“I will kill them all.”

A boy grinned out at the world; a world where he was alone. 

He moved further into the trees, watching flames cover what had once been a village. Shadows wrapped around him, hiding him from anyone that might be looking. 

The boy didn’t know what the “five stages of grief” were. If someone had ever explained the concept to him, he would have told them they were stupid. 

Denial. He didn’t have the luxury of denial. His mother had been beheaded in front of him, while his father had been nearly cut in two by an ax. Denying that would be like denying breathing. 

Anger. Anger was much too mild a word for the boy. What he had was a deep, seething need for vengeance. He had an ire, a fury that burned deep in the core of his soul. “Anger” didn’t do his emotion justice. 

Bargaining. The people who’d murdered his parents and enslaved him had ordered him to never speak. There was no one and nothing to bargain with. 

Depression. There was no room in the boy for any sort of sadness or longing. There was only room for rage. 

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Acceptance. Accepting his parent’s deaths felt like accepting that the sun rose every morning. It happened. Yes. He’d question why some people would find this a difficult stage to reach. 

And now, watching his captor’s village turn to smoke, he felt content. He heard yells and screams, and they made him happy. The flames of his owner’s house warmed the boy’s heart. 

“I will kill them all,” he whispered again, adjusting his grip on a stolen dagger. 

He hadn’t planned on setting the village on fire. But the opportunity had presented itself, so why not. Now a plan formed in his mind. 

Many would die in this fire, but some would survive. Some people always survived a disaster. By preparedness, luck, or mercy, a percentage of people would always live through catastrophe. 

The boy would be one of them. He’d walk into the village square in the morning, covered in soot, and meet with the villagers. They would order him to help rebuild, which he would. He was a good slave, who always did what he was told. There might be a few… accidents… but he would help without comment or complaint. 

When the village was rebuilt, when life was back to normal, the boy would set it on fire again. 

More people would die, less people would rebuild. If there were less than twenty, he’d take that opportunity to sneak through the unfinished houses. 

He would find a second knife to hold, and-

The boy smiled in anticipation. “I will kill them all.”