Lucius found himself drifting aimlessly in a dark void, his senses dulled by the emptiness around him.

He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut—there was nothing to see. The stillness pressed down on him, suffocating in its silence. He floated, weightless and detached, his body and mind disconnected from anything resembling reality.

For a moment, he felt nothing. No pain. No sorrow. Just an aching void.

But then, like the first spark of a flame, memory came rushing back.

The crackling of the fire. The villagers' hateful jeers. His mother’s lifeless body hanging from the tree. His crying pleas.

A flood of emotion surged through him, piercing the numbness. Rage bubbled up from the depths of his soul, searing through the fog of despair. His fists clenched as the pain of his loss, the humiliation of his helplessness, and the sheer injustice of what had been done to him reignited in his mind.

“They’ll pay…” he growled, the sound swallowed by the void. His voice cracked with anger and frustration. “They’ll all pay!”

The intensity of his emotions grew until they felt too much for him to contain. The emptiness around him began to change. A flicker of sensation returned as he felt something beneath his feet. He looked down and realized he was no longer floating.

Lucius stood on solid ground, though the surface was unlike anything he’d seen before. The grass beneath him was black, its texture sharp and unnatural, swaying gently despite the absence of wind. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and the landscape stretched endlessly into a dim horizon, illuminated only by the faint glow of a crimson star fixed in the sky.

It wasn’t streaking across the heavens like the one he’d seen earlier. This one hovered ominously, casting a blood-red hue across the dark world.

Lucius stared at the star, its light stirring something deep within him.

You feel it, don’t you?

The voice returned, cutting through the silence. Ancient and otherworldly, it resonated with a power that made Lucius shiver.

“What… what do you mean?” he stammered, his eyes darting around for the source of the voice.

The voice chuckled, the sound like embers crackling in a dying fire.

Look at it—the crimson star. Do you know what it is? What it’s made of?

Lucius frowned, confused. “It’s… a star. I don’t know what it’s made of. Light? Gas?”

The voice laughed again, a low, throaty sound that sent chills down his spine.

"Ah, light and gas," it mused mockingly. "Perhaps. But what do you feel when you look at it? What does its light remind you of?"

Lucius hesitated, staring at the star again. The crimson glow felt… alive. Pulsing. Burning. “Heat,” he said finally. “It feels… hot.”

Good, the voice said approvingly. And what do you think of when you hear heat, boy?

Lucius blinked, unsure of where the voice was leading him. “Fire,” he said cautiously.

Yes… fire. Fire that consumes. Fire that destroys. Fire that purifies.

Lucius swallowed hard, unease creeping into his mind. “What does this have to do with me?”

Everything, the voice whispered, its tone suddenly sharp. You wished to the stars, boy. You begged for their power. And now I tell you… take it. Take the flames of the stars. Mix it with your fury, your anguish, your hatred. Let it burn away all who have wronged you. Let it cleanse this world of diseases like those villagers who betrayed you and slaughtered your mother. This is the fire that will be your vengeance… if you are bold enough to claim it.

Lucius trembled, a strange heat building in his chest. The star’s glow seemed to grow brighter, its light dancing in his vision. His fists clenched as the voice’s words reverberated through him, filling the void within him with something fierce, something unrelenting.

He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the crimson star. “How do I… grasp it?” he asked, his voice trembling but resolute.

You already know the way, the voice said, a cruel smile almost audible in its tone. Seize it. Take the fire of the stars into your very soul. Let it become a part of your fury. Let it make you unstoppable. Do not wish for power—take it!

Lucius stared at the star, his heart pounding. The heat within him grew, urging him forward, promising him strength beyond comprehension. His mind raced, torn between fear and an overwhelming desire for vengeance.

And then, he reached out.

Lucius stared at the crimson star as it began to pulse, its light growing brighter and brighter with every beat. The world around him seemed to tremble, and the ancient voice returned, louder and more fervent, its tone a mix of elation and malice.

Yes! Let it burn! Bring forth the flame, boy! The apocalypse! The fire that breaks all chains! The flame of the end!

The voice echoed all around him, reverberating through his mind and body, drowning out every other thought. Before Lucius could even process the words, the star’s light burst forth, rushing toward him in a blinding wave of crimson fire.

He had no time to react. The flames engulfed him completely, searing his flesh, his very soul.

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The pain was beyond anything Lucius could have imagined. It wasn’t just his body that burned; it felt as though his essence was being torn apart and remade. He screamed, his voice raw and filled with agony, sure that this was the end.

But as the fire raged, consuming him, memories of his mother flashed through his mind. Her warm smile. Her gentle voice calling him "my little star." Her headless and broken body hanging lifelessly in the moonlight.

Then came the faces of the villagers—their relief, their ignorance. The mayor’s cruel grin as he insulted her as a witch and watched him burn.

The rage surged within him, mingling with the flames. It became his anchor, his lifeline. He clung to it with every fiber of his being, refusing to let the pain break him. His screams turned into guttural roars, and through the inferno, Lucius found himself.

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Down by the hill, the villagers stood in uneasy silence, watching as Lucius’s screams quieted. The flames around him roared higher, bright orange tongues of fire licking the air as they consumed the tree and the boy tied to it.

Some of the villagers felt a twinge of pity, but it was quickly drowned out by the relief that washed over them. It was done. The witch’s child was no more.

The mayor stepped forward, his chest puffed out with pride as he addressed the crowd. “Rejoice, my friends! We have freed ourselves from witchery and evil! This cursed land is cleansed!”

The villagers murmured in agreement, their fears slowly giving way to hesitant smiles.

“Tomorrow,” the mayor continued, “we shall celebrate with a grand festival! A triumph for our village! A triumph for righteousness!”

The crowd cheered half-heartedly, their voices mingling with the crackling of the flames. The mayor began leading them down the hill, his mind already spinning plans for how to use this victory to secure his authority.

But just as the last of the villagers began to descend, a sound froze them in their tracks.

"AARGH!!"

A roar. Deep, guttural, and monstrous.

It was unlike anything they had ever heard—a sound that made their blood run cold and their hearts pound in terror.

The mayor turned, his face twisting in confusion and anger. “What now?!”

He froze.

The flames consuming the tree were no longer orange. They had turned crimson, a blood-red hue that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

Within the flames, a figure emerged. Small but unmistakable.

It was Lucius.

His body was engulfed in the crimson fire, but it did not consume him as it should have. Instead, it clung to him, shifting and swirling like a living entity. His outline was distorted, the flames giving him a monstrous and unnatural appearance.

The villagers stared in horror, their earlier relief replaced by pure, unadulterated fear.

“Wh-what is that?” one of them stammered, backing away.

The mayor’s bravado crumbled, his face pale as he stared at the burning figure. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

Lucius’s eyes opened within the flames—two pits of fiery black, seething with rage.

The night grew colder, but the crimson fire burned hotter, its heat reaching even the villagers standing far below the hill.

The mayor stood frozen in place, his mind racing as he stared at the monstrous figure before him.

What am I seeing? This isn’t possible. The boy was supposed to die! He was supposed to burn away!

His thoughts spiraled into chaos, but they were abruptly shattered by the piercing screams of the villagers behind him. Women shrieked, men shouted in fear, and the cries of terrified children filled the air.

Snapping back to reality, the mayor turned and shouted, his voice desperate, “Look at him! Look, all of you! This is the son of the witch! Proof of her evil bloodline! We must stand together!”

But his words carried no weight. The villagers were beyond reason.

Some stood rooted to the ground, their faces pale with terror as they stared at the approaching figure of Lucius. Others turned and bolted down the hill, abandoning their torches and pitchforks in their blind panic. A few simply collapsed where they stood, fainting from the sheer horror of the scene.

Lucius stepped forward, his voice a chilling mixture of fury and madness, echoing over the chaos.

“You’ll burn… every one of you. You’ll suffer like the wretches you all are. Burn!”

His words were not a shout but a venomous hiss, cutting through the night air like a blade.

He raised his hand, and the crimson flames clinging to him surged outward. A wave of fire erupted from his body, racing down the hill toward the scattering villagers.

The fire consumed everything in its path. The grass turned to ash. Torches melted into molten wood. And the villagers caught in the inferno screamed as the flames engulfed them, their bodies writhing and convulsing before crumpling into smoldering heaps.

Lucius moved with terrifying purpose. He lunged at a man paralyzed by fear, his flaming hands wrapping around the man’s throat. The man’s screams were cut short as Lucius squeezed, the crimson fire spreading from his fingers to engulf the man’s body. Within moments, he was nothing more than ash drifting in the night wind.

Another villager—a woman—tried to run, her skirt catching fire as she stumbled. Lucius’s gaze locked onto her, his steps unrelenting. With a wave of his hand, the fire surged, consuming her entirely as she let out a final, bloodcurdling scream.

“No! No, please!” another man begged, falling to his knees as Lucius approached. But Lucius’s rage was a tidal wave, unstoppable and all-consuming. He grasped the man’s head, flames bursting forth with a hiss, entering his mouth and burning him from the inside out in excruciating agony.

The crimson fire illuminated the night in a gruesome tableau of carnage. Lucius was relentless, a fiery reaper stalking through the mob, leaving death and destruction in his wake.

The mayor watched in mounting horror as his villagers fell one by one, their screams blending into an agonizing symphony of suffering. He stumbled back, his legs shaking beneath him.

“This… this can’t be happening…” he muttered, clutching at his chest.

Finally, his survival instincts took over, and he turned on his heel, fleeing down the hill. He didn’t care who or what he abandoned—he only cared about escaping.

Behind him, the villagers’ cries grew fewer and fainter, replaced by the roar of the crimson flames and the guttural growls of Lucius, still hunting his prey.

The mayor sprinted through the village, his breath ragged and his chest heaving as terror propelled him forward. The screams and roar of flames from the hill seemed to chase him, echoing in his ears no matter how far he ran.

He burst into his home, slamming the door shut behind him. His hands trembled as he bolted it, though he doubted it would stop what was coming. He rushed through the darkened halls to his office, his boots clattering loudly against the wooden floor.

The office was a modest room, lined with shelves holding dusty books and ledgers. A large wooden desk dominated the center, papers, and quills scattered haphazardly across its surface. A painting of the village in better days hung crookedly on the wall, a mocking reminder of how far things had fallen.

The mayor didn’t waste time. He shoved the heavy desk aside with frantic strength, revealing a small, hidden compartment in the floor beneath. He pried it open with shaking hands, his fingers fumbling at the edges before he managed to lift the cover.

Inside was a small, ornate box, its surface etched with intricate designs of sigils and runes. The faint glow of the markings reflected in his wide eyes as he pulled it out.

The communicator, he thought, his mind racing. They promised me this would summon help. For emergencies only, they said. This qualifies, damn it!

The device was a relic of his brief and unpleasant trip to the city, a gift bestowed upon him after meeting with the Witch Hunter and other officials. It was meant to call for aid in case of a beast attack or some other unimaginable threat.

He fumbled with the latch, his sweaty hands making the task nearly impossible. But just as he managed to flip it open, a strange light caught his attention.

The hue of the room had shifted.

The faint flickering of the lantern on the desk was gone, replaced by a sinister blood-red glow that bathed everything in an ominous light. His heart dropped, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow as dread settled into his bones.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned around.

Standing in the center of the room was Lucius.

The boy’s figure was wreathed in crimson flames, flickering and licking at the air around him. His once youthful face was a mask of cold malice, his blackened skin glowing faintly beneath the fire’s eerie light.

The mayor’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.

Lucius stood motionless, his burning eyes fixed on the mayor with an intensity that pierced through the soul.

The small box slipped from the mayor’s hands, clattering to the floor.