FORGOTTEN SPELLS

The Jarin family home stood in a quieter corner of Eldhaven, nestled among other modest dwellings, all now bearing the scars of a night gone horribly wrong. Flames roared from neighbouring buildings, their orange tongues licking greedily at the night sky. Smoke thickened the air, and a haunting light painted the cobblestone streets with an eerie glow.

Jarin's body was a testament to his struggles—gashes ran down his arms, a deep cut marred his shoulder, and pain throbbed through his side where one of the creatures had dealt a crushing blow. Each wound was a grim reminder of the horrors that had befallen his once-peaceful town.

He limped through Eldhaven, now a nightmarish hellscape of chaos and ruin. The acrid smell of burning timber clung to everything, seeping into his lungs with every shallow breath. In the distance, cries of fear and despair echoed through the streets, but beneath the human voices lay something far more sinister—a chorus of shrieks and wails, high-pitched and unnatural. These sounds clawed at his soul, a twisted melody played by creatures that shouldn't exist in this world. The cries were not only terrifying but mocking, a cruel taunt to the helpless survivors who clung desperately to life.

As Jarin neared his home, his heart seized. The roof was aflame, the thatch catching fire in fiery bursts. He broke into a run, his pulse hammering in his ears as he threw himself at the door, crashing through it. A wall of heat hit him, nearly knocking him back, but there was no time to hesitate.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Jarin fought his way upward through the smoke, his lungs burning, each breath a battle against suffocation. He could barely see, but he knew the house like the back of his hand. When he reached his mother's room, the door hung ajar, and inside, she lay on the floor, coughing weakly, her hand outstretched as if grasping for something beyond her reach.

"Mother!" Jarin's voice broke as he rushed to her side. She was light—too light—as he scooped her into his arms, her frail body a shadow of the woman she once was. The flames closed in, roaring like a beast hungry for their lives, but adrenaline surged through him, dulling the pain and giving him strength he didn't know he had.

He stumbled back down the stairs, every step a battle against the encroaching fire that consumed everything in its path. The smoke was thick, choking, suffocating, but he pushed through, his mother's soft breaths the only thing that kept him going.

At last, they broke free into the cool night air. It hit him like a slap to the face, the shock of it a sharp contrast to the inferno they had just escaped. He staggered forward, coughing and gasping for air, but he didn't stop. His mother's breaths were shallow, her face pale, and the terrifying thought that she might slip away at any moment pressed in on him from all sides.

But as he took another step, movement caught his eye at the edge of the clearing. The creatures—those dark, grotesque figures that had haunted him through the streets—were retreating, disappearing into the night like shadows. He stared after them, unable to comprehend their sudden withdrawal. Why now? What had changed? But there was no time for questions. His mother needed help.

Jarin's legs trembled with every step as he forced himself towards the town square, his body screaming for rest. Pain throbbed through him—each movement an agony of exhaustion and injury. Yet he pressed on, driven by sheer will and the thought of his mother's life slipping away. His eyes scanned the chaos around him, taking in the devastation of Eldhaven as he approached the town square.

When he finally arrived, the scene before him was a macabre tapestry of despair. People knelt by the lifeless bodies of loved ones, their wails of grief blending with the crackling of fire and the groaning collapse of burning buildings. Others fought to save what little remained, desperately dousing the flames that threatened their homes and shops, sweat and soot streaking their faces. The acrid stench of smoke clung to everything, thickening the air and making it hard to breathe.

Jarin's mind reeled, struggling to process it all—the destruction, the death, the sheer horror of it. But he couldn't afford to think about any of it now. His mother. She was all that mattered. He clutched her fragile body closer, praying that she would hold on just a little longer.

One of the town's physicians, Calen, moved from one person to the next as he desperately tried to help the wounded.His once-dark tunic was now streaked with soot and grime, torn at the sleeves and singed near the hem, but he didn't pause to notice. Blood, both his own and from the injured he tended, stained his clothes, darkening the fabric to the point where it was nearly indistinguishable from the ash that hung thick in the air.

 Jarin's legs nearly gave out beneath him as he staggered forward, spotting Calen in the crowd. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, the world spun around him. But he couldn't stop—not yet.

With a final burst of energy, Jarin pushed through the crowd, collapsing to his knees beside Calen, still cradling his mother in his arms. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp as he tried to speak. "Calen...please...help her."

Calen turned sharply at the sound of Jarin's voice, his face a mixture of shock and grim determination. He knelt down, immediately reaching for Jarin's mother, his hands already stained with the blood of others he had treated. "Jarin, by the gods…" His voice was tight, but his hands were steady as he examined her.

"She's breathing," Calen muttered after a tense moment, though his brow furrowed in concern. "But barely." He glanced up at Jarin, seeing the exhaustion and desperation in his eyes. "We need to act quickly."

A familiar voice called out from the crowd. "Jarin!" It was Orwin, a childhood friend who had stayed in Eldhaven.

 His hair, matted with sweat and clinging to his scalp, was streaked with dirt, and small flecks of ash still floated in the air around him. Dark smudges covered his cheeks and forehead. His grey shirt was now torn and blackened with soot, jagged rips across his sleeves and torso from when he had scrambled through debris to help the injured.

 Orwin hurried over to help, his face drawn and streaked with ash, his eyes wide with worry. "Let me help carry her," he offered, his voice steady despite the chaos.

Together, Orwin and Calen carefully lifted Jarin's mother onto a makeshift cot nearby, hastily prepared in the town square. Jarin knelt by her side, too weak to stand, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Calen work. The world around him seemed to blur into a distant hum—the crackling fires, the cries of the wounded, all of it faded as his gaze remained fixed on his mother's pale face.

"She'll be in good hands, Jarin," Orwin said gently, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "But you need to rest. You're no good to her like this."

Jarin shook his head weakly. "No… I need to find Lena."

Orwin frowned, his brow furrowing with concern. "Jarin, you're barely standing. Let me—"

But Jarin wasn't listening anymore. His mind was already racing, his thoughts consumed by Lena

Forcing himself to his feet, Jarin swayed for a moment, his vision swimming. His body screamed for rest, but his heart wouldn't let him stop—not until he found her.

"I have to find Lena," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else. He stumbled forward, his legs shaky but determined.

Orwin tried to reach for him, but Jarin was already moving into the crowd making his way to the Red Harp. His mind focused on only one thing: Lena. He had to find her. He couldn't lose her, not now—not when everything else was falling apart around him. 

When he reached the tavern, dread settled in his chest. His heart dropped at the sight before him. Lena knelt on the ground, her hands trembling as they cradled the still, lifeless form of her father. Herlod was dead.

Jarin swallowed hard, his throat tight with sorrow. He approached slowly, his hands shaking as he knelt beside her. "Lena..." His voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion.

She didn't respond at first, her eyes locked on her father's face as if she couldn't bear to look away. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving pale tracks through the soot that clung to her skin. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes were empty, hollowed out by grief.

"He's gone," she breathed, her voice fragile and broken. "He's really gone."

Jarin's heart clenched as he pulled her into his arms. She collapsed against him, her body trembling with sobs that shook her to her core. He held her close, whispering soft words of comfort that felt so meaningless in the face of such loss.

For a long while, they stayed like that—two broken souls bound by grief, by a loss so profound it seemed to consume everything around them. Not long ago, Lena had been the one comforting him, offering him strength when his world had fallen apart. Now it was his turn to be her anchor, to be the steady presence she needed as the world around them crumbled to ashes.