Ashes of Childhood and the Call of Blood
The fog swallowed the ancient tree trunks and spread between the branches like a living thing, watching everything that passed beneath it.
A merchant caravan wound its way slowly through the trees. Wooden wagons loaded with goods, exhausted horses hauling them with difficulty over the wet ground, while the merchants exchanged low murmurs in an effort to break the morning silence.
None of them knew that something was watching them.
From within the fog...
Two yellow eyes gleamed.
Then vanished.
One of the horses stopped without warning, jerking its head up in panic.
— Easy... what's gotten into her?
No one answered.
Because the silence had changed.
It was no longer a forest's silence.
It was something heavier.
Something hiding behind the trees.
Then came the sound.
A rustling among the branches.
One of the merchants turned.
— Did you hear that?
The forest gave him no further time.
Twisted shadows burst from between the trees and tore through the caravan's ranks in a single instant.
There was no warning cry.
No time to draw weapons.
Only yellow eyes cutting through the fog, and claws descending from the darkness, and bodies collapsing before their owners understood what was happening.
The sound of turning wheels became screams.
And the caravan that moments before had been passing through the forest in search of profit dissolved into chaos.
The ghouls had come out to hunt.
And a few minutes later...
Nothing remained on the road but overturned wagons, scattered goods, and the traces of a battle that the fog had already covered again.
As though the forest had witnessed nothing.
And miles away from that incident, birdsong constructed a false peace over one of the villages of the southern countryside.
Lugaro — the slight boy with the faraway gaze — sat near the edge of the village, watching a group of children chase a battered ball.
He could have joined them.
But he did not.
He had grown used to the looks of dismissal.
Used to the whispers that dropped whenever he drew near, then resumed after he had passed.
So he settled for watching.
After a short while he stood and walked back to his rickety wooden hut.
The hut was small enough that winter winds found their way inside without effort, and his elderly grandmother sat in her usual corner, wrapping her thin body in a thick piece of cloth.
The moment Lugaro stepped through the door she was seized by a sharp cough.
Her frail body bent double, and she raised a trembling hand to her mouth.
When she lowered it, Lugaro caught sight of dark stains on the cloth.
He went still for a moment.
He knew his grandmother was growing weaker by the day.
And he feared the morning when he would find she was no longer there.
But she, as always, ignored her own condition.
She held out a hard crust of bread and set a small amount of water before him.
— Eat, child.
Lugaro looked at the bread, then at her.
— And you?
His grandmother smiled a tired smile.
— I'm fine.
He knew she was lying.
— But you haven't eaten in two days!
She tried to interrupt him, but he continued:
— Please, grandmother. Eat something. Your health is crumbling... why do you sacrifice yourself for me?
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then her trembling hand reached out and touched his hair.
— Because you are all I have left of her.
She was quiet for a moment.
— You are the only thing that remains to me from your mother.
Lugaro lowered his eyes.
His mother's name was seldom spoken in that hut.
Then his grandmother said:
— I want only one thing from you.
Lugaro raised his head.
— What?
She looked at the pendant hanging around his neck.
— Keep that necklace safe.
Lugaro took hold of it without understanding why she cared so deeply about it.
— I'll keep it safe.
She smiled.
But she said nothing more.
And outside...
The village bell rang.
Dong...
Dong...
Dong...
His grandmother's smile faded.
And Lugaro froze where he stood.
These were not celebratory strikes.
They were something the villagers knew well.
An ill omen.
The sound of footsteps drew closer from outside.
Then a shout rose:
— The Iron Fist of Justice has arrived!
Every trace of calm vanished from the village in an instant.
Lugaro stood behind the half-open door and watched the soldiers enter.
Their silver armor gleamed beneath the midday sun, but that gleam gave no one any feeling of safety.
Quite the opposite.
The villagers were closing their doors.
Children were being pulled inside the huts.
Men were lowering their heads.
And at the front of the soldiers...
A man walked with unhurried, deliberate steps.
Lord Alfred.
His features were rigid, and his gaze carried open contempt for everyone he passed, while his whip swung at his side.
They had not come to protect the village from the ghouls attacking the empire's borders.
They had come to collect what they called...
the protection tax.
The soldiers spread through the huts.
A single kick was enough to break down a door.
Another voice demanding money.
A woman pleading.
A man surrendering everything he owned.
A child weeping behind its mother.
The villagers knew the rule well:
Pay... and survive.
Fail to pay...
and no one could guarantee what would happen to you.
Footsteps approached Lugaro's hut.
Alfred stopped before the door.
He raised his foot.
Then kicked.
Half the door shattered and its planks fell to the ground.
Alfred raised his eyes toward the grandmother.
— The protection tax, old woman.
The grandmother trembled.
— I have nothing, my lord...
Alfred gestured at the interior of the hut.
— Will you pay, or...?
— We barely have enough food to survive...
He did not let her finish.
His hand shot out and she fell to the ground.
Lugaro gasped.
— Grandmother!
He took a step forward.
But Alfred did not even glance at him.
The grandmother raised her head with difficulty and tried to press her hand against the ground to lift herself.
She spoke in a hoarse voice:
— Take those coins and leave the boy.
— Your groaning irritates me.
Then Alfred reached for his dagger.
In that moment...
everything inside Lugaro stopped.
He saw the blade.
He saw his grandmother.
And he saw the man standing before her as though the life of an old woman meant nothing to him at all.
The dagger moved.
And his grandmother fell.
Silence settled over the room.
A heavy silence, larger than the hut itself.
Lugaro remained standing where he was.
He did not cry out.
He did not weep.
He only stared.
His eyes widened slowly, as though his mind refused to accept what his eyes had seen.
Then his hand moved.
His trembling fingers stretched toward a rusted knife lying on the table.
He seized it.
His grip tightened until his knuckles went white.
And for a moment...
he no longer saw the soldiers.
He no longer saw the village.
He no longer saw anything but Alfred's back.
He lunged toward him.
He lunged with everything that remained in his small body.
But before he could get anywhere near him—
A rough arm coiled around his chest.
And a strong hand clamped over his mouth.
Lugaro froze.
There was someone standing behind him.
Roberto.
The old man the villagers were used to seeing apart from everyone else, about whom no one knew more than that he was a strange man who lived near the mountain.
Roberto tightened his hold on the boy and pulled him back into the shadows.
Lugaro tried to break free.
He kicked.
He struggled.
And then in one moment yielded to what was.
But the old man did not allow him to move.
Lugaro was suffocating...
not from Roberto's grip.
But from the rage burning in his chest.
His eyes locked onto Alfred.
That cold face.
That man who had taken from him the last person he had left in this world.
And in the moment Alfred walked out of the hut...
Lugaro's eyes stayed fixed on his back.
And deep within him...
the first spark of vengeance was born.