Chapter 2: The Bloody Dawn
The Next Morning
The next morning, Alethion arrived at his home, but something felt off… something out of place. It wasn't just the exhaustion of the long journey or the sorrow that had weighed on him since last night. No, it was something deeper—an unspoken warning that things were not as he had left them.
As he stopped in front of his house, he leaped off his strong black horse, then ran his hand along its neck, murmuring softly:
"Thank you, Stormyth."
The horse lowered its head slightly before raising it again, as if responding, "You're welcome." It was a smart horse—one that always seemed to understand its rider's emotions better than any other creature.
But now was not the time to dwell on that. Alethion felt his heartbeat quicken as he approached the door. His steps were heavy, his hand stretched toward the handle… then he pushed the door open.
And at that moment, he froze.
Inside, his wife, Miralen, stood in the middle of the room, her body trembling, her face drenched in tears that fell in torrents, as though her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces. She sobbed—a muffled, broken sound—the cry of a woman who had lost something irreplaceable.
But what caught his attention even more than her tears… was the pink ribbon she clutched between her trembling fingers.
A pink hair ribbon… stained with small spots of blood.
Alethion looked at the ribbon, then at his wife, then back at the ribbon. His blood ran cold. The world around him seemed to shrink, twisting into a dark vortex.
Then he whispered, barely able to form the words:
"Miralen… what happened?"
At that moment, Alethion heard the guards' frantic shouts rising from outside his home.
"Catch them! Don't let them escape!"
His heart stopped for a beat. He didn't fully understand what was happening, but he could feel it—something terrible, something worse than the curse itself.
He turned to rush into the courtyard, but before he could step over the threshold, he saw his head servant standing there, surrounded by several guards. The old man's face was pale, his eyes brimming with silent tears. Never before had the elderly man wept in front of him, but now, his gaze was filled with sorrow and grief.
"My lord…" his voice was shaky, pleading, as if he knew words wouldn't change anything, yet he spoke them anyway:
"Steel yourself… please…"
Alethion didn't respond. He didn't even ask why. Deep down, he already knew that words would not undo what had happened. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped outside.
And there… he saw the horrifying sight that shattered his soul.
His little daughter… and her caretaker…
Slaughtered.
Lying lifeless on the bloodstained ground, their bodies still, their hands clasped together—as if they had been reaching for each other in their final moments.
Alethion couldn't stand. His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the ground. His hands reached instinctively toward his daughter's body but stopped just before touching her, as if one touch would make this tragedy all too real.
The pink ribbon… was still tied in her hair. The same ribbon Miralen had been holding just moments ago.
Everything froze. The sounds around him faded into distant murmurs. There was nothing but the sight of his daughter, the tears that had yet to fall, and the whisper of the old man echoing in his mind, repeating endlessly:
"Starting tomorrow night… everything will begin."
The guards dragged three bound men forward, shoving them roughly to their knees before Alytheon. One of them was a half-human, his face smeared with blood, his eyes lost between terror and resignation. The other two were humans, their clothes tattered, but they avoided looking directly into his eyes.
From the window, Meralin watched, her hands still trembling, her tears not yet dry. Behind Alytheon, his head servant stood grim-faced, while the guards surrounded the area, silent, waiting for their master's command.
Alytheon took a step forward, his breath heavy, his face hardened with fury. Yet, despite his rigid expression, a single tear rolled down his cheek, pausing briefly before falling to the ground.
Then, in a low voice charged with rage, he asked:
"Who? And why?"
There was no need for further explanation. No need for raised voices or additional words. The question alone was enough to fill the air with dread.
Who had ordered this? And why was his daughter killed?
The three men did not answer immediately. The half-human trembled, while one of the humans bit his lip as if trying to hold back his words. The third simply stared at the ground, as if wishing it would swallow him whole.
Silence was an answer in itself... but it was not enough for Alytheon.
In a flash, Alytheon's sword gleamed under the sunlight and swung with deadly precision. One clean strike. One severed head. The lifeless body lingered for a moment before collapsing.
Alytheon did not blink. He did not hesitate. In a voice slow and heavy as stone, he declared:
"I will not ask again."
Terror spread like wildfire through the remaining two. The second human shook, sweat pouring down his face, then suddenly blurted out:
"Please! We didn't do anything, we were just—"
He never finished.
Alytheon already knew what he would say. He had heard these defenses countless times in war. He could sense the lie before it even left his lips.
The sword moved again.
Another head hit the ground.
Now, only the half-human remained. His entire body trembled violently, his eyes wide with absolute horror. Then, in a moment of complete despair, urine soaked his trousers. Yet, he didn't care about the humiliation. All he wanted was to live.
Words tumbled from his lips in frantic desperation:
"It's... it's the king's advisor! He ordered us! We were just... just beggars in the street, and he came to us... offered us this job... I swear! We didn't know!"
He spoke quickly, breathless, as if hoping his words could buy his life. But Alytheon showed no mercy.
His eyes were dark. Pitiless. Unwavering.
The sword moved for the third time.
And with it, the last head fell.
Now, three lifeless bodies lay before him, blood soaking the ground, filling the air with the scent of iron and death.
Alytheon said nothing. His expression did not change.
But inside, he knew—this was not the end of the story.
It was only the beginning.
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A hundred years later:
Alytheon sat at the edge of a spring, his body perfectly still, his mind drowning in an endless storm of thoughts.
The place was lifeless... gray... as if it had lost its soul.
The air was stagnant, and the sky, though clear, felt empty. He was deep in the heart of Sylvandor, the land of the fae, where no human was allowed entry without the elves' permission. Here, within the ancient forests, towering trees stretched high, their leaves swaying gently in the wind, whispering secrets not meant for human ears.
But Alytheon was not looking at the trees. Nor at the crystal-clear water that reflected his weary face.
He was watching a little girl... a human girl... playing before him.
She ran through the grass, laughing, leaping, as if nothing in the world could ever sadden her.
A heavy tear slipped from his eye, falling onto his black armor, leaving a faint mark against the darkness.
He took a deep breath, then whispered, as if speaking only to himself:
"If she were alive... I would be the happiest man in the world."
He fell silent for a moment, then clenched his fist, as if rage had once again set fire to his shattered heart.
"But those traitors... they did this to her... why? Why?"
He did not expect an answer.
And he did not need one.
Because no answer—no matter what it was—would bring her back.