The scent of smoke and scorched earth hung thick in the air as Verian and his company approached the outskirts of Rohen. Ash drifted on the breeze like snowflakes, soft and silent, carried from the lifeless expanse ahead.

  He’d heard the rumors days ago—whispers of a village razed, its pride, the towering church, reduced to rubble. He’d dismissed them then as fear-stoked exaggeration. But now, as the horizon revealed a vast, ashen crater where homes once stood, disbelief gave way to grim reality.

  His stomach turned. No rooftops. No spire piercing the sky. No life.

  Rohen was gone—wiped clean, like a name scoured from stone.

  Verian’s hands tightened around the reins until his knuckles ached. With a sharp nudge of his boots, he urged his horse into a gallop. The thunder of hooves broke the silence, but even that felt muffled beneath the weight of the ruin.

  He rode through ash and cold wind, the village—or what remained of it—growing clearer with each stride. Still no sound. Still no sign of life.

  Then Arlen’s voice broke through.

  “How are you holding up, my lord?”

  Verian didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the desolation ahead. The weight on his shoulders—new and suffocating—pressed harder with every step toward what had once been.

  Finally, he exhaled, his breath pale in the frigid air. “Not well, Commander.”

  Arlen rode beside him, his weathered face drawn tight with concern. “Still troubled by the throne?”

  “I am,” Verian said quietly. “I never thought I’d take it. Not after my brother. I was sure he had an heir.”

  For a few moments, they rode in silence, hooves crunching over frost and ash.

  “But he didn’t,” Verian continued, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “And now it falls to me. A crown I never wanted. A role I may not be fit to wear.”

  Arlen studied him for a long beat. “Only fools charge into thrones without doubt,” he said. “You hesitate. That means you’re not a fool.”

  Verian let out a faint, humorless breath. “Words of wisdom from a soldier?”

  Arlen gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve served enough kings to know—those who chase power often break. But the ones who carry it because they must? They endure.”

  As they reached the village outskirts, the full scope of devastation came into view.

  What remained of Rohen was a graveyard of blackened stone and scorched earth. Homes had collapsed into heaps of ash and timber, the ground cracked and blistered as if clawed by something from beneath. The acrid stench of burning flesh clung to the air, thick and stifling.

  Verian slowed his horse, scanning the ruin. He could still picture it—bustling streets, laughter, the church bell ringing at dusk. Now there was only silence.

  Then his eyes caught them.

  Figures. Motionless in the square.

  He swung down from the saddle before the horse had even stopped, boots crunching on scorched debris as he moved closer.

  Five bodies.

  Their armor was blackened and split, limbs twisted, flesh charred beyond recognition. Inquisitors. Elite defenders of the faith. Symbols of strength, faith, and fearlessness—reduced to ruin.

  Verian dropped to one knee beside the nearest corpse, reaching out with shaking fingers. The metal had melted into the man’s flesh. No breath. No pulse. Not even the faintest twitch of life.

  Only silence.

  He looked to the others—five in all. Slain like common soldiers. It shouldn't have been possible.

  Hooves thundered behind him. Verian stood abruptly and called out, “Check them!”

  Commander Arlen dismounted and moved swiftly among the bodies. After a moment, he straightened, his face pale. “They’re gone, my lord. All of them.”

  Verian didn’t respond. His eyes caught on something half-buried near one of the corpses—a shattered sheath and a belt buckle dulled with soot. He knelt, wiping away the grime.

  One word shone beneath the ash.

  Lumen.

  His breath caught.

  “Lumen,” he whispered.

  The name struck like a drumbeat in his chest.

  The sword of legend. A weapon forged in the image of the Archangel’s own—a relic said to stand against the abyss itself.

  Demons. Crusades. Divine wrath.

  Stories meant to frighten children.

  And yet, here it lay—abandoned in ruin.

  For a heartbeat, the world felt thinner. Like something sacred had been broken.

  “The king feared this,” Verian murmured. “Before he died… this is what he saw coming.”

  Arlen’s brow furrowed. “You believe he knew?”

  “Yes,” Verian said quietly, rising to his feet. His gaze shifted toward what remained of the church—walls scorched and skeletal, its vibrant stained glass shattered into cold, colorless shards.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “Commander,” he said, voice low. “The church.”

  Arlen nodded grimly, drawing his sword and stepping forward.

  Then—

  A sound. Fragile. Human.

  A cough.

  Verian’s heart lurched.

  Without hesitation, he shoved past the commander and plunged into the wreckage, stumbling through ash and broken beams. Smoke curled from the timbers, and sharp stone tore at his hands as he scrambled deeper.

  “Help is here!” he called out, voice ragged. “Call out if you can hear me!”

  A beat passed.

  Then, faint—

  “Here…”

  Verian climbed over splintered beams and jagged stone, his palms scraped raw and bleeding. Smoke stung his eyes. The wreckage groaned beneath his boots with every step.

  Then he saw him.

  A man lay pinned beneath a collapsed beam and the twisted remains of a chandelier. His robes were seared into his body. What skin remained was blackened, blistered, and peeling. He barely looked human.

  Verian froze.

  For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then he forced himself forward, dropping to his knees beside him.

  Gripping the beam, Verian strained with everything he had. Muscles screamed, tendons pulled taut. The chandelier shifted slightly—but not enough. Beneath it, the man let out a weak, gurgling moan.

  “Commander!” Verian shouted over his shoulder. “We have a survivor!”

  Arlen arrived moments later. Together, they tried again—but the wreckage wouldn’t give. The beam groaned, but refused to move. Verian finally stepped back, panting, frustration burning behind his eyes.

  Arlen placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get the others.”

  Verian nodded distantly, his eyes never leaving the broken man beneath the beam.

  Then—

  A voice, brittle and rasping:

  “There’s… no… use…”

  Verian’s throat clenched. “Don’t say that. We’ll get you out. We have healers—”

  The man shook his head, barely a flicker of motion. “Come… closer…”

  Verian hesitated. Then leaned in, the stench of scorched flesh turning his stomach. The man’s hand rose with trembling effort. Verian took it gently.

  Something small and cold pressed into his palm.

  A silver pendant—still intact, its surface unmarred. At its center, the image of St. Christopher gleamed like untouched moonlight.

  Verian stared. “You’re a priest.”

  The man gave the faintest nod, his breath ragged.

  “What happened here?” Verian asked, voice low and shaking.

  The priest’s eyes cracked open. “Male…kith…”

  Verian froze.

  The name struck something deep and instinctual—an old fear. Childhood stories. A shadow cast over candlelight.

  Malekith.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not real. Malekith is just a myth.”

  The priest’s charred hand twitched, clutching his tighter. “He is… real… And he… wants the halo…”

  Verian’s pulse quickened. “The halo? What is it? I don’t understand.”

  The priest coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Go to the High Church… Tell them… take it… far away… Throw it into the sea… destroy it… keep it from him…”

  Verian swallowed hard. “Where is it? What do I do?”

  The priest’s lips barely moved now. “Wear it…”

  A pause.

  “It will protect you…”

  Verian closed his fingers around the pendant, its cold weight pressing into his palm.

  “I will,” he said softly. “I promise.”

  A faint, grim smile touched the priest’s lips. His eyes fluttered shut. A final breath escaped him—and with it, his life.

  Verian remained kneeling beside him, the silence stretching. The pendant sat in his hand like a burden passed from one soul to another. This man—this servant of the Light—had given everything to protect something ancient. Something feared. Something that should not have returned.

  He bowed his head and whispered a quiet prayer, smoke curling through the broken rafters above.

  Then he rose.

  His grip on the pendant tightened until it bit into his palm. He looked down at the lifeless priest, a hollow ache rising in his chest—one no vow or title could fill.

  Malekith... He wants the halo. Destroy it.

  The words echoed through his thoughts like a storm building at the edge of the world.

  He turned toward the shattered entrance of the church. Several soldiers stood there now, cloaked in ash, their faces pale and drawn. Commander Arlen stepped forward, eyes shadowed with worry.

  “Lord Verian,” he asked, voice low, “was he—?”

  “He’s gone,” Verian said, cutting in. His voice was calm, but something harder now lay beneath it. “He spoke his last.”

  Arlen hesitated. “Did he say what happened here? Who’s responsible for this?”

  Verian’s jaw tensed. He met the commander’s gaze.

  “It wasn’t a who, Commander.”

  He let the words linger.

  “It was a what. Something older than myth. Something worse.”

  Confusion flickered across Arlen’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to,” Verian replied quietly. “Not yet.”

  He turned his gaze back toward the church—a grave now, more than a place of worship. Stained glass lay scattered like fallen stars, the altar half-swallowed by charred rubble.

  “We’re dealing with something ancient. Something the world chose to forget.”

  Arlen stepped closer, voice more urgent. “Then we must alert the capital. If this is some unknown force—”

  “No,” Verian said, sharper now.

  The men around the commander stilled. Verian stepped forward, boots grinding across the scorched stone floor.

  “They’ll hear of it soon enough. But not from a whisper or a report. From you.”

  The commander blinked. “And you, my lord?”

  Verian turned, his eyes sweeping once more over the ruined village—the collapsed homes, the bodies of the inquisitors, the silence that followed something far beyond war.

  “I’ll ride for the High Church,” he said. His voice was low, but resolute.

  “The dead gave a warning. I intend to carry it where it will be heard.”

  The commander stepped closer, concern etched into his features.

  “My lord, you can’t mean to ride alone. After what happened here—”

  “This isn’t up for debate, Commander,” Verian said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll return to the capital and report everything you’ve seen—every detail. Tell them Rohen is gone. That inquisitors lie dead in its ashes.”

  He paused, his gaze darkening.

  “Tell them we’re facing something far worse than rebellion.”

  The commander’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head.

  “And the High Church, my lord? What message will you bring them?”

  Verian turned slowly, his fingers unclenching to reveal the silver pendant resting in his palm.

  “The priest spoke of something called the halo. He said it must be hidden—destroyed, if necessary.”

  He hesitated, the name catching in his throat.

  “If this Malekith is real…”

  He shook his head.

  “If any of this is real, the Church must act. Whatever the halo is, we cannot let it fall into his hands.”

  “Malekith?” the commander echoed, frowning. “Surely that’s just a story—”

  “Stories don’t leave villages in craters,” Verian snapped, sharper than intended.

  He softened slightly, though tension still gripped his voice.

  “I don’t know what’s real anymore, Commander. But I intend to find out.”

  They locked eyes. A long moment passed. Then the commander nodded.

  “As you command, my lord.”

  “Good,” Verian said. He stepped past him and crossed into the village square where his horse stood waiting. Ash swirled in the breeze. The scent of death lingered in the air like a curse.

  He paused, closing his eyes briefly as the cold pressed into his skin.

  The commander followed behind, his men already mounting up.

  “I’ll ride for the capital at once,” he said. “But what should I tell the council?”

  Verian climbed into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight.

  “Tell them the truth,” he said. “The truth is grim enough.”

  “And the king’s court?”

  Verian’s gaze sharpened as he took the reins.

  “Tell them to prepare for war.”

  The commander swallowed hard and bowed. “Safe travels, my lord. May the Light guide you.”

  Verian didn’t reply.

  He spurred his horse forward, riding through the skeletal remains of Rohen—past the broken homes, the fallen inquisitors, and the crumbled ruin of the church. He did not look back.

  The sun was sinking low, casting long, blood-red shadows across the land.

  As Verian rode alone into the dusk, the priest’s final words echoed through his mind:

  Hide it far away. Throw it into the sea. Destroy it.

  The wind rose behind him—cold, hollow, relentless.

  And carried on that wind came a name.

  Malekith.

  Verian closed his fingers around the pendant, his grip tightening.

  Whatever lay ahead, he knew one thing with grim certainty.

  The world would never be the same again.

  ?? Five inquisitors lie dead. A village is ash. And a name once spoken only in whispers has returned.

  Malekith is no longer myth—and Verian carries the warning no one is ready to hear.

  The world just shifted. And war is no longer a matter of if, but when.

  ?? Drop a comment if you're feeling the weight of that pendant.

  ?? Follow for the storm ahead—Zeron’s return is near.