Ch 1: Dance of the Ravenstorm

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a deep, blood-orange hue across the craggy trail. Soren Veilstorm, his dark, wavy hair streaked with white, caught the light as he moved with purpose at the head of the small caravan. His warm, deep-brown skin, like rich earth kissed by the sun, seemed to blend with the fading light, and his muted dark orange eyes flickered like embers, a reflection of the fire buried deep inside him.

Soren was not a towering figure, standing at 5’7”, but his lean, athletic build spoke of a man conditioned for speed, precision, and endurance. His clothes, a mix of form-fitting tactical gear and a tattered black cloak, allowed for the perfect balance of mobility and protection. A well-worn katana, its hilt frayed from use, rested comfortably at his side, while a pair of escrima sticks were strapped across his lower back. Beside the sticks, the chain whip, coiled neatly, swayed in rhythm with his stride, ready to unfurl at a moment’s notice.

His attire was designed for survival: fitted leather armor protected his chest and shoulders, worn from countless skirmishes, while a utility belt at his waist held small tools, throwing knives, and other necessities. The belt hung low over his hips, its pouches filled with what he needed to navigate a world that had become as hostile as it was desolate. His worn goggles, resting against his chest, were a reminder of the violent sandstorms and harsh winds that had scarred both the land and its people.

The raven feather earring dangling from his right ear moved slightly in the breeze, a remnant of his past—an old keepsake that spoke of things lost, even as he tried to leave them behind.

Soren’s senses were sharp, but his thoughts wandered, slipping through cracks he couldn’t quite seal. Images from the past gnawed at him—his mother’s distant, melancholy gaze, and his father’s cold, cutting disappointment. He clenched his jaw, shaking off the memories. There was no room for them now. Not when danger could be around every corner.

‘Not now. Not yet.’

‘Escort the merchants. Protect them. Keep moving.’

It sounded simple enough, but Soren had learned long ago that nothing in this world stayed simple for long. His hand hovered near the hilt of his katana, the weight of his weapons a constant, comforting presence against the growing tension in his chest. The escrima sticks and chain whip moved subtly as he adjusted his stance, each tool ready to become an extension of his body. But despite the years of training and the strength he had gained, there remained an emptiness. The truth lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind: No matter how skilled he became, no matter how sharp his blade, there were some battles he could never win.

A gust of wind swept through the trees, carrying with it the acrid scent of distant smoke—a constant reminder of the world’s slow, agonizing collapse. The Broken Hour had left its scar across the land. What had once been vibrant and teeming with life was now little more than a graveyard. The earth lay cracked and barren, stretching out endlessly beneath a sky smeared with ash and fire.

The world was once alive. Now it’s just waiting to die.

A voice from behind broke the silence. “Soren, how much further to the outpost?” The question came from Thara, the lead merchant. Despite her youth — she couldn’t be more than twenty-two she carried herself with the assured confidence of someone twice her age. Her short brown wolf-cut hair shifted in the breeze, the signature red bow holding back one side catching the dying light. Her honey brown eyes scanned the scorched trees as she spoke, her fuller figure wrapped in practical merchant’s garb that somehow managed to blend protection with style. Like everything else about her, even her clothing seemed to serve multiple purposes.

Soren slowed his pace, glancing back at her. “Another day’s journey. Maybe less, if the path holds.”

Thara’s lips tightened into a thin line. “And if it doesn’t?”

Soren’s expression darkened. “Then we pray.”

As they crested a small hill, a sudden prickling sensation crawled up the back of Soren’s neck. His instincts flared—danger was close. Without a word, he raised a hand, signaling the caravan to halt. His eyes swept the area, the dead branches casting warped shadows across the trail. The world had become unnervingly still, a silence too thick to be natural.

The merchants huddled together, their faces pale, their fear unmistakable. Soren remembered a time when merchants were bold, confident in their trade routes. That time was long gone, buried beneath the ashes of The Broken Hour. Now, everyone was afraid. And for good reason.

Stolen story; please report.

“What is it?” Thara whispered, her fingers wrapped tightly around a small amulet that hung from her neck.

Before Soren could answer, dark figures emerged from the trees on both sides of the path. Bandits—nearly a dozen of them, faces twisted with greed and cruelty, their weapons gleaming in the dying light.

“Get back!” Soren’s voice cut through the silence like a whip. “Circle up, protect yourselves!”

The bandits surged forward, weapons raised.

Soren’s hand moved instinctively to his katana, the blade slicing free with a soft hiss. The first bandit reached him in moments, a rusted sword swinging wildly toward his head. Soren ducked beneath the clumsy strike, his movements fluid, almost effortless. His footwork was quick, precise—a calculated pivot that carried him behind the attacker. In a single, seamless motion, his katana flashed, the blade arcing through the air and disarming the bandit with brutal efficiency. The sword clattered to the ground, and the man staggered back, his eyes wide with shock.

Without missing a beat, Soren’s free hand lashed out, seizing the bandit by the collar and yanking him forward into a vicious elbow strike. Bone cracked beneath the force, and blood sprayed from the man’s shattered nose. He fell back, dazed and stumbling, but Soren had already moved on.

Two more bandits rushed him from opposite sides. Soren shifted his stance, his escrima sticks now in hand. One bandit aimed a low swing at his legs, while the other thrust a dagger toward his chest. Soren dropped into a low stance, spinning smoothly out of range of the first attacker’s sword, his escrima stick meeting the dagger with a sharp, satisfying crack. His other arm snapped forward, delivering a crushing blow to the second bandit’s knee. The man crumpled with a strangled shout, clutching his shattered leg.

The second attacker swung again, this time aiming for Soren’s head. Soren shifted his weight, ducking just below the swing and stepping inside the man’s guard. With one escrima stick, he struck the bandit’s ribs with rapid precision, and with the other, he slammed the attacker’s arm, sending the dagger spinning into the dirt.

Soren’s moves were fluid, precise—every strike calculated to disable rather than kill. The rhythm of the fight was familiar, the flow of combat instinctual. Yet, as he moved through his opponents, something simmered beneath the surface. He could feel it—a crackling tension in the air, a rising anger in his chest. The world felt heavy, charged with something dark and dangerous.

The next bandit charged at him, sword raised high. Soren’s instincts screamed, and before he could stop himself, his hand shot forward. The air around him buzzed with energy, and for a brief moment, time seemed to slow. A flash of light—lightning—burst from his palm, striking the bandit square in the chest. The man convulsed violently, his weapon slipping from his grasp as he collapsed, smoke rising from his charred body.

Soren froze, heart pounding in his chest. What have I done?

The battle raged around him, but for that one moment, Soren’s world narrowed to the sight of the bandit lying at his feet, his body still smoking. The lightning had come too easily, too quickly. He hadn’t even thought about it—it had just happened. His breath came faster, his chest tightening with the weight of it.

The fight resumed its rhythm, pulling him back into the chaos. Another bandit rushed in, swinging a heavy club. Soren pivoted on his heel, avoiding the strike by inches. His escrima sticks flashed in response, one slamming into the bandit’s wrist while the other struck his shoulder, disarming him and sending him to the ground. But this time, Soren could feel the crackling energy building in the air again, waiting for him to lose control.

As the battle continued, Soren found himself moving between his weapons and his fists with ease, the flow of combat a deadly dance. His katana whirled through the air, cutting through the chaos as his escrima sticks hammered into attackers with brutal precision. He deflected, countered, and struck, the force of each blow honed by years of practice. And yet, the anger simmered, threatening to spill over.

One bandit managed to slip past his guard, a blade grazing his side before Soren could react. Pain flared up, sharp and hot, but it was the anger that surged even stronger. He gritted his teeth, suppressing the surge of energy that threatened to overtake him. He couldn’t lose control. Not again.

With a roar, the bandit lunged at him again, his blade aimed for Soren’s throat. Soren’s movements were a blur—his escrima stick deflecting the blade at the last moment, while his free hand seized the bandit’s wrist, twisting it with bone-cracking force. The attacker screamed, dropping his weapon. Without thinking, Soren’s hand snapped up, and the air around him cooled, moisture condensing in his palm. In an instant, the water shaped itself into a whip, lashing out with a loud crack. The bandit was thrown back, crumpling to the ground.

The silence that followed was deafening. The remaining bandits, stunned by the display, scrambled to retreat into the woods, leaving their fallen comrades groaning in the dirt.

Soren stood amidst the wreckage of the fight, his chest heaving, blood dripping from the shallow cut on his arm. His head buzzed with adrenaline, but underneath the rush of battle, fear coiled tight in his gut. The power he had unleashed—the lightning, the water—it wasn’t just a part of the dance. It was something deeper, something darker, and he had no control over it.

Thara approached cautiously, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “Soren… what was that? The lightning… the water? How did you…?”

Soren wiped the blood from his arm, his expression hardening. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “It’s been happening more often. I can’t explain it.”

Thara glanced at the fallen bandits, then back at him. “You’re different,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Soren didn’t answer. He couldn’t. How could he explain something he didn’t understand himself?

The night crept in slowly as they made camp, the air thick with the stench of smoke and blood. Soren sat apart from the others, staring into the flickering flames of their small fire. Thara offered him a portion of their meager rations, but his appetite had long since faded.

“You should eat,” she urged softly. “You need your strength.”

Soren took the food without a word, nodding his thanks. “We’ll reach the outpost tomorrow. You’ll be safe.”

Thara lingered for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. “Do you think your… abilities are tied to The Broken Hour?”

Soren’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his voice measured. “Maybe. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Thara gave a small, understanding nod before stepping away, leaving him to his thoughts.

Soren’s gaze drifted to the horizon, his mind swirling with unanswered questions. Whatever this power was, it was growing stronger. And with it came a danger he wasn’t sure he could control.

‘I need to figure this out. For her.’

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Author's Note:

Welcome to the first chapter of "Echoes After the Fall." Thank you for reading! This story began as a concept in my teenage years—an idea I always believed had potential but wasn't quite ready to write. After walking through different paths in life and encountering various people and experiences, I finally felt equipped to bring this story to life with solid material and a clear vision. The message I hope to deliver is one that resonates deeply with me, and I hope it will find similar meaning with you.

I welcome all feedback—critiques, reviews, and thoughts are greatly appreciated as they help me grow as a writer. I plan to keep author's notes minimal, reserving them for important clarifications or responses to your questions.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. Enjoy the ride!