Fire swallowed the village.

  Alaric ran through smoke and sparks, his bare feet slapping against dirt. Every house his eyes could see was burning. Roofs collapsed inward with hollow crashes, sending showers of embers into the night sky.

  Screams came from everywhere.

  Not one voice. Dozens. Children. Adults. People calling names that would never be answered.

  He ran faster.

  Tall grain stalks brushed against his arms as he slipped into the fields, following the narrow path only he knew. A childish shortcut he had carved over months of play, now the only thing separating him from death.

  His chest burned and vision swam.

  Why is this happening…

  What did we do wrong…

  Please… someone help us…

  He did not know who he was praying to.

  The path ended abruptly, spilling him onto the dirt road leading home.

  ***

  “Alaric!”

  He froze.

  His mother was running toward him, her steps was uneven as well as breath sharp and panicked. Soot streaked her face, and her hair had come loose from its braid. For a terrifying second, he thought she was injured.

  Then she reached him and pulled him into her arms.

  “Oh thank gods…” Marla whispered, clutching him tightly. “You are alive. You are alive.”

  Alaric shook in her embrace.

  “Mother,” he gasped. “Father told me to run. He said to go home, get the bag, and hide. He was with the village chief. He said they would talk to the Buckland captain.”

  Her body stiffened.

  Nearby, a house collapsed in a roar of flame. The heat washed over them like a living thing.

  Marla did not hesitate.

  She grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward their home.

  ***

  Marla entering home, rushed to the corner, shoving the small travel bag into Alaric’s hands. The one they had prepared days ago, just in case.

  “Take it,” she said quickly.

  Then she rolled the large wooden drum forward, its weight scraping loudly across the floor as grains shifted inside.

  “Get in.”

  Alaric hesitated.

  “Mother, where are you going?”

  She knelt and cupped his face, her hands trembling.

  “I will find your father,” she said, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Stay here. Do not come out until we return.”

  Her voice broke on the last word.

  “Live,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, you must live.”

  She closed the lid as darkness swallowed him.

  ***

  Alaric curled inside the drum, grains pressing against his legs and arms. The bag was clutched tightly against his chest.

  Time stretched.

  He heard the distant roar of fire. The screams outside rose and fell, even his breathing started to feel loud.

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  Then the door creaked open.

  His heart nearly raced in joy as he thought his parents came back.

  Father… Mother…

  But instead he was greeted with the sound of Metal clanking.

  Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

  “Anything useful?” a man asked.

  “Nothing worth saving,” another replied with a scoff.

  The drum shifted slightly.

  “What’s this?”

  “I think just grain.”

  “Take it.”

  A short laugh followed. “You serious? We’re already loaded. I’m not carrying this trash in by back.”

  “Tch. Okay burn the house then.”

  Alaric’s lungs seized.

  Heat crept through the wood. Smoke seeped inside, choking him. He clawed at the lid, but the barley pressed tighter, trapping him. His vision blurred.

  I can’t breathe…

  I don’t want to die…

  The house started screeching

  Then the floor gave way.

  ***

  The drum crashed downward, splintering through weakened boards. It rolled violently down the slope outside as the house collapsed behind it in a burst of flame.

  The lid flew open.

  Alaric spilled out, coughing violently as cool night air hit his burning lungs. He crawled away instinctively, hands scraping through dirt.

  Behind him, fire consumed everything.

  Screams filled the air again.

  This time, he recognized them.

  “Help me!”

  Ricia’s father.

  “Father!” Delan cried. “Please save me!”

  Alaric froze.

  His mind could not process it. The sounds piled on top of each other until they lost meaning.

  Something inside him simply… stopped.

  He collapsed into the field.

  Darkness took him.

  ***

  Sirens wailed.

  People screamed in a language he did not understand. Lights flashed across concrete walls. The sky burned white.

  He knew this place.

  Missiles streaked overhead like falling stars.

  Memory crashed into him.

  A blinding flash.

  A city erased.

  A world ending in fire.

  A figure stepped forward.

  It looked exactly like him.

  “What’s the point?” the figure whispered. “You couldn’t save them. You couldn’t save anyone.”

  Images flashed. His father bleeding. His mother holding him tightly.

  A blade fell on both of them.

  “No!” Alaric screamed, covering his ears. “Stop… please stop…”

  The figure smiled.

  “You will always fail.Just give up!”

  ***

  Alaric woke with a sharp breath.

  For a moment, he did not know where he was.

  The air smelled different. It carried the faint scent of incense and clean linen. Something warm cradled his head.

  “You’re awake…”

  The voice trembled with relief.

  He blinked and found himself lying in the lap of a young woman dressed in pale robes. Lantern light swayed above them, casting soft shadows against the wooden interior of a caravan.

  “I’m Sister Elaine,” she said quietly, brushing his soot-matted hair back with careful hand. “From the Church of the Seven Goddesses. We were stationed at Saint Elyss’s Rest, near the Shersian border.”

  Her eyes glistened.

  “We found you alone,” she continued. “We were a little too late.”

  Alaric tried to speak, but no sound came out.

  “That village…” Elaine whispered, lowering her head. “May the goddesses grant them peace.”

  The caravan rocked gently as it moved forward.

  Alaric’s strength faded, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion. The last thing he felt was the steady warmth of another living person. Darkness took him again.

  ***

  When he woke the second time, the world was still.

  Soft light filtered through tall, narrow windows framed with carved stone. Pale curtains stirred slightly in the breeze. The ceiling arched high above him, wooden beams crossing like folded hands in prayer.

  He lay on a simple bed.

  The sheets were clean but worn thin from years of use. A small wooden table stood beside him, holding a chipped ceramic bowl and a candle burned down. Along the walls, several other beds lined the room, each neatly made, each identical.

  Quiet footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the door.

  Faint voices murmured. Prayers, perhaps.

  Alaric stared at the ceiling.

  Live.

  His mother’s voice echoed clearly now.

  Another memory surfaced, sharper than the rest.

  A man in polished armor and bored eyes. Fire reflected in his gaze.

  “No witnesses.”

  Marius Valen, Northern Army Commander of Buckland.

  Alaric’s fingers curled slowly into the sheets.

  He was alive and he would remember.

  This was not the end of his story.

  It was the beginning of the path that would one day lead him to stand above the ashes of the world as the King of the Broken Horizon.