"Mama, I'm heading into the woods. Yesterday, I found tracks of wild rabbits. If all goes well, I'll bring one back for us."

Azrael eagerly slung his bow over his shoulder, along with the quiver of arrows. Exactly one month ago, he had turned eleven. Of all the dates, August 8th was etched most vividly in his memory. That day marked not only his birthday but also that of his father and mother. As a gift, he had finally received his own bow and arrows—a present he carried with immense pride.

Made from ash wood, the bow was light yet sturdy. Its arms curved gracefully, and the sinew string hummed faintly with tension. The grip was wrapped in a simple leather band, allowing him to hold it securely in his small hands.

Quietly, he crept through the dense underbrush. Thorns and branches tugged at his clothing, but with cautious, deliberate movements, he skillfully avoided them. His outfit, made from coarse brown fabric, blended seamlessly with the surroundings. Azrael had learned the importance of leaving his clothes in the forest before hunting, so they would absorb the scent of the trees and soil.

After a while, he reached the spot he had discovered the previous day. Rabbits were always alert, being a favorite prey for many hunters. Azrael held his bow loosely in his right hand, moving like a shadow among the trees. He knew this forest well—almost as if it were an old friend.

At last, after an hour of searching, he spotted a group of rabbits grazing in the tall grass of a small, sunlit clearing. Silently, he climbed a tree about two dozen meters away, concealing himself within the dense green foliage to observe his prey. After watching patiently for a while, he chose a male rabbit nibbling on a particularly lush clover. He avoided the females, as they might be caring for young.

With a fluid motion, he drew a feathered arrow from his quiver, his fingertips brushing the smooth wooden shaft. Slowly, he pulled back the bowstring, feeling the familiar resistance that gave him confidence. As he raised the bow and aimed, the world around him seemed to hold its breath. The rabbit froze mid-motion. In that moment, Azrael released the string.

With a faint whoosh, the arrow flew through the air, striking the rabbit. It leapt briefly before collapsing to the ground, twitching. Within seconds, it lay still in the grass. The other rabbits bolted away in panic.

Satisfied with his precise shot, Azrael climbed down from the tree and approached his kill. A small pool of blood had formed around the lifeless animal. Gently, he picked it up, gazed at it for a moment, and whispered softly, “Thank you.”

"Good, the training paid off." Azrael smiled proudly as he examined the rabbit’s heart shot. Whistling cheerfully, he made his way to the small river to gut and skin the animal.

The river glistened in the evening sun like liquid metal. The clear water reflected the day’s final golden rays, and Azrael spotted several fish swimming playfully below the surface. He let his thoughts wander until something moving in the water caught his eye.

"Almost done. I’m looking forward to dinner," he murmured, feeling his stomach growl. But suddenly, his movements froze. The log drifting along the riverbank wasn’t just a log.

"Mother?" he whispered, his voice trembling faintly in the calm evening air. No response.

"Mother?" he called again, louder this time, the worry in his voice unmistakable. Panic seized him, and without hesitation, he leaped into the icy water. The shock of the cold water stole his breath for a moment, like icy needles piercing his skin.

Fueled by a rush of adrenaline and desperate determination, he began swimming toward the supposed log. But the horrifying truth revealed itself quickly: it wasn’t a log. What he embraced was the lifeless body of his mother.

Frantically, he kicked toward the shore, his heart pounding in his chest as he dragged her unmoving form behind him.

Every second seemed to stretch endlessly as he struggled to reach the shore. When he finally found himself on solid ground, he dragged the lifeless body onto safe land. His entire body trembled from the cold, his lips already tinged with blue.

“Mama? Mama, please, say something,” he begged, his voice torn by fear and desperation. Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes. As he turned his mother over, an ominous inconsistency struck him: her stomach was unnaturally swollen upward.

With trembling hands, he gently rolled her onto her side. A heart-wrenching scream escaped his lips as he discovered the small dagger lodged in her back. The realization hit him like a crushing blow. The ground beneath him seemed to spin, and he collapsed, unable to comprehend the cruel reality.

Yet, deep within his soul, Azrael already knew his mother would never return to him. The tears flowed ceaselessly down his cheeks, as though they could bridge the chasm between him and the love he had lost. Memories of her gentle voice, her delicious cooking, and countless happy moments flashed painfully through his mind, only to be swallowed by the overwhelming weight of reality.

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"Mama, please, open your eyes. I brought you a rabbit," he pleaded, his voice a trembling whisper of hope that was lost in the cool night air.

"What will Papa and I do without you?" His words rang hollow and forlorn in the oppressive silence, and the thought of his father’s absence broke his heart even further.

"I have to get Papa—he'll know what to do." The desperate thought spurred him to his feet. Panic surged through him as he stumbled forward with hurried, uncertain steps, his footfalls echoing like the pounding of a caged heart in the growing dusk.

The house, which once offered him solace, now loomed like a forsaken nightmare. The door hung askew on its hinges, as though it recoiled from the horrors left behind. Stepping inside, the sight that greeted him hit like a blow to the chest: chairs lay shattered on the ground, the table reduced to a chaotic wreckage, and the curtains hung in tattered shreds, fluttering like ghostly veils in the faint breeze.

"Papa, where are you?" he called, his voice frail, breaking as it echoed through the eerie stillness of the house.

Only silence answered, its weight pressing down on him like a smothering blanket. Dark, crimson stains—bloody remnants of a nightmare—marked the floor. His eyes widened in terror as he traced the trail of violence leading outside, toward the river. In the waning evening light, it appeared as a sinister slash across the landscape, shimmering with a ghastly red hue.

Hastily, Azrael began to follow the trail of blood, which stretched through the meadow like a sinister omen, vanishing into the dark embrace of the forest. Each step felt like torment, as though the earth itself conspired against him. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, while his thoughts swirled in chaotic turmoil—a storm of fear and despair.

After only a few meters, he stumbled upon a sight that struck him like a physical blow: a severed hand lay motionless in the tall grass, its blood dark and dried. A sickening, metallic stench filled his nostrils, mingling with the acrid taste of dread rising in his throat. Azrael turned away, nausea building inside him like a creeping tide, robbing him of breath.

“This can't be. This mustn’t be,” he muttered over and over, rubbing his eyes as though he could erase the nightmare before him. But the ring on the finger was unmistakable—the ring of his father. “Why... why does this have to happen?”

His heart felt as though it had stopped entirely as he continued forward, his steps growing heavier with each passing moment, as if the weight of the world rested on his small shoulders. The ground beneath him blurred, and reality seemed like fragile glass, on the verge of shattering. How could any of this be real? Where was the safety he had once known? Why did it have to end this way?

The trees seemed to mock him, their shadows stretching long fingers toward him as if to pull him into the inevitable. Behind a small row of trees, he finally stumbled upon the unspeakable. His father—his head impaled on a spear like a gruesome trophy, his body lying next to it, completely exposed and abandoned. Blood and dirt were the only witnesses to this horrific crime.

Azrael couldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the severed head, yet his thoughts felt muffled, as if wrapped in cotton. “Papa, how could this happen? Where are you? What am I supposed to do?” These questions pierced his mind like sharp arrows. The reality was too much for him, too overwhelming. Every breath was a challenge, every sound another blow to his shattered heart.

The world around him began to dissolve, and the darkness seemed to drape over him like a suffocating shroud. A desperate scream escaped his throat, but no sound came out. Despair smothered any remaining hope. His legs gave way beneath him, and he sank onto the cold ground, surrounded by the oppressive darkness that slowly enveloped him. The chill of pain and loss consumed him, and the darkness became his final companion.

A harsh beam of light jerked Azrael roughly from his sleep. Confusion and shock surged through him like an electric shock as he struggled to process the brutal memories of his parents' deaths.

"Maybe it was just a nightmare," he murmured desperately, trying to cling to the familiar thoughts. "Definitely, I’m in a bed after all."

"Azrael, can you hear me?" a voice called, vaguely familiar but distorted through the haze of his pain.

"Aunt?" he asked, his voice a fragile glimmer of hope.

"Well, look who’s finally awake?" she said, crossing her arms.

"How are Mom and Dad?" he asked hastily, his voice trembling with fear and desperate hope. Inside, he clung to the thought that they could still be alive, that maybe it was just a misunderstanding or a cruel nightmare.

"Well, they got it pretty bad, poor things, they're dead," she giggled.

The words hit him like a blow.

"No, no, that can’t be true. You’re lying, where are they? This isn’t funny anymore." He worked himself into a growing frenzy, trying to turn away from the cruel reality. Every thought of his parents' death felt like another painful thorn in his heart.

A loud slap made him jerk upright. His aunt had struck him hard across the cheek. The pain was like a brutal wake-up call from his desperate delirium.

"Stop losing yourself in your fantasies. Your parents are dead. They’re no longer here. Accept reality," she said in a sharp, unyielding voice. Her words were like blades, mercilessly cutting into his soul.

"But how...?" he wanted to ask, but another hard slap on his other cheek silenced him.

"Your parents deserved no better. They ran from the real challenges and died like cowards. Maybe it was better this way. The shining light of Solaren will forgive their sins." Her words were like cold poison, intensifying his hope and pain. She spoke of his parents as though they were nothing more than a footnote in a tragic story.

"Don’t you dare speak of my parents like that..." Azrael began, his anger and pain sharpening his words. But her cold disdain broke him once more.

"The murderer must be punished," he declared, his voice icy and unyielding.

Slap.

"Speak only when you're spoken to!" Her voice was a harsh command that smothered any form of dissent.

Azrael threw himself onto the pillow, clenching his fists as unrelenting waves of rage and pain surged through his body. In the midst of his despair, he clung to a dwindling glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, it had all been a nightmare, and his parents had survived. Perhaps one day, he would find answers that could ease his sorrow and pain.

His heart burned with fury and helplessness. Surrounded by people who did not share his grief and could not understand his rage, he felt lost and alone. In that moment, he was certain that the fight for his own hope and survival had only just begun.