Elara’s knees ached from the hard stone floor, but she barely noticed. Her tears had long dried, leaving only dark lines on her face as she clung to her uncle’s lifeless body. Hours had passed since she first found him, though time had lost all meaning in the dim light of the workshop. The world outside was a distant roar—angry voices, the clatter of weapons, the occasional shouts of orders—but here, in this small, cluttered room, there was only silence.

Her hands, bloodied from where she had tried in vain to stop the bleeding, were wrapped tightly around Gerrick’s cold fingers. She refused to let go as if her grip alone could somehow bring him back. She had driven away anyone who tried to enter the workshop—guards, neighbors, even a solarist priest who had come to offer last rites. Her hoarse voice had finally fallen silent after telling them all to leave. All that remained was the sound of her shallow breaths and the steady drip of water from a leaking pipe in the corner.

She brushed away his greying, blonde hair and looked upon his face. Although he was seventy-seven, he never really showed it, always carrying himself with the vigor of a man half his age. But now, in the stillness of death, he truly looked at his years. Deep lines etched across his weathered skin almost as if it were stone. For the first time, he appeared every bit the old man he was, and the sight broke her heart all over again.

She felt her eyes watering again as she sobbed into his already damp shoulder, her tears mingling with those she had shed hours before. “Why, Uncle… why?” she whispered through the choking sorrow. To her, the whole thing felt like one bad dream because nothing made sense. Why would a skeleton kill her uncle? How was it even alive? What is she to do now? The more questions she thought of, the sadder she became.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to pull her under. But the tears kept coming, and the questions kept piling up, each one more painful than the last. All she could do was cling to the only thing she had left—her grief.

She only began to look up from her uncle's corpse when the room around her began to shake. At first, it was a subtle tremor, barely noticeable amid her sobs. But as the vibrations grew stronger, the jars and vials on the shelves rattled, some toppling over and shattering on the floor, filling the air with the sharp scent of spilled herbs and potions.

Elara's tear-streaked face lifted, her heart skipping a beat as she looked around in confusion. The workshop groaned under the strain of the quakes, jars toppling from shelves and smashing on the ground, spilling vibrant powders and thick liquids that stained the floor. The walls cracked, and dust fell from the ceiling, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t leaving her uncle.

She knelt beside his body, clutching his hand tightly, refusing to let go even as the world crumbled around her. "I won’t leave you, Uncle… I won’t!" she whispered, her voice shaking. The ground continued to tremble beneath her, but all she could focus on was the still, lifeless figure of the man who had effectively been her father.

Suddenly, the door to the workshop burst open, and a young man stumbled inside. His face was flushed, his breath ragged as he took in the scene before him. His eyes quickly landed on Elara, hunched over her uncle's body, her shoulders shaking with sobs. For a moment, he froze, as if unsure of how to approach her in the midst of such devastation.

Without a word, the young man crossed the room quickly, dodging falling debris and a shelf that nearly toppled on him. Kneeling beside her, he reached out, his hand gently touching her shoulder. Elara didn’t respond. It was almost as though she hadn't even registered he was there as her tear-filled eyes remained locked on her uncle, her grip tightening around his cold hand.

The young man glanced around, his expression growing more urgent as the building shuddered violently. He tried to pull Elara up, his grip firm but gentle, yet she resisted, her hands clinging desperately to her uncle.

“No! I’m not leaving him! I can’t leave him!” she cried out, her voice cracking with raw emotion. The room groaned ominously, the walls cracking wider, debris raining down around them.

There was no time to lose. The young man tightened his grip, and in one swift motion, he lifted Elara into his arms. She screamed and thrashed, her hands reaching out desperately toward her uncle's body as he carried her toward the door.

“Uncle! No, Uncle!” she shrieked, her voice frantic and filled with despair. She struggled against him, her nails digging into his arms and drawing blood as she tried to break free, but the young man’s grip was unyielding. He carried her out of the collapsing workshop, his expression resolute, his silence unwavering.

As they reached the doorway, a deafening crash filled the air. The entire structure collapsed in on itself, sending a cloud of dust and debris billowing out into the street. Elara screamed again, her entire body shaking with anguish as she watched the building—her home—reduced to a pile of ruins.

“No! No, Uncle!” she sobbed, her voice hoarse and broken. She tried to wrench herself free, but the young man held her firmly, not allowing her to return to the destruction. For a moment, they stood there, both covered in dust, as Elara’s grief poured out of her. The young man remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ruins, his expression unreadable.

After what felt like an eternity, and Elara’s sobbing became more and more quiet, he began to move, gently guiding her away from the wreckage of the workshop. Elara followed with no question, her mind numb and her body heavy with exhaustion. She barely registered the chaos around her as they made their way through the streets—people running in all directions, shouting in fear and confusion. The city was alive with panic, but Elara felt distant from it all as if she were moving through a nightmare.

The young man kept a firm grip on her arm, steering her around debris and through the narrow alleys that twisted and turned through the city. The air was thick with smoke, stinging her eyes and filling her lungs with every ragged breath. Elara stumbled beside him, barely aware of the destruction unfolding around them.

They turned a corner and found themselves on a street consumed by flames. The fire roared with a terrifying intensity, casting a hellish glow over the crumbling buildings. The heat was unbearable, even from a distance, and the smoke made it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Elara barely reacted but the young man moved swiftly, pulling her close to shield her from the worst of the heat.

As they skirted the edge of the flames, a figure emerged from the inferno—a man, his body engulfed in fire, staggered into the street. His skin was charred and blistering, pieces of clothing fused to his flesh. He moved with jerky, agonized motions, his mouth open in a silent scream. His vocal cords, burned away by the searing heat, left him mute, his suffering expressed only through the grotesque contortions of his face and the raw, gasping breaths that escaped his ruined throat.

Before Elara could see him, the young man reached out, covering her eyes with his hand. She felt his palm press against her face, blocking out the ghastly image, but the smell of burning flesh lingered, acrid and inescapable. The man’s charred form stumbled past them, his movements slowing as his body finally began to give out. With one last, shuddering breath, he collapsed into the flames, his body consumed by the fire that was already moving to another building, slithering along the ground like snakes.

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The young man didn’t pause. He kept moving, leading Elara away from the flames and the horror they concealed. She didn’t resist, her body limp in his grasp, her mind retreating further into itself as her eyes looked dead.

They moved through the city like shadows, slipping past the carnage without a word. The streets were a hellscape, filled with the sounds of destruction and the sight of unimaginable horrors. Some streets were flooded, the corpses of those drowned floating atop the water now turning to ice. Others were filled with plants, their roots growing over the dead and still living who were suffocated underneath them. During all of this, the young man kept Elara close, shielding her from the worst of it as they pressed on. The further they went, the quieter the world became until soon, they were standing in front of the city gates.

The massive doors stood ajar, the guards who had once manned them long since abandoned or dead. Beyond the gates lay the open fields, where the faint outlines of people could already be seen gathering—refugees, and survivors, all looking back at the city they had fled. The wind howled through the gap, carrying with it the scent of ash and smoke from the dying city, a bitter reminder of what they had left behind.

The young man paused at the threshold, his grip on Elara’s arm tightening slightly as he looked back at the city one last time. He didn’t speak, but his expression said it all as he looked on in sadness. Elara, still in shock, barely registered the pause. Her eyes were vacant, her face streaked with soot and tears, as she stared unseeingly at the ground. The young man gently pulled her forward, leading her out of the gates and into the open fields, where the air was clearer but cold, the darkness pressing in around them.

***

Over the next couple of days, survivors would stream out from the misshapen ruin that had once been the crown jewel of the north. At first, they came in droves, desperate and disoriented, those who had been far enough from the disaster's epicenter to escape immediate death but were still ensnared by the magical maelstrom that hung ominously over the city.

As the days wore on, the steady flow of refugees began to dwindle. The throngs of people that had initially fled became sparser, the groups of survivors smaller, their faces gaunt and hollow and their injuries more and more severe.

By the third day, the number of people leaving the city had thinned to a trickle. Those who emerged from the ruins were no longer groups but individuals, lone figures stumbling out of the wreckage with vacant eyes and trembling hands. These were the ones who had been trapped deep within the city at the heart of the disaster, cut off from the outside world by the shifting, twisted streets and the violent surges of magic that continued to ravage the area. The stories they told were the stuff of nightmares, so ghastly and horrifying that none dared repeat them openly.

Elara remained mostly silent during those days, her grief and shock locking her in a quiet, unresponsive state. The young man who had rescued her stayed close, watching over her with a protective eye as the camp of survivors grew. As makeshift structures grew more numerous and the refugee camp expanded, he found them a small, sheltered spot near the edge of the gathering, away from the worst of the noise and chaos. Here, the shouts of frantic survivors and the clatter of makeshift structures were muted, the sounds of desperation and grief softened by distance. It was a quiet refuge, a place where Elara could be left to her thoughts without the constant reminder of the world that had collapsed around her.

In this small, secluded corner, the young man did his best to provide for her. He would disappear into the camp for short periods, returning with scraps of food and some water that he would place gently before her. Sometimes, she would take a few sips of water, and a few bites of bread, but more often than not, the provisions went untouched, her gaze unfocused and distant.

At night, when the air grew cold and the darkness seemed to press in on them, he would drape his fur coat on her shoulders, making sure she was warm as she went to sleep. Although it was cold, he managed to endure it by sitting close to the fire and covering himself in a canvas a priest had given to him. The ground was hard and unyielding, the canvas offering little protection from the cold earth, but he didn’t care. His only concern was that Elara had what little comfort he could provide. Each night, he watched over her until exhaustion finally claimed him, his body curled near the fire, ready to wake at the slightest sound.

It was during these nights that Elara would silently sob to herself. The quiet of the camp offered no distractions, and in the darkness, her grief came rushing back with a force that left her breathless. She would curl up under the fur coat, her body shaking as tears streamed down her face, her sobs muffled by the thick fabric. She wept for her uncle, for the life she had lost, and for the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had settled deep within her.

The days blurred together, each one dragging on in a haze of sorrow and numbness. The camp grew and shifted as more survivors trickled in, but Elara barely noticed. The young man continued to watch over her, his presence the only constant in a world that had been turned upside down. Every night, he would give her his coat, and she would cry herself to sleep, her grief seeming as endless as the cold nights.

It would be a full week later that a relief force finally arrived. The survivors in the camp stirred at the sight of soldiers and members of religious orders cresting the hills, their armor gleaming in the pale morning light. The sound of hooves and the clatter of wagons filled the air, bringing with them a flicker of hope that had been absent for days.

The relief force was set up quickly, offering food, water, and medical care to the haggard refugees. Word spread through the camp that the soldiers had come from neighboring cities, sent to aid the survivors of Strompool and assess the damage by the many noble houses in the region. There was even word that the Tsarinna herself was sending aid although no one knew if this was true. They brought with them supplies—fresh blankets, medicine, and enough provisions to sustain the growing crowd of displaced people.

As the soldiers moved through the camp, tending to the wounded and offering aid, Elara remained distant. She sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the cold, unforgiving earth beneath her feet, the fur coat wrapped tightly around her shoulders. It was only when the still-frozen ground in front of her crunched that she finally looked up. The sound was sharp and unexpected, breaking through the numbness that had settled over her like a blanket. She lifted her head slowly, brushing her blonde hair aside, and whatever tears still lingered in her red and swollen eyes.

Before she stood a soldier, or at least, who she thought was a soldier. He looked far different from the other soldiers. He was wearing dark leather armor, the material worn in some places and scratched in others. On his back, a long dark cloak stretched down to the ground, its fabric thick and heavy, trailing slightly in the dirt. Although much of the man's features were hidden by the hood of his cloak, she could still make out the hardened angular features of his face. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high and defined, giving him a severe, almost statuesque appearance. His skin was weathered, marked by faint scars that she could see extend past his neck and to wherever beyond his chestplate.

“Elara Ventani?” he asked, his voice low and measured. The sound of her name on his lips jolted her from her daze, and she nodded slowly.

“Y-yes sir, that is m-my name. What do y-you need of me?”

The man kneeled in front of her and looked her directly in the face. As he knelt before her, the shadows of his hood receded, allowing Elara to see his face fully for the first time. His features were as stark and severe as she had imagined—angular and chiseled, with a jawline that looked like it had been carved from stone. His skin was rough, weathered by time, and faint scars traced across his cheeks and brow. His eyes, now fully visible, were light blue and reminded Elara of water. What could such a man want with her?

“My name is Sir Friedrich of Canterheit. I am a templar of the Order Solaris and I have been told that you saw a peculiar-looking skeleton.”