The wind smelled of ash.
Malakar remembered that more clearly than anything else—not the screams, not the clash of steel, not even the blood soaking into the soil. It was the wind, hot and bitter, carrying the scent of burning resin from the great reed-houses of his tribe. The smoke rose in ragged spirals, twisting into the sky like the arms of a dying spirit, curling and thickening as though the heavens themselves had been wounded.
The smell clung to his clothes, to his hair, to the skin of his arms. It penetrated his memory so deeply that years later, even in the soft quiet of a safe night, a mere whiff would throw him back to the riverbank, with the world tearing itself apart around him.
He was eleven years old, standing ankle-deep in river mud while the sky burned the color of rust, his arms wrapped tightly around his sister. His small hands, already rough from helping mend nets and carry firewood, dug into the soft earth for something to anchor himself to, something solid in a world that had gone mad.
"Don't look," he whispered, though his own eyes refused to close. His third eye—still wide and unnervingly sensitive—flickered above his brows, a pale ember behind glass. It throbbed in response to the chaos, translating every minute pressure change in the air into a warning he could not ignore.
He felt it first—not through his ears or skin, but through the crushing pressure behind his brow. A tightening. A warning. His third eye, open wide akin to a window during the heat of summer, pulsed faintly beneath the skin like a buried ember.
Danger.
Tala's face was buried against his chest. She was shaking—not sobbing, not screaming. Just shaking, as if her body had not yet realized what was happening. Her small frame pressed into him, soft and trembling, and he could feel the rapid, erratic beat of her heart against his ribcage. Every beat echoed in his chest as if counting down toward some unavoidable doom.
"Malakar."
His mother's voice cut through the tension in the air. Calm, but too tight. The kind of calm adults used when they were afraid and didn't want children to know. Her voice, normally full of warmth and quiet strength, carried a sharpness that made Malakar's stomach clench. He could hear it quivering slightly, betraying the control she desperately tried to maintain.
He turned from the riverbank. Their village sat low in the valley, homes built of stone and treated wood, sails drying on racks like folded wings, shimmering faintly in the morning light. Beyond it, the hills rose in gentle tiers, dotted with crimson-leafed trees whose leaves shimmered like molten glass in the wind and the tall, spiraled stalks of glassgrass that chimed when the breeze passed through them. At least, that's how it looked every other morning.
Today, the hills were moving.
Not the land itself—but figures cresting the ridgeline, dozens of them, a plague starting its decimation. Their silhouettes swayed in formation, eerily precise against the backdrop of the crimson trees. The soft sound of the glassgrass was drowned out by the pounding of Malakar's heartbeat, each pulse echoing in his ears, amplifying the fear that coiled in his stomach like a serpent.
They wore armor lacquered in pale bone hues, etched with sigils that shimmered faintly under the moonlight even at a distance. The runes and markings pulsed as though alive, glowing faintly in rhythm with their Nouma-charged bodies, and Malakar felt the energy like a low hum vibrating in the air. Their banners caught the wind, unfurling the mark Malakar had seen only in whispered conversations and hurried silences.
The Deskun'Val.
His father stood at the center of the village path, jaw set, third eye fully open. Like Malakar's, his was unmistakable—an angular pupil set in a pale silver iris, glowing faintly as power surged through him. Around him, other adults gathered. Hunters. Sailors. Craftsmen. None wearing armor. They moved nervously, their eyes darting from the ridgeline to each other, silently counting and assessing, wondering who would be taken first.
"We did nothing," someone said. "We paid the levy."
"They don't come for reason," another replied. "Only to wave around their ego."
Malakar's sister, Tala, grabbed his wrist. She was a year younger, her grip stronger than it should've been. Her third eye was hidden beneath her bangs, but he felt it—fluttering wildly, like a trapped bird. Every flutter of her latent energy was a heartbeat of panic, amplifying his own.
"What are they going to do to us?" she whispered.
"No one's doing anything to anyone," his mother said sharply, kneeling before them. She placed her hands on their shoulders, eyes flicking constantly toward the hills. "Listen to me. Whatever happens, you stay together. Do not run unless I tell you to."
Malakar wanted to ask what she had meant, wanted to demand answers, but the words caught in his throat, blocked by the seriousness of her face. He had never seen an expression like this on her, and it only birthed anxiety deep from his entrails, a gnawing fear that twisted in his chest and spread down into his legs, making it difficult to move.
The horns sounded moments later—low, resonant blasts that pressed against his skull. The sound was not merely auditory; it vibrated through the earth and through his third eye, pressing against every nerve and sinew with an almost physical weight.
The soldiers descended like a tide.
They moved with discipline, boots striking in unison, bows already strung. Their steps were synchronized, calculated, each movement designed to intimidate. At their head rode three figures on horned beasts, massive creatures that carried a weight of authority and menace that made the air itself bend. Their presence alone bent the air, made the village feel smaller, more fragile.
The lead rider raised a hand.
The horns ceased.
"By authority of the High Conclave," the man called, his voice amplified unnaturally, echoing through the valley like a storm breaking over the hills, "this settlement is in violation of territorial sanctum law."
A murmur rippled through the villagers. Fear and disbelief intertwined, whispering across the crowd like a living thing.
My father stepped forward. "We have violated nothing. This land was ceded generations ago."
The man's third eye rotated slowly, studying him—not as a person, but as an object, a specimen to be measured and discarded.
"Your tribe was allowed to remain," he said. "Allowance can be revoked."
No one moved.
Then one of the soldiers loosed an arrow.
It struck a man near the docks—clean through the throat. He fell without a sound, blood darkening the sand. The vivid red seemed almost unreal, a harsh smear against the muted greens and browns of the village, the color too bright to be natural.
Everything broke at once.
Screams. Shouts. The thrum of energy igniting across the field as trained warriors imposed their will. Shields of shimmering force flared into existence, deflecting thrown tools and desperate arrows. The village's hunters fought back with courage, but courage did not stop technique. It only delayed the inevitable.
Malakar's father turned, shouting something Malakar couldn't hear. His third eye blazed, and the air before him hardened, stopping a spear mid-flight. He flung it aside with a gesture, his body glowing faintly with the exertion, a shimmering aura of Nouma that made him appear almost larger than life.
Then three soldiers moved as one.
They didn't attack his body.
They targeted his third eye.
A precise surge of energy slammed into him. Malakar felt it like a knife behind his own brow. His father screamed—a sound Malakar would hear in his sleep for years to come—and collapsed, clawing at his face.
"Father!" Malakar surged forward.
His mother yanked him back. "Don't look!" she shouted, forcing his head down.
But he saw enough.
The fatal wound—a divide in his forehead, splitting his eyes all the way through to his skull. The red hushed down the contours of his exasperated face, dyeing the rest of his fallen comrade's remains.
He was helpless.
A soldier raised his blade.
Malakar's mother moved faster than Malakar had ever seen her move. She shoved them both toward the reeds lining the river. "Run. Now."
"What about you—"
"GO!"
Tala pulled him hard, and they ran.
Behind them, the village burned. Not with fire alone, but with light—structures collapsing under imposed force, sails disintegrating into ash as techniques tore through them. The air vibrated with heat, raw energy, and the acrid scent of burning wood, mingling with the sharp tang of fear.
They reached the reeds just as the sound came.
A single, clean strike.
Malakar felt his third eye scream.
He didn't turn. He didn't breathe. He ran until his legs buckled and the world became nothing but wet earth and sobbing silence.
They hid until morning.
When they returned, the village was gone.
Not just destroyed but annihilated. Homes flattened, docks shattered, bodies arranged in lines too neat to be accidental. The soldiers had left no banners behind. No witnesses.
Malakar found his parents at the edge of the square.
His father's third eye was open but dark, a hollow lens reflecting nothing. His mother lay beside him, her hand still outstretched as if reaching for something she couldn't quite grasp.
Malakar knelt between them.
He didn't cry.
Tala did.
The scant survivors of adults cuddled with the children whom they protected by fleeing spoke in hushed voices of relocation, of appeasement, of keeping the children quiet. Of not provoking further attention.
Malakar didn't listen.
All he could feel was the deep rage and resentment burning in his core, a hellfire of revenge—constant now, aching, like something inside him was straining against a door that refused to open.
The Deskun'Val had taken everything.
And somewhere deep within himself he knew that fate had not taken her eyes off of him yet. She stared.
Unblinking.