Haugstad, Kingdom of Divinium, Eastern region of Rohana Federation, 2046 S.C. 141st day
The night sky over Haugstad stretched clear and vast, stars glimmering beneath the barrier where crosses pulsed with the glow of the season. The village had settled into its evening quiet. Workers have returned from the fields, children were tucked into their beds, and only the usual sounds of insects and wildlife could barely be heard.
The entrance to the village was the only location that remained active, as two guards maintained watch, occasionally settling into light banter. The third guard was walking the usual route, checking the state along the village fence.
The two guards had settled onto weathered stumps beside the gate, sharing a flask of mead to ward off the night's chill. Their eyes regularly scanned the perimeter, but occasionally drifted upward to the sky.
"Look there," one guard said suddenly, pointing to a streak of light cutting across the sky. "A falling star?"
The other guard straightened, his hand instinctively moving to his weapon. "That's beneath the barrier," he said, voice tight with concern. "Stars don't fall under the crosses."
But just as he finished his sentence, a few more lights flew across the sky.
"Those are not stars!" his companion replied, setting aside the flask. "You're right, something's not—" but as he was in the middle of the sentence, there was a whoosh sound, and he fell from his stump.
"What the..." panicky said the other guard while looking around, trying to see what was happening as his comrade was already lying in a puddle of blood.
But before he could adequately react and blow the horn to issue a warning sound, the second whoosh was heard, and he, too, joined his comrade. Arrows had fatally pierced both. Someone with high marksmanship skills was skilled enough to hit them from a distance in the dark.
In the sky, more lights were flying, but those lights were not stars. Instead, they were arrows set on fire and shot into the village homes. They were not precise, but that was probably not the intention of the culprits. Flames bloomed in the darkness, spreading with unnatural speed across the dry wooden structures. Villagers probably wouldn't realize what was happening before they were trapped in their burning houses.
Whether by luck or the Creators' mercy, someone had spotted the flames. Doors burst open as people stumbled into the streets, some half-dressed, others clutching children or precious possessions. The lamps in the cottages further away were being lit as people were woken by the sound.
Those closest to the gate were unfortunate, as once they opened their doors, their escape meant death. A young mother emerged from her home, child clutched to her skirt, one hand still on the door handle as she tried to gauge which way to run. The arrow took her with such force that her body fell back against the door, leaving a crimson trail as she slid to the ground. Her child's scream died in their throat as a figure appeared from the darkness. The figure seemed to absorb what little light remained—a black leather jacket and jeans. Where a face should have been, there was only darkness behind a thin black veil. Without a word, without even a sound of footsteps, the figure reached for the child and took him back into the darkness.
In part of the village, where the flames had not yet reached, a resistance was forming. Farmers gripped their scythes and pitchforks, while hunters shouldered their swords and bows. The few adventurers who had been staying in Haugstad moved to the front, their practiced hands already on their weapons.
"In the Creators' name, leave this place!" a farmer shouted, his pitchfork raised high. Others took up the cry, their combined voices carrying more courage than they felt.
Slash, slash, slash. A last sound they would ever hear. A figure emerged from the smoke—another of the faceless ones, but this warrior moved like death itself. The sword in their hand caught the firelight strangely; its thin blade seemed to drink in the glow rather than reflect it. The hilt pulsed with an unnatural red luminescence and a goat-head-shaped pommel. The man then proceeded to walk further, and behind him, white smoke was trailing on the ground. It covered all the corpses in a thin layer, but there was no fire. The smoke was coming from incense carried by a person whose face was also hidden by a black veil and in robes whose sleeves were covered in shining red runes.
"Huh, what's all the noise?" asked Heron, still half asleep. From a small window above him, an orange-red light was being cast onto the ceiling. He started to get up and put on his shoes. As he put them on, he began to hear shrieks and screams growing louder and louder.
He crept through the house looking for his parents, but there was no one around. When he came to the front door, he eased it open just enough to peer through. Their house was a little further away from the village's center, so the flames hadn't yet reached their household. An enormous fire spread across the village gates and its fence. Perhaps he panicked so much at that moment that he became delusional. Still, he thought he saw a demon-like face within those flames, with eyes that glowed red, and a body that radiated a mix of orange, red, gray, and black hues, appearing as if it were heading to devour the nearby houses.
Heron slammed the door shut and crouched in the nearest corner.
Heron retreated from the door, pressing himself into the darkest corner he could find. "This isn't real," he whispered, rocking back and forth, trying to make himself smaller.
He was alone and defenseless, and there was a massive demon creature down the road.
This isn't real. Come on, Heron, wake up! He pinched himself, but to no avail. He wasn't even sure that he actually felt any pain.
Heavy footsteps approached the door, making the boards creak. Heron's breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering hard. The door burst open, and a dark figure filled the frame—
"Heron!"