew louder, more numerous. Interspersed with the sound of things breaking—glass, wood—and strange, deep thuds, like something heavy collapsing. Then came the smell. Burning. Sharp and suffocating, not the usual scent of woodsmoke from hearths.
"Smoke!" Mother cried out suddenly, pointing towards the window. Her previously calm face was now deathly pale.
They all rushed to the window. Sure enough. Above the rooftops in the town center, thick black pillars of smoke billowed into the darkening twilight sky, staining the sun's beautiful palette with a grim smudge. Orange flames began to lick up from behind several buildings.
"Fire! There's a huge fire!" Lior exclaimed.
"Where? Near the market?" Mother asked frantically.
"This looks like more than just a fire," Father murmured, his jaw tightening. The screams were clearly audible now, mixed with the sound of panicked footsteps and... the clang of metal?
"I have to see what's happening," Father said decisively, turning away from the window. He moved quickly to the corner of the room where an old short sword—a relic from his grandfather—leaned against the wall. Its blade was dull, more often used for cutting thick rope than for fighting. "You three, stay inside! Lock the back door! Don't open it for anyone!"
"Father, don't go!" Eira clung to her father's leg, starting to cry. "I'm scared!"
"Daddy will just take a quick look, sweetheart," Father said, patting Eira's head gently, though his eyes never left the front door. "Mother, Lior, look after Eira."
CRRAAASSHHH!!!
The sound was deafening. Their old wooden front door exploded inwards, splintering into pieces as if kicked by a giant. The doorframe shattered. Wood dust filled the air.
In the gaping doorway stood a dark silhouette. Tall, imposing, completely wrapped in a dark cloak. Its face was covered by a cold, expressionless metal mask that glinted in the lamplight. Only two eye slits were visible, staring into the room with a terrifying emptiness. Behind it, more similar figures appeared, crowding the doorway, weapons drawn—long swords, daggers, even a few small crossbows. On the chests of their cloaks, a symbol glowed faintly in the dim light: two crossed swords with a blazing red eye at their intersection.
F¥. The name flashed through Zaefal's mind like a cold bolt of lightning. The most feared assassin organization in the entire western region, perhaps even the whole kingdom. A dark legend that should only exist in horrifying bedtime stories or secret intelligence reports he'd illicitly read. What were they doing in a small, remote town like Lierra?
"Good evening," the masked leader said, his voice flat, emotionless, like grinding gravel. He stepped inside, followed by the others, their steps silent on the wooden floor. "Your time has come."
Zaefal's father, momentarily stunned, reacted. He raised the old sword, standing protectively in front of his family. "Who are you?! What do you want in our home?!" His voice trembled with anger and perhaps a touch of fear.
The F¥ leader chuckled softly, a dry, unpleasant, rasping sound. "Your wants are irrelevant. We are not here to negotiate. Merely to complete a job."
"What job?! We're just a simple family! We have nothing!" Mother cried, pushing Eira behind her.
"Everyone has something of value," the leader replied. "And our orders are clear." He gave a small gesture with his hand.
Before anyone could react, one of the F¥ members behind him threw a small metal orb into the center of the room. The orb hissed as it hit the floor, then erupted in a thick cloud of grey smoke that instantly filled the space.
"Smoke!" Lior yelled.
Visibility dropped to zero in an instant. The smoke stung Zaefal's eyes, choked his throat. Violent coughing wracked his body. He groped frantically in the artificial darkness. "Eira! Mother! Lior!" he called out, his voice choked.
Absolute chaos erupted within the smoke cloud. The sound of Father's angry growl, followed by a loud clang as his old sword likely met harder steel. Mother's heart-wrenching scream of pain. Eira's terrified shriek. Lior's voice yelling, "Run! Zaefal, run!" Then the thud of something heavy falling, followed by another. The clang of metal, a choked groan, a scuffling sound, then... a terrifying silence amid the coughing and the hissing of the smoke.
Zaefal stumbled over something soft on the floor, falling hard. His hand touched wet, sticky fabric. The smoke began to thin slowly, like a curtain of hell being drawn back. The firelight from outside now streamed through the windows and the ruined doorway, painting the scene inside with bloody red hues.
The first thing Zaefal saw were his father's boots, lying unnaturally near the threshold. Then he saw the dark pool rapidly widening beneath his father's body. The old sword lay broken in two beside him. Father's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but there was no life left in them.
His gaze darted frantically. Near the overturned dining table, his mother lay crumpled. Her simple dress was torn and stained dark red. Her hand was still outstretched towards Eira, who lay motionless beside her. Eira's eyes were also open, vacant, her last expression one of shock and terror. Her cheerful laughter from minutes ago now felt like a memory from another lifetime.
"No... no..." Zaefal whispered, bile rising in his throat. His world seemed to stop spinning.
Then he saw movement in the corner of the room. Lior. His brother was slumped sideways, leaning against the cracked wall. He clutched his side, blood seeping freely through his fingers. His chest rose and fell laboriously, each breath sounding like a pained groan.
"LIOR!" The scream ripped from Zaefal's throat without conscious thought. Ignoring the pain in his lungs and the blood-freezing horror, he tried to stand, stumbling towards his brother.
But before he could reach Lior, a black shadow stepped in front of him. One of the F¥ members remaining in the room. The mask stared straight at Zaefal. The assassin raised his sword slowly, the blade gleaming horribly in the firelight. No words, just cold, murderous intent.
Zaefal froze. His mind screamed to run, to fight, but his body was locked in place. Death felt so close, so inevitable. He was going to join his family.
Yet, as the sword began its descent, something inside him—a primal instinct for survival, or perhaps a final burst of desperation—took over. His startlingly blue eyes flickered to the floor near his feet. A sharp shard of the ceramic vase that had shattered when the table overturned. Jagged and pointed.
With a speed he didn't know he possessed, Zaefal lunged down, snatched the largest shard, and surged forward, plunging it with all his might into the assassin's inner thigh, unprotected by armor.
"GRAAAHH!" The masked man roared in pain, not from a fatal wound, but from shock and the sudden agony. He staggered back a step, his sword swing going wide.
That was the opening. That was all Zaefal needed.
He didn't think. He just moved. Rolling away from a second sword strike that sliced through empty air, he scrambled to his feet and ran with everything he had towards the shattered doorway. Splinters of wood and shards of glass pierced his bare feet, but he didn't feel them. Adrenaline flooded his system.
He burst out of his home—his former home—into a living hellscape.
Lierra was burning.
Flames devoured wooden and stone buildings with terrifying greed. Black smoke choked the night sky, carrying sparks like hellish stars. The stone streets, usually bustling with merchants and children, were now littered with corpses sprawled in grotesque poses of death. City guards who had tried to fight lay with dented armor and broken weapons. Civilians—men, women, children—slaughtered indiscriminately.
Screams of pain, cries of terror, roars of fury, and the cold laughter of the F¥ assassins mingled into a sickening symphony of death. The F¥ members moved like black phantoms through the chaos, efficient and deadly, cutting down anyone who moved. The fiery eye symbol on their chests seemed to dance in the firelight.
Zaefal gasped for breath, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest. He tripped over the body of an old woman he recognized—the baker his mother always bought bread from—and fell sprawling behind the ruins of a half-burnt fabric shop. The smell of charred flesh mixed with the coppery tang of blood filled the air, making him want to vomit.
He hid there, trembling uncontrollably, trying to process what had just happened. His family... his home... his town... all destroyed in minutes. Why? Why Lierra? Why his family? They were nobodies. They had no enemies... or none that he knew of.
Hot tears began to stream down his cheeks, mixing with the dirt and soot. But his sobs caught in his throat as his eyes caught a faint movement near the doorway of his house, which was now beginning to be consumed by flames.
Lior.
His brother was still alive.
Ignoring all danger, driven by the only shred of hope left, Zaefal began to crawl out from his hiding place. Moving as slowly and carefully as possible, slipping from one shadow to the next, crossing the street filled with horror, he approached his brother's form.
"Lior?" he whispered when he was close enough, his voice raw and broken.
Lior groaned softly, his head moving slightly. He managed to turn a little, looking at Zaefal with eyes that were beginning to dim. Blood soaked nearly the entire front of his tunic.
"Zaefal...? You... you made it out?" Lior's voice was weak, more like a breath than words. A flicker of relief crossed his glazed eyes.
"Yes, Lior, I'm here," Zaefal crawled closer, tears flowing freely now. He wanted to reach out, to hold his brother, but was afraid of hurting him more. "Hold on, Lior. I'll get help. Maybe... maybe some guards survived..."
Lior managed a faint, heartbreaking smile. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips. "No... no time, Zae... Too... bad..." He coughed, his body spasming slightly. "They... F¥... came without... warning..."
"Why, Lior? Why did they attack us? What did we do?" Zaefal asked desperately, shaking his brother's shoulder gently.
"I... don't know..." Lior shook his head weakly. "Doesn't matter... now..." He reached out, his cold, trembling fingers finding Zaefal's hand. His grip was weak, but filled with determination. "Listen to me... Zaefal..."
Zaefal leaned closer, putting his ear near his brother's lips.
"Don't... die uselessly... like us..." Lior whispered, his breaths growing shorter. "You have to... live..." His eyes locked onto Zaefal's, a final spark igniting within them. "Promise... me... Avenge... us... For Father... Mother... Eira... for... Lierra..."
Lior's hand tightened on Zaefal's for a moment. "Avenge... us... Brother..."
And then, the grip slackened. The light faded completely from Lior's eyes, his gaze becoming vacant, staring up at the smoke-filled, fire-lit night sky. His last breath sighed out softly, lost in the cacophony of destruction around them.
Lior was gone.
Zaefal froze. A strange silence descended around him, the sounds of the inferno outside seeming to recede. There was only the cooling body of his brother beneath his touch and the gaping emptiness inside his chest. Everything was gone. Every anchor in his life had been violently severed. He was alone.
The sobs that had been choked back now erupted in a silent scream, violent tremors shaking his entire body. The pain was so deep, so raw, it felt as if his very soul was being ripped apart. He clutched Lior's lifeless body, his tears washing paths through the soot on his brother's peaceful, blood-streaked face.
But amidst the storm of grief, something else began to grow. A small, cold, hard seed. Lior's last words echoed in his mind, no longer a plea, but a sacred command, the only purpose left in his shattered existence.
Avenge us.
Zaefal's tears slowly stopped flowing. The tremors subsided, replaced by an icy rigidity. He released his hold on Lior, gently laying his brother's head back onto the bloodstained ground. He looked at Lior's peaceful face one last time, then stared at the F¥ symbol that burned itself into his memory.
The seventeen-year-old boy with the startling white hair and haunted blue eyes, who had laughed at the dinner table with his family just hours ago, had died tonight, consumed by the flames along with his home and his town. Amidst the ruins and the fire, beside his brother's corpse, something new had been born. Something harder, colder, fueled by the single, burning purpose that would drive his every step from that moment on.
He would live. He would grow stronger. And he would hunt them down. Every F¥ member involved in this massacre. He would make them pay for the crimson night in Lierra.
That was his promise. A promise etched in blood and fire.