The years passed like whispers carried on the wind—quiet, unrelenting, indifferent.
Naire was eleven now. The world outside the cottage had changed, shifting under the weight of endless conflict, of creatures lurking beyond the fragile barriers of civilization. **Small wars burned through villages like sickness, and survival was not a given—it was a fight.**
Yet, within the crumbling walls of the home his mother refused to abandon, Naire had grown.
**But he had not grown normal.**
His mother had taught him kindness, had shielded him from the worst of their world, but even she could not ignore the things she refused to name.
Naire did not bleed like other children.
Naire did not dream like other children.
And Naire did not fear like other children.
When he wandered too close to the edge of the forests, the creatures that had once stalked villages did not attack him. **They watched.**
When he walked the market streets in the nearby town, people stepped aside—not out of respect, but out of something colder. Something uncertain.
**He was strange, and the world knew it.**
Still, his mother loved him fiercely. She spoke of better days, of futures where fear did not carve itself into the marrow of their bones. She told him that he was **hers**, and that was all that mattered.
But deep in the night, when the world was quiet and the smoke no longer clogged the air, Naire heard them.
**The whispers.**
Calling his name.
The same voice that had spoken when he was born.
And for the first time, Naire answered.
The village moved as it always did—merchants shouting, children running, carts creaking over uneven roads. Life flowed around Naire like water, indifferent to her presence.
Until it wasn't.
A hand grabbed her arm, rough, sudden. Then another. She barely had time to turn before she was dragged into the alley, pulled into the shadowed corner behind a broken wall.
Three boys. Older. Mean. **Familiar.**
They despised her—not just for who she was, but for what she wasn't.
"Look at this," one of them sneered. "Barely a boy. Barely a girl. Barely anything."
The others laughed, shoving her backward, their grins sharp and cruel. Her rags clung to her like a second skin, cheap fabric her mother had stitched together with whatever scraps she could find. They tugged at it, mocking its worth. **Mocking hers.**
Naire didn't fight. She didn't speak. She had learned that words meant nothing here.
A fist hit her ribs. Another landed against her shoulder, sending her sprawling. Her body smacked against the mud, the cold water soaking into the fabric, clinging to her skin like something alive.
She did not cry.
She did not beg.
She had never known kindness from them, and she would not ask for it now.
The village continued on just beyond the alley, people walking, talking, bartering—**pretending they did not hear.**
This was not their business.
It never was.
The boys laughed as she coughed through the mud, her body aching, her mind blank.
Until—
Until **she looked up**.
And for the first time in her life, **she saw something behind them.**
Something watching.
Something **waiting**.
And as the boys raised their fists again, **the shadows shifted.**
Naire gasped as the next blow struck her ribs, the force rattling through her like brittle bones barely holding together. The muddy water clung to her skin, the taste of blood sharp and metallic in her mouth.
And then—she **felt it**.
A shift. A pull. A something she could not name.
Her lungs burned as she coughed, a wet, sickening sound. The boys hesitated—only for a moment—before continuing, their fists slamming into her fragile body, their laughter hollow and cruel.
But their voices faltered.
Because her **eyes** had changed.
Black. **Endless**.
Not the dark of human eyes, not the deep brown of her mother's—this was **emptiness**, stretching beyond sight, beyond reason.
The boys hesitated—but only for a heartbeat. Then they struck harder, eager to remind her that whatever she was, she was still beneath them.
Until the **sound** came.
A crunch. A sickening, unnatural **snap**.
And then—**screaming.**
It was not Naire who screamed.
It was **them**.
The village had ignored the scene before—turned away, kept their heads down. **But now, they could not.**
People turned, eyes narrowing at the sudden noise. The normalcy of their daily routine cracked, replaced by creeping unease.
The boys' voices were ragged, raw, laced with something beyond pain—**fear**.
And then, silence.
A silence that **did not belong.**
The hesitation broke. Someone stepped forward, peering into the alley, into the shadows where Naire lay crumpled.
And the first gasp of horror split the air.
Naire knelt over the bodies.
The twisted, broken forms of the boys who had tormented her only moments ago lay beneath her, their limbs bent at impossible angles, their faces frozen in agony. **Blood pooled around them, thick, warm, staining her hands, her clothes, her skin.**
She flinched, her breath coming too fast, too sharp. Her hands trembled as she stared down at them—**at what she had done.**
But how?
The world blurred, the edges of reality shifting. The pain in her ribs, the mud soaking into her rags—it was all still there. But **this**, this violence, this destruction, **this was something else entirely**.
Then—the first scream rang out.
The nearby villagers, at first hesitant, now surged forward. People who had turned away before, who had ignored her suffering, now **could not ignore this**.
Gasps of horror. Cries of disbelief.
Then, **the parents**.
The mothers and fathers of the boys pushed through the crowd, their faces twisting from confusion to shock to **hatred**.
"You monster," one woman whispered, staring at the ruined bodies of her son and his friends.
A man stepped forward, shaking with fury, with grief, his eyes locking onto Naire's own.
**"What have you done?"**
Naire scrambled backward, her body weak, her hands still sticky with blood. "I—I didn't—"
**But she did.**
She didn't know how.
She didn't know why.
But the bodies did not lie.
And as the first stone was lifted—a small, jagged rock clutched in a trembling fist—she knew.
**They would not forgive her.**
---
Naire's breath came in ragged bursts, her chest tightening, her legs trembling beneath her as she stumbled through the streets. **She did not look back.**
She couldn't.
Behind her, the voices of the villagers twisted into cruel echoes. The weight of their hatred, their disgust, crashed against her like a tide she could never swim against.
**Monster. Curse. Abomination.**
Their words burned. But **not as much as her mother's silence**.
She had seen her—the way she had burst out of their small cottage, her hands trembling, her eyes wide with disbelief. **Shock. Worry. Fear.**
But Naire hadn't waited.
She had seen the way the villagers looked at her mother, the way they demanded an explanation, a price. And before her mother could say anything—before she could beg or deny or plead—**Naire ran.**
Her feet slipped against the mud, tears blurred the path before her, but she did not stop.
She couldn't.
She knew, deep in her bones, that **she could never go back**.
The world had been cruel before—but now, it had marked her.
And beyond the village, in the dark horizon where the forest loomed, **something waited for her**.
Not the warmth of home. Not the comfort of safety.
But something older.
Something **that had always been calling her name.**
Naire ran.
Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she did not stop. The village—the hate-filled voices, the horrified stares, the twisted bodies she had left behind—**none of it mattered now.**
She was alone.
The road beneath her feet turned to uneven ground, the muddy streets giving way to wild grass, to jagged rocks and tangled roots. The scent of rain still clung to the air, damp and heavy, but **the storm had not followed her here**.
She reached the edge of the forest. **The Veil of Pyre.**
The place her mother had spoken of in hushed whispers, the place where her fate had been sealed long before she took her first breath.
She swallowed hard, staring into the depths of the trees—black silhouettes against the dying light.
The world behind her was one she could never return to.
The world before her was one she did not understand.
And yet—
**She took a step forward.**
The moment her foot crossed the boundary between the world she knew and the one that had been waiting for her, a chill crept down her spine.
The forest was **not quiet.**
It **breathed**.
Something in the shadows stirred. Something **aware**.
And then, **a voice spoke.**
Not like the whispers she had heard before. Not distant, not haunting.
**Close. Right behind her.**
*"You finally came."*
---
Naire turned.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The figure before her **was not human.**
Tall. Looming. **Its body was pure black**, not the absence of light but something deeper, something impossible. **Its skin did not reflect, did not shift—it consumed.**
And its eyes—two small, white dots—**watched her.**
But that was not what made her chest tighten, her stomach twist with something beyond terror.
It was **the chains.**
Heavy, rusted, curling around its form like vines choking a dying tree. **And wrapped within them—eleven bodies.**
Eleven **humans**, bound, twisted, limp.
Their faces frozen in silent screams. Their limbs contorted as if they had once tried to fight but had long since stopped.
Naire staggered backward, her knees weak, her hands still coated in the blood from the village.
The figure did not move. It simply stood, watching her, as if it had been waiting.
Then—**the chains rattled.**
The sound sent ice crawling through Naire's veins.
The air around her **thinned**, the very space between them tightening as if the world itself recognized its presence.
And then—**it spoke.**
*"You are finally mine."*
Naire staggered back, her breath sharp and uneven. The weight of his presence pressed into her chest, into her bones, filling the space around her like smoke too thick to breathe.
*"You are my daughter, Naire,"* he said.
His voice was **not human**. It was deep, layered, **ancient**—like a chorus of something unseen, something watching from the spaces beyond the trees.
The chains shifted. The bodies wrapped within them twisted ever so slightly, as if moved not by force, but **by something else.**
Naire's stomach churned.
**No.**
Her head shook before her voice could find the strength to deny him.
*"No,"* she whispered. **But the word held nothing.**
The figure laughed—**softly. Deeply. Hauntingly.**
Not like the laughter of the village boys, nor the bitter scoff of those who had despised her.
This was **worse**.
It crawled beneath her skin, curling along her spine, dragging something dark and unspoken into her mind.
It did not belong **here**.
It did not belong **anywhere**.
Yet—**it was here, standing before her, calling her his own.**
Naire's feet refused to move, her body weak, blood still drying on her hands.
The air around them **tightened**.
The forest **held its breath**.
And the chains—**they rattled.**
Naire's breath hitched as the inhuman figure spoke again, its voice curling into the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.
*"You are my daughter."*
The words wrapped around her, pressing into her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
*"I took a random woman. As I made you, you came out amazing."*
Her stomach twisted.
Her legs trembled, weak beneath the weight of his declaration.
The bodies in his chains dangled lifelessly, shifting ever so slightly as he moved, as if they were listening too.
*"I saw what you did to those three boys."*
Naire's vision blurred—flashes of their faces, contorted in agony, their broken bodies splayed across the mud, their screams piercing through the air.
She had **done that**.
She hadn't wanted to.
She hadn't understood.
Yet she had **made it happen**.
*"Good job, amazing Naire."*
The praise was worse than the pain.
Worse than the hatred from the villagers.
Worse than the disgust in her mother's eyes.
Naire staggered back, shaking her head violently, as if denial alone could erase the truth.
*"No,"* she whispered. **But it did not sound real.**
The inhuman figure chuckled, **low, deep, haunting**.
*"Why do you run, child?"*
The chains rattled.
The bodies shuddered.
And Naire finally turned—**and ran.**
Naire's feet slammed against the damp forest ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tore through the trees, branches clawing at her arms like desperate hands.
She couldn't stop.
She **wouldn't** stop.
But the voice—**his voice—followed her.**
*"If you continue to run, I will kill the people you love."*
The words slithered through the air, curling around her throat, sinking into her chest like poison.
She stumbled.
*"You are going to be with me, and soon—"*
The shadows stretched deeper around her, swallowing the fading light.
*"—you will take over their world."*
Naire's stomach twisted, her mind spinning, screaming at her to keep moving, to block out his words, to **ignore the truth that was sinking into her bones.**
But she **couldn't ignore it.**
She **knew** he meant it.
The air behind her rippled, something shifting—**something closing in.**
And for the first time, Naire felt something worse than fear.
**She felt inevitability.**
---
Naire lay curled beneath tangled roots, her small frame pressed into the damp earth, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her clothes, still soaked with blood—**her blood, their blood**—stuck to her skin like a second layer she could not escape.
She had been hiding for days.
Or weeks.
She did not know.
Time had blurred, slipping through her fingers like the fleeting warmth she could barely remember.
The forest had swallowed her whole. It kept her safe. It kept her from **seeing**.
From knowing.
But then—**she heard it.**
The distant screams, twisted into something raw, something final.
The scent of smoke curling into the wind, carrying the weight of what had been.
The whispers—low, amused, drenched in delight.
*"Are you ready to come home now?"*
Her stomach twisted.
Her fingers dug into the dirt.
She did not answer.
But she knew.
**The village was gone.**
Her mother was gone.
And she—**she was the only thing left.**
--