Ashes of the Innocent

The wind carried the scent of burning wood and something far more bitter—ashes of the innocent. A grey haze hovered over the ruined village of Elmsreach, where homes once stood proudly, gardens bloomed with lavender, and children’s laughter echoed through cobbled streets. Now, silence ruled. A heavy, accusatory silence that weighed on the shoulders of the lone survivor.

Liora knelt beside the smoldering remains of her childhood home, her fingers trembling as they brushed ash-covered soil. Her soot-streaked face was unreadable, carved from stone by shock and grief. In her hands, she held a small wooden doll—burnt around the edges, but still recognizable. It had belonged to her sister, Emryn.

The night before had been quiet—too quiet. She remembered how the birds had stopped singing at dusk. The usual breeze that stirred the wheat fields had gone still. Even the dogs, usually barking into the night, had cowered in silence. Something had come to Elmsreach, not just to destroy but to erase.

The invaders rode under banners that shimmered unnaturally, their armor reflecting no light. No one knew their origin, only that their wrath was merciless. They struck with fire that consumed stone as easily as straw. Their eyes glowed silver, inhuman and unblinking, as they swept through the village like a plague.

Liora had been spared by accident, hidden beneath floorboards in the old cellar while her family urged her to stay silent. She had listened to the screams. To the roar of unnatural flame. And finally, to silence.

Now, she stood.

The horizon was shrouded in smoke, but she could make out the edges of the Blackridge Mountains. The elders spoke of an ancient fortress hidden within—Vael'mur, a forgotten citadel where the Watchers once lived. The Watchers, guardians of balance and keepers of lost truths. Most believed them to be myth, bedtime tales meant to calm frightened children.

But Elmsreach was gone. Her family, gone. Liora had nothing left but stories and vengeance.

She wrapped herself in a charred cloak, the hem still smoldering slightly. Her boots crunched softly against scorched earth as she began walking, not looking back. The road ahead was uncertain, but grief had burned away her fear. She carried only two things: the doll, and her father’s dagger—a ceremonial blade never meant for war, now made sacred by loss.

Days passed in a blur of smoke and shadow. Liora’s journey was one of solitude, her nights haunted by visions of her village burning, her sister’s cries echoing through dreams. But with each step, her resolve deepened.

On the seventh night, under a blood-colored moon, she reached the base of Blackridge. An ancient path wound its way upward, hidden beneath moss and roots. Her fingers traced strange carvings etched into the rocks—symbols she recalled from her mother’s old tapestries. Glyphs of the Watchers.

Half-starved, exhausted, and nearly delirious, Liora climbed.

At the summit, the ruins of Vael’mur awaited. Once grand towers now lay broken, crumbled under centuries of abandonment. But one structure stood—intact and untouched by time. A circular chamber guarded by statues with hollow eyes and wings of stone.

She stepped inside.

A ring of crystal obelisks surrounded a dais in the center. As she entered, the air thickened, humming with unseen energy. Her presence had awakened something. Whispers filled the chamber—soft, echoing voices, layered upon one another. Not menacing, but sorrowful.

“Innocent blood cries out,” the whispers said in unison.

“I seek justice,” Liora answered, her voice barely more than a whisper.

A glow emerged from the center of the dais. The obelisks pulsed, and an image began to form—flames, silver-eyed soldiers, the village in ruin. But behind them… a darker presence. A robed figure, masked and silent, directing the slaughter from afar. The true architect of her pain.

“The Order of Ash,” the voices spoke. “Born of broken oaths. They seek to cleanse the world, starting with the pure.”

Liora stepped forward, her grip tightening on the dagger.

“I will stop them.”

A silence fell. Then, one final whisper: “Then rise, last child of Elmsreach. Let sorrow be your shield, and memory your blade.”

A beam of light enveloped her. Pain seared through her veins, but she did not cry out. Her blood had already burned in fire—this was nothing. When the light faded, she stood transformed. Her eyes glowed faintly gold, the mark of the Watchers etched into her skin.

She was no longer just a girl mourning her family. She was vengeance given form.

The world would soon tremble.

Somewhere, across the sea, a masked figure turned toward the mountains, frowning.

“She has awakened,” he muttered.

And in the winds above Elmsreach, the ashes stirred.

The innocent would not be forgotten.