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  She dreamt of a scream. It was so real that upon waking, she sat clutching her blanket, unable to shake the chill. Outside, the rain fell—heavy, cold, and relentless. It had been pouring for three days, as if the earth itself were weeping for the missing girls.

  To drown out her dark thoughts, she joined Lukia in treating a local fisherman. His racking cough tore through the silence, echoing the symptoms of the refugees. White threads of mana flowed from her fingers, mending his cracked skin, but Lukia frowned as she sorted her herbs.

  "Something is wrong with this sickness," Lukia murmured. "Nothing is taking hold."

  Todyr was at the mill, his calloused hands trembling from exhaustion. "The monsters are closer," he grunted, wiping sweat. "The village has no warriors—only Karbun with his axe and me with a pitchfork. If not for the plague in the East, the Empire would have sent guards."

  Zlata sat on the threshold, weaving a blue ribbon into her braid. "Vio, your tail is like a broom—go chase the crows away!" she teased with a smile. Nearby, Demko was tossing a log, trying to split it with an old saber found in the attic.

  "I’ll be a knight! I’ll cut down the beasts! Vio, grab a sword—let’s see who’s faster!"

  "Be careful!" Vio warned. "Don't swing that thing near your sister."

  "I am being careful," he muttered, though his prideful grin betrayed him. He’d been "training" for days, hoping to impress Maryna’s brother.

  Maryna, who had been married for two years and lived nearby, had come over to help. "Don't pull the vine so hard, you'll snap it," she taught Violetta as they wove baskets. "You have the strength, but you lack the patience."

  "Little one?!" Violetta feigned offense. "Look who’s talking... who was it that broke the pitcher yesterday?"

  Maryna burst into laughter. "The pitcher was at fault—it was old and couldn't contain my happiness."

  Violetta cherished these moments—the family banter, the scent of Lukia’s herbs, the creak of the mill. But the whispers of the villagers still reached her. Girls were vanishing. Olyana had gone to the stream and left only an empty basket. The "Night of the Ancestors" was approaching, but this year, the joy was replaced by the hollow whistle of the wind and distant cries from the forest.

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  The morning of her birthday was damp. Mist swallowed the Great Oak. Violetta donned her hooded cloak and slipped out, careful not to wake Zlata, to head to the forge. Karbun had promised her a gift.

  The forge breathed heat, smelling of coal and oil. The hammer thrummed like the heart of the world. Karbun stood by the hearth, sweat glistening on his silver beard.

  "Happy birthday, little fox," he grunted. "Not so little anymore. Remember: strength without patience is a hollow thing."

  He handed her a leather wrap. Inside lay a ring—exquisite, set with a tiny blue stone that shimmered like a star in the fog.

  "A mana stone," Karbun said softly. "Not one for destruction, but one to keep you warm in dark hours, to remind you who you are. Guard it well."

  Violetta hugged him tight. "Thank you, Uncle."

  "Don't thank me," he muttered, hiding a smile. "Just learn to hold the hammer. Come tomorrow—I’ll show you how to strike not the iron, but your own stubbornness."

  Her laughter was cut short. The air suddenly compressed. Far away, a scream erupted—short, jagged, as if the world itself had been strangled. The acrid stench of smoke drifted through the village. Black plumes rose, blending with the mist.

  "Hide in the forge!" Karbun roared, snatching his battle-axe from the wall. "Don't come out, no matter what!"

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  Violetta ignored him and ran. What she saw was a nightmare.

  Flame devoured the thatched roofs. Smoke swirled between huts, mingling with screams and the guttural laughter of green-skinned goblins. The air reeked of burning wood, blood, and filth. The fisherman lay disemboweled by a scarred goblin. Old Orysia had been run through with a spear, choking on her own blood.

  Violetta sprinted, her cloak snagging on debris. Please... just be alive... please!

  Near her home, her heart stopped.

  Todyr lay by the gate, three jagged spears protruding from his back. He had been crawling toward the house, trying to save his family. His trembling hand was still outstretched toward the threshold.

  "Zlata... Lukia... inside..." he wheezed before slipping into unconsciousness.

  "NO!" Violetta lunged for the door, but the roof collapsed with a deafening crack, sending a geyser of sparks into the air. The blast threw her backward into the mud. She watched the inferno consume her home... watched Todyr’s lifeless form.

  The world went silent. One heartbeat. Two. Three. Silence. Then—a rage that ignited like a white-hot furnace. Her eyes flared with a cold, violet light. Tearless and transformed, she found the tracks—jagged, deep, smelling of rot—and turned toward the forest.

  "I will kill you... I will kill every last one of you!"

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  The tracks led to a cavern that exhaled the stench of blood and decaying meat. Her Visor snapped on, highlighting heat signatures and predicting movements: Step left. Spear thrust. Dodge. Red warnings flickered in a forgotten language, but she was beyond caring.

  The first goblin lunged; a needle of metal shrieked through the air and pierced his skull. The second died before he could scream as she spun and crushed his throat with a kick. Warm, sticky blood sprayed her cloak.

  She moved like a shadow, a blur of lethal grace. Flesh tore like wet rags. She didn't see faces—only targets.

  In the main cavern, a massive hobgoblin stood over a group of bound women. Beside him, a shaman with a bone amulet grinned as he swallowed a piece of raw flesh. Violetta didn't stop. Needles buried themselves in green chests. She lunged at the shaman, crushing his throat with her bare hand until his eyes rolled back.

  The hobgoblin roared, swinging a massive axe. Her Visor flashed: Dodge left. Kill stroke. She slipped past the blade, her tail a lash in the dark. A metal spike manifested in her hand and she drove it upward through the giant's chest. He collapsed with a wet thud, his yellow eyes fading like dying embers.

  She moved through the remaining creatures with mechanical efficiency. One tried to flee, but her eyes flared violet, and the creature simply vanished into a red mist.

  When it was over, she found the captives. Among them was Maryna. Her face was a mask of bruises, her gaze hollow.

  "Vio... forgive me... I couldn't save him..." Maryna rasped before fainting.

  "Who?" Violetta whispered. She turned her gaze to the corner, near the sacrificial altar.

  There, under a stone slab, lay a small body. A torn sleeve. Fair hair matted with gore.

  "Demko..." her voice cracked.

  The rage dissolved into an ash-cold void. She didn't feel pain. She didn't feel anger. She felt only the Abyss. Dark. Cold. Infinite.

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  Violetta emerged from the cave, leading the survivors. She carried a bundle made of her own cloak, from which dark droplets fell into the dirt.

  Five adventurers stood at the entrance, late to the plea for help. They froze. Before them stood a girl drenched in blood, her violet eyes glowing with an empty, terrifying light.

  Ratmir, the leader, gripped his sword, his hand trembling. The mage behind him began to whisper a frantic prayer. The girl in their party turned away, retching.

  "Gods... what is this girl?" Ratmir whispered. Violetta walked past them without a word, her footsteps echoing in the forest silence.

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  The rain washed over the ruins of the village. Violetta reached the remains of her home and laid the bundle beside Todyr. Her hand brushed the mud, and the ring—Karbun’s gift—slipped from her neck. The blue stone, once so warm, hit the mire, cracked, and went dark.

  Violetta fell to her knees in a pool of blood-red water. She threw her head back and let out a scream—long, desperate, and agonizing.

  And then, everything went still. The forest hushed. The crows fell silent. There was only the rain. The cold, merciless rain, weeping for everything she had lost. That day, her dreams burned to ash with the village.