A knock at the door pulled King Bran the III out of his drowsy state. The room was warm, and he was lounging in his soft fur cloak on his plush, overstuffed throne. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, each showing the emblem of Alloy. Another knock, more frantic than the last. He sighed and sat up, looking annoyed.

“Enter.” He said, his voice taking a sour tone. A guard, about sixteen burst through the door.

“Your Majesty, two intruders have breached the gates. We tried to stop them-”

“What do you mean tried? Why couldn't you stop them? What the fuck do I pay you for if you can’t stop intruders!?” Bran stood up from his throne, his imposing height sending the guard cowering against the door.

“You see sir, t-they had magic. The older one could conjure weapons made of fire, and the younger one… well she could-” The guard was scrabbling at the door trying to open it.

“She? Since when has a woman tried to breach my gates? As we all know, women are weak and only good for creating heirs and housework. Just kill her and bring in the man. I want to talk to him.” The king turned, indicating that this conversation was over, and slumped back down on his throne.

“Sir, we need your help to-” The guard started, but Bran cut him off.

“I don't care what they can do. IF they have magic, as you say, send Kuzima to get them. He knows what to do.” As Bran spoke, a loud crash startled both men. Bran swept from his throne to the door. Slamming it open he looked in shock at the hall beyond.

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The entire room had collapsed. The stained glass windows depicting his glorious victories lay in pieces on the ground. The wooden walls were burned and smoking. A large hole was in the ceiling, letting in warm buttery sunlight, illuminating the bodies all the more clearly. So many bodies. All of his guards, some stabbed, others shot, some just scorched so badly you could hardly tell they were people at some point. Then there were the others. In pieces. A leg here, an arm there, the occasional torso. The wounds clean, clearly done by a practiced hand. In the middle of all the death and destruction, he saw a man kneeling in front of someone. The man had a large tattoo swirling around his shoulders and up his neck, like flames from a fireplace. In his hand was a blade made of fire. He placed it on the ground, where it dissolved into embers and ash. Bran then saw who he was kneeling in front of.

A young girl, no more than seven. She was hyperventilating, her shoulders rising and falling at an uneven pace. The guard tried to back away, but he stumbled on a piece of the wall and it cracked as he fell. The girl’s head shot up and Bran saw her eyes. Completely black, with small flickering pinpricks, like tiny flames. The man tried to get her to look back at him, but she pushed him away. Bran screamed as she waved her hand at him, and a shadow rushed towards him, growing larger as it approached. He tried to run, but the door to his throne room was locked behind him. As the darkness enveloped him, he heard a shout. The guard had stood up from falling and thrown his saber at the man. It had buried itself deep into his back. The girl screamed and the shadows melted away from Bran. They pooled onto her back. The man slumped over. The blackness receded from her eyes and she started to scream. The surviving guard rushed to her and tried to grab her, but she spun around and drove a dagger into his side. He stumbled and she ran towards the hole in the wall. He then saw another young boy and girl. They were beckoning her to them. She made it to them and they all held hands and faced Bran. The girl who had been sitting in the hall looked at the body of the older man. The two kids on the sides threw up the finger at Bran as they pulled the girl off the cliffs surrounding the castle. Bran rushed over to see where they fell, but all he saw was a single black feather veined with silver and gold. He fell to his knees. A scream of fury erupted from his throat as he realized what this meant. Vindicta was back. And this time they won’t fall so easily.