Trembling beneath the dark sanctuary of his parents' four-poster bed, Alden huddled in a tight ball, a silhouette of boyhood innocence racked with tremors. His mother's screams echoed through the Fairwood house like a nightmarish symphony, sounds of the vicious struggle piercing his eardrums like talons, each clash of weapons or shattering relic mingling with the distant but unmistakable sounds of magical combat—the crack and sizzle of arcane energies unleashed in desperation, sending involuntary twitches through his body. Breaths coming in ragged gasps, chestnut hair matted against his sweat-drenched brow, Alden's wide green eyes flicked from corner to corner, searching for phantoms that might lurk in the shadows of the master bedroom. The shadows that enveloped him seemed to writhe and shift as if seeking to protect him from the chaos beyond.

"Be still, little starlight," whispered Lysandra, her voice a sad symphony adrift in the charged air. "stay hidden."

Alden's breathing hitched, though he knew the voice belonged to Lysandra. He couldn't see her, but the comforting mist that drifted barely seen near him was a soothing balm. Still, it did little to assuage the fear that gripped him.

"But, M-Mother!" he whispered, his words barely audible and his voice catching around a barely contained sob.

"Courage, boy," Vaelus's voice rumbled through the gloom, each word a simmering ember of wrath held in check. "The night has teeth, but we are its masters."

Outside the fragile bubble of the master bedroom, the house was a maelstrom of chaos and violence. Gore and ichor dripped from his sword as Lucian stood as a bulwark against the encroaching darkness that sought to snuff out his family. He moved with a sorcerer's grace, redirecting the assailants' advances with deft waves of his hands, weaving barriers from the very ether. His red eyes blazed with an arcane fire, casting back the shadows that dared creep too close. His tall, muscular frame was a blur of calculated fury. He parried and feinted, using his environment with lethal precision. The assassins closed in, their footsteps silent as ghosts, but Lucian's years of training and experience prevailed. His hair whipped about him, a wild mane that mirrored his rage as he swung his blade in deadly arcs.

In lethal silence, the assassins pressed on, poised and precise as specters clad in menace. Some stood back from the fray, firing beam weapons that spat streams of incandescent death, carving arcs of destruction through the air. Each clash of magic-enhanced short swords against Lucian's hastily conjured wards sent shockwaves rippling through the homestead, the force enough to blow apart the furniture and send the pieces skittering across the floor. Windows of reinforced plasteel glass shattered outwards, beams deflecting off Lucian’s wards, searing energy carving into walls, and vaporizing stray family items.

One blast came perilously close to Lucian’s chest, but he intervened with an awkward twist of his wrist and a pull of his arm, the sword’s hilt intercepting the beam at the last moment. The blast blew through the far wall of the kitchen, striking one of the giant trees at the edge of the glade around the house, instantly boiling the sap and causing the trunk to blow apart. One of the assailants perched nearby watched for a moment as the great tree’s boughs groaned and snapped, disentangling from the neighboring tree’s canopy. The fall was slow at first but then crashed the rest of the way, the trunk cleaving through the nearby stable and pond, sending water rushing far up the banks. The assassin refocused through the scope of the long-range beam weapon, patiently waiting for the brief instant she could strike the great mage down.

Stumbling from the force of the deflected shot and off balance, Lucian caught a glimpse over Elara’s shoulder as a shadow seemed to detach from the rafters and drop silently to the ground. His eyes widened, and in that split second, he made a choice. With no breath spared for incantation, he channeled magic raw and unbridled, a torrent of power diverted to shield Elara from the predator at her back. Mid-lunge, the assassin caught the maelstrom of unfocused power in the chest. Without the guiding intent of a spellform, the energy splintered the attacker's body into a thousand visceral fragments, slamming into the back wall of the bedroom. The wall imprinted with an effigy to the fragility of flesh when met by unrelenting force.

In that heartbeat of distraction, the hidden sniper outside found her mark. A lance of searing light pierced the tumult; for a moment, a near-white line of light was drawn through the air, bisecting the entire house, straight through Lucian’s heart. As he fell, his form contorted not in agony but in defiance, spiraling through the air with the grace of a falling star. He expended his dying breath on a single, tight, valedictory spell that tore instantly back along the path the shot had taken. Before the sniper even registered that her shot had found its mark, Lucian’s spell found his. It cleaved through the eyepiece, into her head, then grounded along her spine. Gore painted the trunks of the nearby trees, the sniper nest blown apart in the blast.

"Luci—!" Elara's scream was cut short as Lucian crumpled to the ground, the life seeping from his body. Elara's cries echoed through the Fairwood House, her pain palpable. Now blinded by tears and nearly paralyzed with grief, Elara found herself facing the last two attackers. She stood, a figure carved from sorrow, tears streaming unchecked as she beheld her fallen champion. But grief could not quench the fire that Lucian had kindled within her. She would not see their son, Alden, orphaned by cowardice and malice. With trembling hands, she grasped the crystalline echo resting upon the dresser—a relic of communication now repurposed as a conduit for her fervor. Its liquid core pulsed in rhythm with her racing heart, amplifying her intent. She wielded it as both shield and spear against the encroaching assassins, her spells more instinct than artifice, raw and untamed. The larger of the two remaining assailants closed in, his silence a mockery of the cacophony around them. the flat of his blade, cold and indifferent, found its way to Elara's temple. The world reeled the edges of her consciousness fraying as she staggered, nearly succumbing to oblivion's embrace. Yet within that liminal space between wakefulness and eternal slumber, Elara's spirit blazed defiantly. With a whispered incantation, born of desperation and motherly love, her magic lashed out. It unraveled the fabric of her attacker's being, peeling away skin, muscle, and bone with the inexorable certainty of time-eroding stone. The attacker did not flinch, did not falter, as his limb disintegrated before him—his eyes devoid of pain, reflecting only the void from whence they'd come.

Alden stifled a scream, seeing his mother drop to the floor next to the confines of his hiding place. The vision in the narrow space between the ground and the running board consuming Alden, becoming his world. Heavy steps approached and a shadow loomed, blocking out the scant light that filtered through the gaps. A cold hand, clutching with inhuman strength, reached down into Alden's world, seizing Elara by her neck and lifting her as if she were no more than a rag doll.

"Where is the child?" the voice hissed, not to Elara but to its accomplice—a wounded specter looming at the bed's edge, trailing threads of gore, eerie in its lack of pain.

Elara's body was thrown onto the mattress, the impact sending tremors through Alden's sanctuary. He could feel her presence just inches above him, the warmth of her blood seeping through the fabric, a cruel reminder of their shared peril.

"Shh, Alden," came the wisp of comfort from Lysandra, her voice tinged with sorrow. "You are not alone."

"Steady, boy." Vaelus's words growled with suppressed rage. But their encouragements were muffled whimpers against the drumming of Alden's own heartbeat in his ears.

The room filled with Elara's screams—anguished, piercing—as they began their ruthless interrogation. Alden's eyes, wide with horror, searched the dark corners of his haven for some respite, some flicker of hope.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

It was then that Lysandra made her choice. As Alden quivered beneath the bed, Lysandra's misty form weaved itself into solidity, chromatic lights spiraling inward to forge steel. She became the embodiment of protection—a sword of ethereal beauty, yet deadly purpose.

"Forgive me, Alden," she whispered, her voice fading with her transformation. "This is the only way."

The icy realization of her sacrifice sliced through Alden's fear, leaving a hollow void where panic once thrived. Alden felt her go, her voice stilled forever, a void in his mind. Grasping the pommel of the sword that was now Lysandra, Alden felt a surge of knowledge flood his senses. Sword techniques, long since practiced by ancient warriors, unfolded in his mind's eye, guiding him in an intricate dance of steel and survival.

Alden stilled his breath, his small hands gripping the hilt of the sword as he prepared to defend his mother. Sweat bead on his forehead as he rolled to one side under the bed, his trembling hand gripping the pommel of the sword Lysandra had become. The screams of his mother were a constant torment in his ears, and with each gut-wrenching cry, Alden's heart pounded harder in his chest. His mind raced, he could see nothing but the man's boots, yet he knew exactly where to strike. Bracing himself against the floor, he thrust the blade upward with all his might. It sliced through the mattress, piercing Elara's chest, a bloom of crimson spreading like wildfire across the white linens. The attacker, intent on his cruel interrogation, stiffened as the sword continued its merciless journey through his throat and into the skull, anchoring him in a grim tableau atop Elara.

Silence—a dreadful, throbbing silence—clawed at Alden's ears and froze his breath in his chest, broken only by the faint patter of blood dripping from the mattress onto his small hands. His eyes went wide with horror as he realized what he had done. The world narrowed to the blood that seeped through the fabric of the mattress, running down the hilt of the sword and over Alden's small trembling fingers, sticky and warm. The metallic tang of his mother's lifeblood filled his nostrils. In that moment, he knew deep in his soul that he had just killed her.

Before Alden could process the enormity of his actions, the room lurched violently. The last remaining assassin had leapt forward, crashing into the bed with enough force to flip it over. Alden maintained his grip on the sword, but its refusal to come free from the bed caused him to be lifted off the floor and flung across the room. Pain exploded through his body as he collided with the wall and crumpled to the floor.

The world swam around him, a cacophony of terror and despair threatening to drown him. He staggered to stand; barley able to see the assailant advancing on him, his vision blurring from the tears that threatened to spill forth. A flicker of movement from the left was all the warning Alden had, but the new knowledge flowing into him from where he maintained his grip on the sword made him move, redirecting the strike.

The air was thick with Vaelus' rage and despair; a mournful roar filled Alden’s mind, echoing the endless chasm where Lysandra once resided. Vaelus felt the separation from Lysandra as though it were a physical blow, their eternal bond severed in an instant. He tore at the fabric of reality itself, wrapping Alden in swirling shadows as he searched for a way to protect the child. But his ability to directly influence the material world was limited, and as Alden desperately parried against the attacker's onslaught, Vaelus sought within his vast mind for a means to save them both. Desperate, he tore the source of his being from himself, his power and knowledge binding itself to Alden's life and soul. With nothing left to support his existence, Vaelus dissipated into smoke, fading from existence like a phantom memory.

Alden felt as though he were a mere passenger in his own body, as something new kindle within him. It was not courage—far from it—but a primal fury, raw and untamed. His green eyes burned bright as Vaelus’ power swelled within him, a tempest of shadows coiled around his slender form, burning through his veins, until it reached his hands, holding what remained of Lysandra. The assassin went from annoyed and confused by the brat’s ability to parry his attacks, to triumphant as the boy went limp for a moment, to angered as Alden went ram rod straight and pointed the tip of his sword. The assassin lunged in, wrapping a spellform of poisonous intent about his blade, even a slight scratch would fell a giant now.

"Enough," Alden spat; his voice echoed with an intensity that startled even him. The command carried such weight it stopped the attack. The assassin’s eyes went wide, Alden’s eyes were the darkness of intersteller space, seeming to suck the wanning light from the room, even as points of light spread across his skin, shining like the hearts of stars. This was so far outside the scope of the mission, and with the rest of the team dead, the assassin dropped his weapon, turning in fluid motion, and wrapped the concept of speed itself around him, planning to be half way out of the forest before whatever this monster was knew he was gone. He made it to the doorframe of the bedroom before cold steel slide past all his wards, through his concealed armor as though it was paper, severing ribs from his spine, through his heart. He had a moment to look down at the tip protruding from his chest before a hand, too strong to be the child’s, crushed his neck from behind. As reality faded to black, the words he heard uttered made him fear for the first time in his unlife.

“Exist not, but struggle.” Alden felt more than heard himself speak the words, watching as he released the body that was crumbling to dust. He wanted to turn away, to check on his mom, maybe something could be done, maybe … pain burned into his right arm. He dropped the sword that vanished as he released it, clutching his arm to his gut. The intensity flared higher and higher, his scream going silent as his throat tore, the pain moving through him, consuming him. In that instant, the world turned to chaos. A searing blast erupted from his body, consuming the Fairwood house in a maelstrom of destruction. Trees at the edge of the clearing vaporized. The pond boiled away in an instant. For nearly a mile in all directions, trees toppled from the sheer force of the unleashed energy. It seemed to last forever, before suddenly vanishing, Alden going slack on the ground. From shadow-drenched corners of his fading consciousness he was aware of the sky, the dirt he lay on, and a breeze.

***

The Veilwood Shroud lay beneath the investigators from Marlugrathara, an undulating sea of darkness pierced by the powerful beams of their small flying emergency vehicles. They skimmed above the treetops, searching for any sign of the explosion that had shaken the very air and sent shockwaves rippling through the forest.

"Watch your six, Liora," cautioned Thane Darrow, hunched over the controls of his vehicle, his eyes darting back and forth between the treacherous canopy and the dimly lit sky above. "We've got a lot of blind spots in this blasted fog, and one wrong move could send us plummeting to the forest floor."

"Understood, Thane." Liora replied, her voice tight with concentration as she expertly navigated the treacherous terrain. She shuddered at the thought of becoming entangled in the gnarled branches below, her body crushed by the weight of her own vehicle.

As they continued their search, Thane couldn't shake the growing unease that coiled within him like a serpent. Something was amiss. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the silence broken only by the hum of their engines and the muted whispers of their conversation.

"Thane, over there!" Liora's urgent cry ripped through the tension. She pointed to a clearing up ahead, where a massive site of devastation lay sprawled across the ground like an open wound. Trees were vaporized, the pond boiled away, and toppled trees stretched for nearly a mile in all directions. At the heart of it all, a young boy lay unconscious amidst the ruins of what had once been his home.

"By the gods," Thane breathed, awe and horror warring within him as he stared down at the destruction. He maneuvered his vehicle closer to the ground, the urgency of the situation lending him a newfound determination. "We need to get that boy out of here. Now."

As they landed, Thane and Liora approached Alden with caution, taking in the strange tattoo of twisting white and black lines that covered his right arm. The sword that had accompanied him in his desperate struggle had vanished, leaving behind only an eerie feeling of power and loss.

"His parents..." Liora murmured, her voice quivering as she glanced around the barren landscape. "There's no trace of them. What could have caused this?"

"Lucian Fairwood was known to be a powerful wizard," Thane replied, his mind racing as he considered the possibilities. "Perhaps some accident occurred with his magic. We can't say for sure."

"Let's focus on getting the boy to safety first," Liora said, her eyes fixed on Alden's unconscious form. With gentle care, they lifted him onto one of their vehicles, securing him before taking to the skies once more.

As they sped toward Marlugrathara, Alden remained unconscious, his body battered and bruised, but alive. He was oblivious to the questions that swirled around him, the people who would soon seek answers from him, and the weight of the events that had transpired.