The Embers of Defiance

The Children of Light had fled deeper into the forest, their sanctuary nothing more than a clearing ringed by ancient, gnarled trees. Dappled moonlight filtered through the branches, offering little comfort to the dozen battered and weary souls gathered there. Eryndra moved between the wounded, her soft, pale hands glowing faintly as she whispered healing words. Each touch dulled pain, mended gashes, and soothed feverish skin, but her face betrayed the strain.
Leira sat nearby, kneeling over a young boy whose ribs had been crushed during their escape. Her expression remained steady as she spoke softly, brushing his matted hair back. “Rest now,” she murmured. “You’re safe here.” Yet, as the boy’s eyes fluttered shut, Leira’s shoulders sank. They were not safe here, and she knew it.

Around her, murmurs had begun. The survivors of the Dawn Reaver attack looked at Eryndra with a mix of reverence and doubt.

“She promised we’d be protected…” a man whispered to a woman at the edge of the clearing.

“She healed us,” the woman replied, frowning. “What more can she do?”

Eryndra pretended not to hear, but the words cut deep. The Children of Light had placed their trust in her, and now they were hunted like beasts. Her thoughts turned darkly to Rathic—his soldiers, their armor marked with cruel sigils, their swords red with the blood of innocents. Her followers. Her people.

From the trees’ shadows, Selyn watched, her presence a secret even in this fragile gathering. She had tracked the Children for days, drawn by whispers of a healer who could make miracles. But what she saw now was far from a miracle. It was despair. Eryndra’s people, though kind, were weak. Selyn’s eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, shadow-born power curling at her feet like smoke. She clenched her jaw. If she stepped forward, she would make herself a target—not just for the Dawn Reavers, but for these people too. They wouldn’t trust me. Not if they knew what I was.

A sharp rustle startled her. She melted further into the trees as a scout, breathing hard and stumbling, ran into the clearing.

“They’ve found us,” he wheezed, collapsing to his knees. “The Reavers… they’re close.”

A ripple of fear passed through the crowd. Eryndra stood slowly, a calm strength returning to her eyes despite her exhaustion. “Prepare to move. We’ll find another place.”

“Another place?” A man stood angrily, his voice raw. “There’s nowhere left to run! They’ll hunt us wherever we go!”

Eryndra turned to face him. “Would you rather die here?”

The question struck the man silent, and Eryndra softened. “Please. Trust me for a little longer.”

Selyn watched this exchange, her heart pounding. “Trust you…” she whispered bitterly to herself. And what happens when trust fails?

Callen’s Choice

Callen's farm lay at the edge of the valley, the surrounding fields once quiet and undisturbed. He had worked this land since his youth, his hands calloused, his spirit content with the rhythm of soil, rain, and sun. Yet that life—his life—was gone the moment the soldiers appeared on the far hill.

From the porch, Callen’s eyes narrowed, watching the Dawn Reavers advance. The low vibration of their boots traveled through the ground, sending an unnatural shiver up his spine. There’s too many of them, he thought. His heartbeat quickened as he turned toward the house. Through the window, he could see his wife, Mira, watching their two children eat their breakfast. She hadn’t noticed yet.

“Stay here,” he murmured to himself, as though those words could hold back the soldiers. But instinct screamed at him—run, hide, fight.

His feet carried him to the barn, where the iron tools leaned against the walls, rusted and unused for years. Callen grabbed a pitchfork and paused, looking toward the village far below. It was eerily still. Usually, children’s laughter or the clang of hammers could be heard on the wind. Now there was nothing. Silence, heavy and final.

The Reavers were systematic. They swept through land after land, their brutal purpose an open secret among those who still clung to their mortal existence. They were searching—for shards, for Shardborn, or simply for anyone who might resist them. Callen had heard of villages burned to ash, their people slaughtered as a warning to others.

“They won’t take us,” he whispered as the doors creaked open.

“Callen?” Mira’s voice came from behind him. She was clutching her shawl, her eyes wide as she stared past him toward the distant line of soldiers. “What are they doing here?”

“Go inside,” Callen ordered firmly, gripping the pitchfork tighter. Mira didn’t move.

“Callen, you can’t—”

“I can.” He turned to her, his face lined with exhaustion and resolve. “I’ll give them nothing. Not my land, not my family.”

But before he could say more, a horn split the air, shrill and echoing across the valley. The Dawn Reavers were marching closer.

Mira grabbed his arm. “Please.”

He hesitated, feeling the pulse of her hand against his skin. For a moment, he thought of running—taking Mira and the children into the forest and hiding until the soldiers passed. But Callen knew better. These men did not pass.

When the Dawn Reavers reached the farm, they did not slow. Their leader—an imposing man clad in dark leather armor adorned with faded red insignia—dismounted and marched forward. His shadow stretched long across the ground as he came to a halt before Callen.

“You the owner of this land?” the man barked.

“I am,” Callen replied, his voice steady.

The Reaver’s leader tilted his head, as if inspecting him for weakness. “We’re searching for a shard that fell in this valley. A piece of the heavens. You’ll tell us if you’ve seen anything.”

“I haven’t,” Callen said quickly.

The man’s mouth curled into a smile, cold and humorless. “Funny. Everyone says that, at first.” He gestured to his soldiers. “Search the place. The house, the barn—everything.”

“No!” Callen stepped forward, the pitchfork raised. “You’ll stay away from my family.”

The Reaver’s leader sighed, his patience wearing thin. “You’re going to regret that.”

What happened next would haunt Callen forever. The soldiers swarmed forward, seizing him and dragging him to the ground. Mira screamed as they pushed past her into the house. The sounds of shattering glass and crying children rang in his ears. Callen fought against the hands holding him down, his voice raw as he called Mira’s name.

The Dawn Reavers were ruthless. And as the smoke began to rise from the burning house, Callen knew the choice he’d made—to fight—had cost him everything.

The Dawn Reavers’ Plans

The Dawn Reavers were not a haphazard band of marauders. They were precise, each act of **** deliberate, calculated to create a rippling message. Their leader, Commander Rathic, stood over the ashes of Callen’s home, his expression unreadable as his soldiers gathered.

“We march on the next village,” Rathic ordered, his voice sharp as steel. The men grunted in response, some still tossing ember-blackened timbers aside as they searched for shards in the wreckage.

The Reavers operated under a clear directive: find the shards of The Shattering Night and purge the Shardborn. What they did not speak of, however, was why. Rumors swirled among the soldiers—of power promised to their leaders, of dark bargains struck beneath the earth, and of voices heard in the silence of night.

“Is this necessary?” one of the younger recruits dared to ask as he approached Rathic. His name was Ryn, and though new to their ranks, his voice carried an edge of doubt. “The man had nothing.”

Rathic turned slowly, fixing Ryn with a withering gaze. “Do you question your orders?”

“No, sir. I just—”

“You want to know why we burn? Why we kill?” Rathic’s voice was low, dangerous. “Because the Shardborn are a plague, and the shards themselves are poison. If you let even one take root, it spreads. First the land, then the people. Would you allow that? Would you risk it?”

Ryn swallowed, his face pale. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Rathic’s lip curled. “Doubt is weakness, and weakness will kill you faster than any shard.”

The Dawn Reavers fell into formation, their banners snapping in the wind. Each soldier marched without question, leaving only destruction in their wake.

Selyn’s Decision

In the neighboring forest, Selyn watched the smoke rise from Callen’s farm, her hands trembling at her sides. She had been there when the shards fell—she had seen the night light up with fire, heard the heavens scream as Solaris shattered. And like so many others, she had felt the pull of a shard calling to her.

But Selyn was no warrior. She was a healer, her skills passed down through generations of her people. The world had grown darker since The Shattering Night, and her powers had grown with it—strange abilities that could knit flesh back together or draw poison from blood. Yet Selyn had kept her connection to the shard hidden.

Her village, still untouched, was unaware of what she could do. But they had begun to whisper of the Dawn Reavers, of what happened to those found harboring Shardborn.

Selyn’s heart ached as she crouched beside a wounded boy in the woods, his face pale, his breath shallow. He was one of Callen’s children, the youngest, whom she had found stumbling through the trees.

“Stay with me,” Selyn whispered, pressing her hands over his wounds. Her palms glowed faintly, the shard’s power answering her call. Slowly, the boy’s breathing steadied, and his skin grew warm.

The act left her drained, her vision swimming, but she smiled faintly. At least one will survive.

As she lifted the boy into her arms, a cold voice rang out from behind her.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Selyn froze, turning to see a figure emerge from the trees—one of Rathic’s men, his sword gleaming in the light. Her heart pounded as she held the boy tighter.

“Please,” she begged. “He’s just a child.”

“And you,” the soldier said, his gaze narrowing, “are Shardborn.”

The Heavens’ Discontent

Far above the mortal world, the celestials watched the unfolding chaos with growing unease. The heavens—once a realm of perfect order—were no longer unified. Where once all had served Solaris with purpose, now divisions ran deep.

Seraphiel, the Archangel of Justice, stood on a balcony of silver stone, her gaze fixed upon the lands below. Fires burned where villages once thrived, and the cries of the suffering echoed faintly even here.

“This cannot continue,” she said softly, her wings rustling with tension.

Behind her, another celestial approached—Arael, a warrior whose armor gleamed gold and blue. “You pity them too much,” he said. “It is not our place to intervene.”

“And yet we created them,” Seraphiel shot back, her voice sharp. “We are not blameless, Arael.”

“They are a flawed creation,” Arael replied dismissively. “Their suffering is of their own making. Let the mortals fight their wars. We must concern ourselves with the Void Walkers.”

At the mention of the Void Walkers, Seraphiel’s jaw tightened. “They watch from

the shadows, doing nothing while the world burns. We must act.”

Arael shook his head. “To act is to interfere with the balance.”

“The balance is already broken,” Seraphiel whispered.

Below, a single light flickered in the darkness—a healer’s glow, faint and defiant. Seraphiel saw it, her heart stirring with both hope and sorrow.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “there are those still worthy of saving.”