Stormfront had returned to Ceiala and made their way to Pyru’s Tavern. It was the kind of place where they could celebrate a mission's success or drown their frustrations when things didn’t go as planned.

Tonight, it was all about celebration.

The tavern buzzed with life. Wooden tables were crowded with soldiers, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the rich aroma of ale. In the corner, a small stage held a musician strumming a lively tune, though the rowdy voices of off-duty warriors drowned out his sound. Pyru’s had become a second home for the troops of the Seraphim—a refuge for both joy and sorrow.

Stormfront was no exception.

An hour into their celebration, Jermaine was already several cups of ale deep. His booming voice echoed through the tavern as he slammed his fist onto the table.

"Who’s next? Who wants to take on the mighty Thunder God of Ceiala?"

Eli sat across him with his head buried in his hands.

"Unc, come on. You're making a scene— again."

Jermaine, however, was far too drunk to care. He laughed heartily.

"You shouldn’t be embarrassed, boy! You should be proud of your uncle, the unstoppable, undefeatable Thunder God!"

He flexed his arm for effect, drawing cheers and a few scattered laughter from the crowd.

Eli rolled his eyes and rubbed his temples.

"Right. Right. The great Thunder God. Maybe it’s time to stop drinking. You've already beaten, what— fifteen people? I think you've proven your point."

Jermaine’s laugh only grew louder.

"You want me to hold back? Alright. Alright. How about this— I'll only use a fraction of my strength! Make it fair for the rest of you weaklings!"

He winked at the crowd, clearly loving every second of the attention.

"Unc, seriously— you’re embarrassing me."

Jermaine slapped Eli on the back, nearly knocking him off his chair. He then drained the rest of his ale and slammed the mug down.

"Next challenger!"

After a few more poor souls stepped up and were quickly defeated, Jermaine sat back with a satisfied grin.

"Is that it? Is there no one else foolish enough to—"

He was cut off. Leon had slid into the chair across from him, and a small, knowing smile played on his lips as he rested his elbow on the table.

"Mind if I give it a shot?"

Jermaine blinked, his grin faltering for a moment before he burst into laughter.

"You? I didn’t think you had it in you, Leon!"

Eli, still sitting on the side of the small wooden table, looked up.

"You’re in for it now, Unc."

Jermaine shot him a look, half-amused.

"You think I can’t take him?"

"I’m just saying... Leon's no pushover."

Jermaine's grin widened as he gripped Leon’s hand across the table.

"Still... I'll only use a quarter of my strength—no, a tenth—to keep it fair."

Leon chuckled as he locked eyes with Jermaine.

"Are you sure, Thunder God? I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself."

Jermaine roared with laughter. His hand tightened even more around Leon’s.

"You’ve got a mouth on you tonight, don’t you? Alright then. Show me what you got!"

With that, the tavern gathered around, eager to witness the showdown between two of Stormfront’s finest—with Eli the reluctant referee.

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In a corner of the tavern, tucked away from the raucous cheers, Nia swayed gracefully to the music. Many colored crystal lamps adorned the walls, casting a warm glow over her golden-brown skin—highlighting her every movement. With an aura that exuded strength and grace, she was often mistaken for a goddess—and for good reason. Wherever she went, eyes followed.

She spun lightly on her heels, and then... she noticed Malik standing alone near the edge of the tavern. He had his usual tense posture, with his arms crossed and a distant look in his eyes. The weight of the world seemed to rest on his shoulders, even in a place meant for celebration.

Nia danced her way over to him like a leaf in the wind—a playful grin lining her face. She reached his side and grabbed his arm, tugging him toward the dance floor.

"Let's go."

Malik tensed at her touch, his brows furrowing as he resisted.

"Nia, I—"

"Nope. No excuses!"

She flashed him a sincere smile that could easily melt even the hardest of hearts.

"You need to loosen up, Malik. It's just one dance."

He hesitated, glancing around the crowded room as if hoping for an escape. But there was no getting away from Nia when she set her mind to something. Reluctantly, he allowed her to pull him onto the dance floor—though he moved stiffly.

Nia laughed softly as she twirled in front of him, light and carefree.

"It’s okay to enjoy yourself. You don’t have to be the serious warrior all the time."

She reached for his hands, guiding him through the rhythm of the music.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Malik remained quiet, his face unreadable—though his body began to relax just slightly under Nia’s touch. He wasn’t much for words, and she knew that. But she also knew that deep down, he needed this—a reminder that life wasn’t just about fighting, about survival. Sometimes, it was about living.

Malik looked down at her, his brow still furrowed, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—appreciation, perhaps.

Nia smiled back up at him.

"See? This isn’t so bad, is it?"

He sighed, but there was no bite to it.

"I guess not."

Nia chuckled. Her voice was light and melodic, as if the weight of the world couldn’t touch her.

"That’s the spirit! You’re dancing with the most beautiful woman in the tavern, and you're acting like it’s a chore!"

Malik scanned the room, his crimson eyes seemingly searching for an unseen enemy.

"Everyone’s staring."

Nia shrugged, unfazed.

"Let them. If staring is all it takes to make them happy, who am I to stop them? Besides, right now, it's just you and me. Focus on the music. Let it flow through you. Remove your guard, just for tonight."

Malik didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. He let her soothing presence sink in as they danced, his shoulders slowly easing as the music played on.

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At a nearby table, Byron and Kamari sat indulging in slices of Pyrocrust—the tavern’s most famous dish. Kamari savored every bite. The familiar taste of melted cheese, roasted meat toppings, and crispy crust stirred a polite warmness inside him. Pyrocrust was his favorite, and after a long, grueling day, it was precisely what he needed.

Byron took a sip from his drink before leaning back in his chair.

“You did well today, kid.”

Kamari chewed slowly. He stared at his plate for a moment before responding.

"I could’ve done more."

Byron raised an eyebrow, his mug pausing in mid-air.

"Nonsense! You did everything that was expected of you and more. We saved lives today."

Kamari set his slice of Pyrocrust down. His appetite had vanished as his thoughts returned to the destruction.

"Yes, but we lost even more. Look, Byron, I’m nowhere near as strong as I need to be. And every time I think I’ve gotten stronger, I'm reminded of how far I have to go."

Byron’s expression softened, and before Kamari could continue, he cut him off.

"You’re being too hard on yourself, kid. You always are. I know you’re still beating yourself up over what happened that night."

Kamari’s jaw tightened.

"I should’ve been stronger—"

Byron shook his head, silencing him with a look.

"You did everything you could. We all did. But, unfortunately, no one could have stopped what happened back then—not even me."

Byron sighed.

"You have to allow yourself to move on. You can’t keep carrying that weight forever."

Kamari wanted to respond, but before he could, a loud crash echoed through the tavern. The sound of splintering wood filled the room as one of the tables broke apart—Leon skidding across the floor on his back.

Eli walked over to help him to his feet—which was followed by a sigh.

"Well, that was— anticlimactic. We’ll have to work on your technique. Maybe try bending your wrist forward a bit to increase leverage power."

Leon chuckled as he took Eli’s hand.

"Thanks for the tip."

Jermaine, meanwhile, let out a victorious roar, his drunken state only amplifying the volume.

"And just like that, another one falls to my might!"

He pounded his chest with a smug grin.

Eli shook his head—his body cringing at the sight.

"Unc, please— stop!"

As Jermaine’s voice grew louder, drawing more attention, Nia made her way over, her calm presence cutting through the tavern’s rowdy atmosphere. She walked up to Jermaine and slipped her arm around him.

"Alright, big guy. Time to go."

Jermaine looked at her, his eyes glassy with alcohol, and broke into a lopsided grin.

"Hey there, beautiful. Have we met before?"

His words were slurred, but the charm in his voice was unmistakable.

Nia chuckled as she guided him toward the door despite his stumbling.

"We’ve met plenty of times."

There was a playful sparkle in her eyes.

"In fact, we’ve been together for quite a while now," she continued.

Jermaine’s face lit up with childlike excitement.

"Really? Me and you?!"

She chuckled at his goofy expression before planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Every time you drink, it’s like you forget."

Jermaine beamed, stumbling slightly as Nia, barely half his size, did her best to keep him from falling. What he said next was slurred—and barely audible.

"Best. Day. Ever."

Back at the table, Byron observed the scene and sighed heavily.

"Looks like I'll have to have that talk with Lavern again. That’s the fourth table this week."

Meanwhile, Kamari barely registered the commotion as he replayed Byron’s words in his head.

You did everything you could. We all did.

He clenched his fist so tightly that his fingers threatened to pierce the skin. No matter how many times he heard it, he refused to believe. Instead, a lingering doubt gnawed at him. He stared down at his half-eaten Pyrocrust, lost in thought, and as the seconds passed by, the noise of the tavern faded into the background.

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Later that night, Kamari found himself slipping into sleep—a restless kind. It wasn't unusual—his nights often felt thick with something he couldn't quite shake.

There was a faint pressure in the air, like a storm brewing far off, and a heaviness in his chest that made his breath come shallow. He shifted in bed, trying to push it away, but it clung to him like a second skin.

First came the smell.

It was faint initially, just a whiff of something sharp—something metallic. Then it thickened. The stench of blood, smoke, and burning wood. His throat tightened, and his pulse quickened. He couldn’t see anything yet, just darkness. But the smell—it filled his nose and crawled down his throat.

Somewhere distant, there were voices. Not words, but the kind of noise that prickles the skin. Slowly, the dark around him began to brighten—flashes of red and orange light flickering.

He blinked. Then, it all sharpened.

Flames. Screams. Corpses.

A blazing heat pressed against his skin, and his heart sank as he took in the familiar sight—his home village.

He had returned once again.

Flames leaped from house to house. People screamed—some in fear, some in agony—and everywhere, bodies dropped to the ground. The fire's roar was deafening as he lay in the dirt, covered in blood and ash.

He tried to move, but his body refused to listen. His limbs felt like lead. His muscles were locked in place. All he could do was watch—helplessly—as the chaos unfolded around him.

Then, through the smoke... it appeared.

The figure approached slowly, each step deliberate—like a predator stalking its prey. Shadows marred its form—its outline was barely human. Two jagged horns protruded from its forehead, and massive black wings spread wide from its back. Its eyes—pitch black—locked onto Kamari.

A demon.

Kamari’s heart pounded. He wanted to run, to fight—to do anything. But all he could do was tremble.

The demon towered over him, its face expressionless as it reached down. Kamari’s breath caught in his throat as the creature’s hand wrapped around his neck, its black claws sinking deep into his skin. The pain was instant, sharp, and unbearable.

Kamari continued to struggle, his hands clawing at the demon’s arm, but it was useless. He couldn’t break free.

Without warning, the demon plunged its other hand into his chest. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt. A scream tore from his throat, raw and desperate, as its claws dug deeper.

And then, suddenly, he was awake.

Kamari bolted upright in bed, screaming as he clutched his chest. His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. His heart was pounding as if it were trying to break free from his ribcage. His hand gripped the spot where the demon had attacked him, half-expecting to find a gaping wound where its claws had pierced him.

But there was nothing.

He was then greeted by the soft glow of morning light filtering through the glass window beside his bed. The gentle chirping of birds outside felt distant, almost foreign, in the wake of the nightmare’s terror.

His fingers twitched against his chest, the phantom pain of the demon’s hand still lingering. He sat there for a long moment, trying to shake the images from his mind, but the memories clung to him. They weren't something he couldn't simply forget.

A growl of frustration escaped his lips, low at first but growing in intensity. The thought of his helplessness—his failure back then—gnawed at him like a festering wound. And finally, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He roared out in anger, the sound tearing through the silence of the room as his fist slammed repeatedly into the mattress.

As the echoes of his roar faded, he collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The sunlight felt warm against his skin, but it did little to soothe the cold weight pressing down on him.

After a few minutes, he let out a long, shaky breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. He sat up again, this time more slowly, and glanced out the window at the peaceful morning outside. The world was quiet and serene—utterly unaware of the storm still raging inside him.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his black, crimson-tipped hair as he forced himself to stand. The day had begun—there was no time to linger in the past. He’d have to fight through it, just like he always did. But no matter how hard he tried, the memories would always be there—waiting for him in the dark.