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The aroma of roasted chicken promised a comforting end to the day. Eight-year-old Mark bounced in his seat.

"Mom, you won’t believe what happened at school!"

“Did you pull another prank?”

Sarah smiled, auburn braid swaying as she turned from the stove. "What is it this time? Another prank?" The afternoon sun warmed the gentle lines around her eyes.

“Not exactly a prank,” he said. “But Billy – you know, goofy grin and all? He was showing off his new soccer moves during recess, and…” Mark paused, eyes wide. “He tripped over his own feet and landed face-first in the mud!”

“Oh no, poor guy! Was he alright?”

“He was covered in mud from head to toe! Like a mud monster!” Mark giggled,flinging his arms out. “Everyone started laughing, even Mr. Thompson! Billy got all grumpy, though.”

“What happened after that?”

“He spent the rest of recess trying to clean himself up with a tiny teeny napkin. It was funny!”

"I bet he wasn't too thrilled." She added softly. “Remember, Mark, it's okay to laugh with people, not at them. While it’s funny to see someone slip up, it’s important to be kind, alright? We all make mistakes.”

“I know, Mom,” he mumbled, stabbing his fork into a potato. “I didn’t laugh at him… much.”

"That's my boy," She ruffled his hair with a smile.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but a deafening crash cut him off. The front door swung inward, revealing his father who slammed the door behind him with shaking hands.

“David!" Sarah cried. "What's going on?"

His voice was a strangled whisper. "Get Mark. We have to go. Now."

“What are you talking about? What happened?"

“No time,” he said, finally meeting her gaze, eyes wide with a terror that chilled her to the bone. “They found out, Sarah. They're coming."

Terror wiped the smile from Sarah’s face. “How? We’ve been so careful…”

“It doesn’t matter now,” David interrupted. “We need to hide him.”

Mark, caught in the grip of his father's fear, finally found his voice. "Dad? What’s happening? Who’s coming?"

Before David could answer, Sarah scooped Mark into her arms and rushed them out of the kitchen, “Come on, Mark!”

She hurried down the hallway, veering suddenly toward a bookshelf Mark had never paid much attention to before. She shoved it aside, revealing a door completely hidden behind it.

Mark's eyes widened, “Wha--”

“Shhh…down here, quickly,” she hissed, pushing him through. The opening led to a narrow staircase that vanished into darkness below. A wave of musty, cold air hit him, carrying the scent of damp earth.

The rickety steps creaked under their combined weight. Mark’s heart thumped a wild rhythm against his ribs, keeping time with his mother’s hurried steps. The air grew colder as they descended. When they reached the bottom, a single flickering light bulb revealed a cellar cluttered with cobwebs and shrouded shadows.

Sarah pulled him towards a large wooden cabinet tucked against the far wall. Its paint was chipped and faded.

“Mark, listen to me,” she whispered urgently, dropping to her knees before him, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “No matter what you hear, no matter what, you stay in here. You understand?”

He’d never seen his mother like this, her face pale and drawn with a fear that made his own throat tighten. A thousand questions crowded his tongue, but the fear in her voice silenced him.

All he could manage was a small nod.

Sarah cupped his cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering for a moment. Then, she pulled him into a tight embrace, her familiar scent enveloping him. It was the scent of home, of safety, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.

Then, with a last squeeze, she shut the cabinet door.

The darkness inside the cabinet pressed down like a hand over his mouth. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, but the blackness only deepened.

The air was thick with the scent of stale wood and damp earth. He hugged his knees tight to his chest, trying to disappear into himself, willing the rough wood against his back to melt away. But there was no escaping the cramped space, the suffocating darkness, the pounding of his own heart.

What is happening? Why were they hiding? Who were they hiding from? Each unanswered question tightened the knot of fear twisting in his gut.

Silence pressed in. He held his breath, listening for—he didn’t know what.

Thump. A muffled curse. Scraping of furniture across the floorboards above.

More sounds, closer this time— heavy footsteps, the shattering of glass. A strangled cry. His mother? He wanted to clap his hands over his ears, but fear froze him in place. Be brave, his father’s voice echoed in his head. Be strong. But in the smothering blackness, he felt very small and very, very alone.

Then, silence. He counted the thudding beats of his heart until —

“We have ways to make you talk,” a voice rasped.

A crash from above, closer now. And then, unmistakable, his mother’s scream. Mark flinched back, as though he, too, had been struck. He imagined her, trapped, hurting, and the image made bile rise in his throat. He bit back a sob.

“Where’s the boy?” the same harsh voice demanded. “Tell us, and we’ll make it quick."

Another cry, weaker this time. His name was a whimper on her lips.

"Stop it," a calmer voice intervened. "There’s no time for games.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his father’s voice, ragged with strain.

“Don’t bother lying. Your little friends told us about the runt. You really think you could keep him hidden?”

Mark’s mind reeled. What were they talking about?

He heard his mother's voice then, stronger now. Defiant. “You guys must be really scared, huh?”

A sharp slap cut her off, followed by a choked whimper. Mark’s hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. A surge of rage, hot and blinding, shot through him, but it was quickly swallowed by the rising tide of terror.

“Find the brat,” the calm voice snapped, each word clipped and precise. "We don't have all night."

Mark squeezed his eyes shut. Please, please just go away. He wanted to scream, to burst out of the cabinet and tell them to leave his parents alone.

“Enough of this nonsense,” the harsh voice growled, impatience reaching its peak. “Let’s just kill them and be done with it.”

“But we still haven’t found the boy.”

“He's not here,” the harsh voice replied, a tremor of uncertainty in its tone. “They must have sent him away.”

"And if they haven't?"

The silence that followed was heavier than before, filled with unspoken threats.

"It’s a risk we'll have to take," the harsh voice decided, cold and final. "Eliminate them. No loose ends."

Mark’s blood ran cold at the words, and he felt a sickening sense of dread settle in his stomach.

His father spoke, a pleading note in his voice, but Mark couldn't make out the words.

Then, two sharp cracks split the air. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs.

The silence that followed was a crushing weight, pressing him deeper into the darkness. Mark’s breath hitched in ragged sobs. Time twisted into a blur; hours, minutes—it could have been an eternity before the echo of retreating footsteps finally faded away. But his mother's warning—no matter what—kept him rooted in place.

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As if in a daze, he finally pushed open the cabinet door. The single dim light bulb swaying in the cellar seemed to mock the sudden emptiness. His bare feet, numb with cold, made no sound against the damp earth floor as he stepped out.

One step at a time. He gripped the stair railing, his small hand slick with sweat despite the chill. The silence in the house was all wrong, broken only by the creaking of the floorboards beneath his weight.

As he emerged into the living room with great difficulty, the sight that greeted him was a nightmare.

No. No. Please no.

His parents lay sprawled amidst the upturned furniture like discarded toys, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Nausea rose in his throat, and he stumbled backward, tripping over an overturned chair and landing hard on the floor. Hot, stinging tears streamed down his face as he crawled towards them.

Their eyes— his father's, always crinkled at the corners with good humor; his mother's, bright and warm—stared vacantly at the ceiling.

His small hand reached out, fingers trembling as they touched her cheek. Cold. Mom?

He shook her helplessly, begging her to wake up.

The metallic scent of blood hit him with the force of a blow. He recoiled as if burned, scrambling back, only to find himself facing his father.

Dad? Wake up. His whisper was a lost plea in the silent house.

Frantically, he searched for any sign, any flutter of life in his father's chest, any flicker of warmth. Nothing. His father’s face, normally so animated, was a pale mask. The emptiness in his eyes was more scarier than the blood staining his shirt.

Mark curled beside the unmoving form of his mother, his cries swallowed by the vast emptiness that now filled the space where his world had once been. There was only coldness, silence, and the metallic reek of blood— the suffocating scent of death.

“Mark!”

He looked up, his vision blurry with tears, to see his Aunt Lida in the doorway. Her eyes, widening with a horror that mirrored his own, settled on the figures on the floor.

He could barely speak, his throat constricted by sobs. He pointed a trembling finger towards their lifeless forms. “Th--They…gone,” he choked out, the words barely audible.

Lida rushed towards him, her eyes scanning the scene - taking in the blood, the stillness, the undeniable truth of his words. She gathered him into her arms, holding him tightly as his small body shook.

He buried his face against her, drawing what little comfort he could from her familiar warmth.

And then—

A floorboard creaked just outside the doorway.

Both heads swiveled in unison to find a figure lurking in the doorway—tall, shadowed, menacing.

Mark knew he should be afraid, but the numbness hadn't worn off. All he felt was a chilling emptiness.

"Get lost!" Lida snarled, her voice shaking with a rage he’d never heard from her before.

The intruder smirked. He didn’t even bother to speak as he lunged, a glint of steel flashing in his hand.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she shoved Mark aside, snatching a ceramic lamp from a nearby table and flinging it with surprising force.

The vase shattered against the intruder’s shoulder, slowing him but not stopping him. The man was fast, already upon them.

"Run!" Lida screamed, shoving Mark towards the back door, her voice tight with panic.

But there was nowhere to run, not with his legs frozen, rooted to the spot. He knew he should, but his limbs felt heavy. He was just a child who had just seen his parents murdered. What could he possibly do?

Instinctively, Lida’s hand shot out, palm facing the attacker, lips moving in a silent, urgent chant.

He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound—

—and then a blinding flash of light ripped through the room. The air crackled with an energy Mark felt in his teeth, and the intruder was thrown back as if he weighed nothing.

He slammed against the wall, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. For a heart-stopping second, silence. Then, a groan. The attacker staggered to his feet.

“You'll regret that, witch,” he snarled, advancing on them again.

Lida was moving again, hands sketching shapes in the air as her lips moved in a silent, rapid chant. Her movements - quick and precise.

Another burst of light, this one tinged with orange and red— and fire roared to life around the man, enveloping him in an inferno. His screams pierced the air—a sound of pure agony as the flames engulfed him.

Finally, with a choked shout, he collapsed, his body a smoldering heap on the floor. Then, silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the hiss of dying embers.

Mark watched, paralyzed, his gaze darting from the smoldering pile that had been their attacker back to his aunt. Her eyes blazed with an anger that both terrified and strangely comforted him.

“How…how did you…?”

“I’ll explain later,” She grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the back door. “Right now, we need to leave.”

“But…”

“We can’t stay here, Mark,” she said, her voice tight. “There may be more.”

There was a flicker of hesitation, of something like regret in her gaze as it swept over the living room one last time, but she didn't let go.

She dragged him across, his gaze clinging to the stillness that had been his parents.

His life. His family. His whole world, now gone.

Then, Lida pulled him out into the night, and the door closed on the only world he'd ever known.

* * *

Two days. Two days of running, of hiding, of whispered reassurances that rang hollow even to Lida’s own ears.

They had reached the city's edge, the promise of the forest their only solace. Lida sprinted down the narrow alleyway, every twist and turn etched into her memory, each one a heartbeat closer to safety—or so she prayed.

Mark, small and silent, clung to her, his tears a damp warmth against her neck. She couldn't comfort him, not while every ragged breath she took was tinged with fear. Not while the shadows behind them seemed to stretch and lengthen with each passing moment.

She skidded to a halt at the alley’s dead end, her lungs burning, her legs screaming for rest. Lowering Mark to the ground, she clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Shhhhh….”

She strained to listen, the silence amplifying every rustle of leaves, every distant bark of a dog. They were close, she could feel it—a prickle of awareness along her skin that sent shivers down her spine.

She focused, gathering the remnants of her depleted magic. It had taken almost all her strength just to shield them for the past two days. But another cloaking spell… it was too much, too soon.

"We have to go,” she whispered, hauling him up again. "And this time, run as if your life depends on it. Because it does."

Mark's eyes were wide with a terror that mirrored her own. He didn't question, didn’t cry out. He just clung tighter, his small hand a vise around hers. They were both running on empty—empty stomachs, empty hope, driven only by terror and adrenaline.

The forest floor was a treacherous obstacle course of roots and tangled undergrowth, but the dense canopy ahead promised a chance, however slim, of concealment.

They had only taken a few steps when—

Pain exploded across her back as a vise-like grip seized her shoulder, yanking her backward. She cried out as she fell, Mark tumbling beside her in a tangle of limbs and leaves. It happened too fast to fight back, too fast to even think—

Stars swam in Lida’s vision. A brutal kick to her ribs drove the air from her lungs, and the world dissolved into a haze of pain and ringing ears.

A shadow fell over her, massive and radiating fury. He spat a curse, the words slurred but full of venom. "Thought you could outrun us, did you?"

Lida tasted dirt and blood. She struggled to rise, to put herself between Mark and the looming figure, but a crushing weight on her chest pinned her in place.

Her nephew— lunged out from beside her, fists flailing, a valiant but pitiful attempt to protect her.

“No, Mark, stay back!” she cried, the words strangled by the pressure in her chest.

The man merely chuckled, the sound sending shivers down Lida's spine. With a casual backhand, he sent Mark sprawling into the undergrowth.

“Didn't anyone ever teach the brat to stay down?” the man snarled, pressing his weight further into her, his knee grinding against her ribs with every breath.

Lida gasped, fighting against the black spots clouding her vision. Even now, with every muscle screaming in protest, her fingers twitched, instinctively seeking the solace of weaving her ether.

“Don't even think about it,” he growled, seizing her wrists and yanking them behind her back.

The cold bite of metal against her skin sent a jolt of pain through her arms, stealing what little breath she had left.

She cried out, a searing pain shooting up her arms.

“There,” he sneered, rising to tower over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. "“Now do your little tricks.”

Panic flooded Lida's senses, washing away the pain. She bucked against the man's grip, her voice hoarse with desperation. “Leave him out of this!”

The man only laughed. The sound scraped across her raw nerves, sharp and cruel. “He’s the only reason we’re here, you stupid bitch."

"Please…" She choked on the word, her throat constricted by fear. "He's just a child. Take me, do whatever you want—just let him go.”

The amusement on the man's face vanished. "Oh, I plan on doing a lot more than letting him go, sweetheart. He's going to wish he was never born.”

"Please…" Her voice was barely audible, even to herself. But there were no more arguments left, no more defiance. Just raw, begging fear.

"Don't worry," he sneered, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. “He'll join you soon enough." The moonlight glinted off the blade he held loosely in his hand.

Lida’s stomach twisted into knots, cold dread stealing the last of her strength. There was nowhere left to run, no power left to summon. The air seemed to crackle with a violence she knew she couldn’t stop. It’s over.

She squeezed her eyes shut, a choked sob dying in her throat. This is it. But instead of piercing agony, there was a sickening splat followed by the thud of a heavy body hitting the ground.

Opening her eyes, Lida was met with a scene of horrifying carnage. The man’s head was gone, replaced by a bloody, pulpy mess. Blood and brain matter splattered across her face and clothes, the metallic scent thick in the air.

Mark.

He stood frozen a few feet away, illuminated by a pulsing, flickering light that seemed to emanate from his small frame. Tiny sparks danced across his outstretched fingertips. He blinked, as though waking from a dream, and stared down at the carnage with wide, horrified eyes.

“Mark…” Lida choked, her voice a raspy whisper. “What ..what did you do?”

“I… I don’t know,” his voice trembled, eyes wide with terror. “He was going to—I was scared—”

A tremor ran through her. Then she remembered—the restraints. As the man’s life force ebbed, she felt it—the binding of the restraints on her wrists dissolving, returning her to herself.

Instinctively, Lida’s fingers twitched, seeking the familiar patterns of weaving. She tested them, pushing against the cold metal, it gave. The restraint, reliant on her captor's will, had vanished with him. Relief, sharp and fleeting, washed over her as she tore free.

She stumbled towards Mark, pulling him close. His thin frame trembled against hers, the scent of fear mingling with the coppery tang of blood, a sickening combination.

“It’s alright,” she whispered into his hair, clinging to him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just protecting us.”

“But how… how did I do that? It--”

“I don’t know,” Lida said, cutting him off, forcing herself to sound calm, in control. There was time enough for explanations, for the horrors of what had just happened to sink in— but not now. “We need to get as far away from here as possible."

He nodded silently, burying his face against her chest, his own terror the only confirmation she needed that he understood.

The night was alive with unseen eyes, with the weight of her promise, her failure, to keep him safe.

They ran for what felt like hours, the forest growing thicker and darker as they went. Neither spoke as they ran, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the nightmare they’d just escaped.

Finally, they stumbled upon a small clearing, where they collapsed onto the ground in exhaustion.

Lida pulled him close, holding him tightly as they both caught their breath. “We’re safe now,” she whispered. “We’re going to be okay.”

“But… what about mom and dad?”

She hugged him tighter. “We.... we’ll find a way to... to bury them,” she promised, even though her voice wavered with uncertainty.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds coming from the rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl. Lida looked up at the sky, seeing the first signs of dawn starting to appear on the horizon.

“We should keep moving,” she said, standing up. “We can’t stay here for too long.”

Mark nodded, and they continued on their journey, both unsure of what lay ahead.