The smell of the Southern Village hit my face like a punch from a dirty fist. A sour vapor of dead animals, human shit, and piled-up sweat that stuck to my tunic like sticky slime. I looked down at the market that wasn't even a real market: just a bunch of rotten wood, crooked stalls leaning against the damp wind, and people crawling through the mud to avoid starving to death. Women with sunken eyes carrying buckets of murky water, scrawny kids running between puddles, bent-over men mending torn nets. Wrong notes echoing in everything—the forced laughter, the muffled crying, the creaking of old doors. The whole place was out of tune, like a broken symphony that no one fixed, pulsing with a wrong energy that made my skin crawl.

  — Purify them — I said. Short. No drama. No time for that.

  The massacre started with the dry snap of bowstrings, echoing like whips in the still air. Black arrows, silent as deadly whispers, slicing through the humid air with a low hum. The first volley hit the guards at the southern post: a tall man with a scraggly beard dropped to his knees, arrow lodged in his neck, gurgling dark blood that mixed with the mud. Another caught a woman stepping out of a hut, piercing her chest with a wet thud—she fell face-first into the dirt, arms outstretched as if still reaching for something. I saw the man—the target, Vitor—breaking dry, hardened bread for a skinny boy with big eyes, one second before hell rained down. He was fast. Too fast for an ordinary human. His reflexes flashed like a warning: he shoved the kid into the trapdoor in the cabin's floor, kicking old tangled nets over it to hide, the boy vanishing into the dark hole with a muffled scream. Vitor was already turning, eyes gleaming with something wrong, primal, as arrows flew toward him.

  — Kill the host! — I shouted, my voice echoing over the growing chaos, and Aethel-Vin leaped into my hand, glowing with that cold, pulsing blue that always calmed me, like the light from the Silver City's towers. But today the light trembled, dancing unstable on the blade, as if it knew what was coming and hesitated.

  I ran down the slope, feet sinking into the soft, slippery mud, the stench of rot rising with every step. My scouts advanced like silver shadows, bows drawn tight, arrows flying in perfect arcs, embedding into huts and bodies with dull thunks. One hit Vitor in the arm—the arrow tore through flesh with a rip, blood spraying—but he didn't stop. He yanked it out with a grunt, tossing it aside like a splinter. The harmony broke before we got close to him, the air vibrating with a dissonance that made my ears ache.

  Vitor didn't scream. He let out a guttural, hoarse sound like a dying animal, one that didn't belong in nature—a low roar that echoed in the guts. Tendrils of darkness sprouted from him like living whips of viscous pitch, swirling in the air with a wet, sticky hiss, leaving trails of black mist that smelled like decay. The first tendril caught Elara by the leg, coiling like a starving snake. My best weaver, the one who shaped light like fine silk, was lifted into the air with a cut-off scream. In a blink, her skin withered, wrinkling like dry paper, eyes sinking into dark sockets, body turning into a desiccated husk of bones, black veins bulging before drying up. Drained to nothing, as if her life had been sucked into an endless black hole. The body dropped into the mud with a wet thud, lifeless, gray dust scattering in the wind.

  — ELARA! — Iver's scream tore through the air, raw and wild desperation, echoing off the empty huts as he charged forward, sword in hand, tears already blurring his face.

  — Keep your distance! — I ordered, my voice shaking for the first time in centuries, heart pounding in my chest like a mismatched drum. But it was too late. The tendrils multiplied, lashing like blind, hungry serpents, cracking in the humid air. One hit two scouts at once: they fell to their knees, screaming high-pitched as their flesh melted into smoking gray ashes, exposed bones gleaming for a second under the dim light before turning to fine dust that mixed with the mud. The air stank of burned and rotten mixed together, nausea rising in my throat. Another scout tried to slash a tendril with his sword—the blade cut through, but the darkness reformed, wrapping around his arm, sucking the life in seconds: skin shrinking, muscles withering, a final groan before collapsing limp.

  Vitor fought like a cornered beast, no refined technique, just pure, instinctive hunger. He didn't stop, didn't blink, leaping between huts with agility that defied his human form. Every strike from him was a drain that ate our light, sucking essence like a vortex. I saw ten of mine fall in seconds: a young elf grabbed by the chest, body convulsing as he aged decades in an instant, turning into a wrinkled mummy with one last raspy breath; another, an experienced warrior, tried a light spell, but the tendril enveloped her, snuffing the glow and leaving only ashes falling like dirty snow. Bodies tumbled into the mud with wet splashes, the swamp swallowing the remains. I advanced, Aethel-Vin tracing perfect, luminous arcs in the air, slicing the green mist leaking from him like infected pus. I hit his left shoulder—the blade burned the flesh with a loud sizzle, black smoke rising acrid, the smell of rotten barbecue filling the air. But he didn't even groan. He just laughed low, a gurgling wet sound, turning to me with eyes shining dark green.

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  He grabbed my sword's blade with his bare hand, fingers closing like iron claws. The sound of flesh frying filled my ears, bubbles popping on his skin, but he didn't let go. He yanked me close, brute force dragging me through the slippery mud, feet skidding. His breath was disgusting: fresh and clotted blood, damp earth, and something metallic, like rusted old coins. His yellowed teeth bared, black veins pulsing in his swollen neck.

  — You shouldn't have come down here, elf — he hissed, spit dripping, voice rough like gravel scraping.

  His hand clamped around my neck, fingers like ice claws piercing the skin. The cold hit instantly, spreading through my body like icy poison. I felt my vitality draining into him, like he was drinking my essence straight from my veins, strength fading from my legs, vision blurring at the edges with black spots. My heart hammered slow, weakening, lungs burning for air. I tried kicking his knee, punching his face with my free fist, but it was like hitting a wall of living rubber—he absorbed it all, laughing as my energy fed him, his skin regenerating over the slashed shoulder.

  — GET OFF ME! — I channeled the Solar Essence straight into his chest, light exploding from my palms like a miniature sun, white and blinding, scorching the air around us.

  The blast threw me back, hot and scalding air burning my exposed skin, the impact echoing like thunder. I slammed my back into a rotten beam of the hut, wood cracking and splintering, falling into shallow water with a cold splash. I coughed, spitting dirty water mixed with ashes and blood, armor scratched and dented, caked in sticky mud and bits of dried flesh. I looked around: my soldiers were just empty husks in the mud, vacant eyes staring at the cloudy sky, bodies twisted in grotesque poses. Only Iver and I were left, him limping over, sword in a trembling hand, face pale and streaked with blood.

  Vitor was sprawled in the rubble of the destroyed cabin, chest torn open by arrows embedded deep, white fire devouring his flesh slowly, hissing like oil on flames, bubbles bursting on charred skin. He still tried to crawl toward the trapdoor, trembling hand outstretched, broken nails scratching the splintered wood, leaving bloody trails.

  I walked to him, legs heavy as lead, hand shaking on the sword's grip. It wasn't fear. It was disgust rising from my stomach, mixed with pity I didn't want to feel, bile in my throat.

  — Why do this? — I asked, voice failing, hoarse from smoke and exhaustion. — Why let this void live?

  He looked at me, the monstrous glow fading from his bloodshot eyes. All that was left was a dying father, pale and sweaty face, blood trickling from his mouth in thick streams. — He's my son — he gave a bloody grin, coughing red bubbles that burst on his chest. — And you're just... pretty killers.

  That cut deeper than the drain, a stab to the soul. I thrust Aethel-Vin through his chest. One strike, the blade sinking smoothly through ribs, emerging on the other side with a wet, final sound. His body convulsed once, then stilled, eyes glassy on the sky. The silence that followed was unbearable, just the crackle of fire consuming the remains and the wind whistling through the swamp.

  I stood over the trapdoor, old wood creaking under my weight. I could hear it: a heart beating down there, fast and irregular, terrified, echoing like a small drum. I felt the void pulsing in that child, like a wrong beat in the world's symphony, subtly sucking the energy around it. It was my duty to pry open that wood and finish it, plunge the sword into the dark and silence it forever. The Council would never forgive me if I let that seed grow, spread.

  But I looked at Vitor, his smoking, inert body. I looked at my dead brothers, scattered like trash in the mud, faces I'd known for centuries now empty. If I killed that boy now, I wouldn't be a guardian of the Order. I'd just be an executioner sweeping dirt under the rug, no honor left.

  — Sir? — Iver appeared, limping slowly, face swollen from crying, tears mixed with dried blood, voice broken. — The fire didn't reach the basement. There's something down there, pulsing... I can feel it.

  I looked at the trapdoor one last time, the weight of the decision crushing my chest. I swallowed the bitter taste of the lie, sliding down like slow poison in my throat.

  — There's nothing, Iver — I said, voice cold and controlled, burying the truth deep in my mind like a grave. — The solar fire took care of everything. Let's go. We've lost too many today.

  I turned my back on the Southern Village, feet heavy in the mud that sucked at my boots. I'd saved the Order, at least on paper, but I knew, deep in my out-of-tune soul, that lie was going to cost the whole world.