Estaria lay motionless on the cold ground, face down in the ashes. The stench of blood, smoke, and dust clung thick in the air—lodged in his throat and mind like a nightmare that refused to fade. His body ached, his head throbbed like a hammer striking stone… but his heart still beat.
He… was still alive.
With a groan, he forced himself upright, eyes wide as if unable to believe the scene before him.
Silvermist Village—his home—was no more.
The once-familiar wooden houses were now nothing but charred skeletons. The square, where he had once pushed water carts for old Toma, was strewn with bodies—twisted, broken, lifeless. The ancient tree beneath which he used to read was now a blazing column of charcoal, its scorched scent burning away the last threads of memory.
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Since he was very young, Estaria is a normal villager who lived a normal, mundane life. He spent his days helping out in his parent's small, quaint shop and learning from the old, friendly village teacher, Master Tilren. He enjoyed the company of his friends, playing near the old tree in the middle of the village.
One friend said he want to be a hero in the future. Another girl said she wanted to learn magic, just like her mother. And he...
"I will become a protector of the village when I'm older," Estaria had always said.
In his eyes, Silvermist was a haven. It was his paradise—a place of peace and safety.
"The boy's more skilled and well-mannered than half the ones who do have magic!" – Arlen the blacksmith laughed heartily.
"You bake wonderfully, Estaria. Come to my house tomorrow and teach the little ones, will you?" – Toma the baker winked.
"This is fine wood. Try carving a sword from it for Lyra to play with." – Rufus the carpenter handed him a piece of timber with a smile.
growing up older, he is now 16 , his appearance is similar to most villagers. He has black hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. His clothes are simple, made of linen and leather.
The current protector of the Silvermist village - Lyra, is a girl, a few years older than Estaria. She's a skilled Swordman.
"You are going to be late, Estaria! Arlen is going to scold you again for not on time to learn blacksmirt."
She is a 20 year old girl with blue eyes with with white hair, a warm heart and mature person.
"Lyra! Wait for me!"
When she was young, Lyra lost her mother, who was a powerful protector of Silvermist. Her father is a famous sword master.
She have a great talent in swords, somes saying that she is a genious in sword. The power she possess come from her sword skill "Shadow of the Moon" and she called herself the "shadow knight" because of this. Lyra smile and laugh, and she is very kind to everyone. But when it comes to protecting Silvermist, she become serious and fierce, showing the true power of her skill.
From the misty beginnings of their childhood, Lyra and Estaria shared a bond that ran deeper than blood. Though Lyra was older—already learning sword forms while Estaria was still struggling to hold a carving knife—she treated him not as a burden, but as a little brother
She became a mentor, a guardian, and a constant companion—teaching him, encouraging him, and sometimes scolding him like any big sister would. And while she trained under the sharp gaze of her famed father, Estaria would often sit nearby, watching her every movement with awe, unknowingly planting the seeds of admiration and inspiration.
Suddenly, Estaria felt a warmth on his shoulder.
A hand—gentle, trembling—rested there.
"Estaria…"
He walked beside Lyra, their steps quiet on the dirt path that led to the blacksmith's shop. Birds sang above them. Everything felt… peaceful.
He glanced sideways—her white hair shimmered in the light, catching the gold of the morning. But her face—
She was crying. Tears clung to her lashes, silent and shimmering, even as she tried to hide them.
"Lyra?" he asked, slowing. "Hey, I'm right here. Why are you crying?"
She didn't answer. Her hand trembled as it reached for his.
And then—
The world cracked.
The birds fell silent. The warmth vanished. Colors drained from the sky like spilled ink.
It all collapsed.
Estaria gasped.
He was alone.
Just a dream.
A beautiful lie.
The village is burn to ash by the army of orc and goblin, every thing is just a dream Lyra's fingers tighten on his shoulder, her grip almost painful. Her breath comes in short, ragged gasps, as if she's holding back a sob. The sword at her hip is covered in blood, some of it still fresh, some dried and flaking. She looks at him with something between relief and devastation.
"You're alive," she whispers, voice raw. "I thought... I thought you were gone."
She sways slightly, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. The village square is a nightmare—smoke curls from smoldering ruins, bodies lie broken and twisted, and the great old tree, their childhood meeting place, is nothing but a blackened stump. he wake up in pain asking her what the situation right now Lyra's grip on your shoulder tightens as she steadies herself, her fingers digging into your flesh. Her breath is ragged, her body shaking—not just from exhaustion, but from the sheer force of holding back the grief that threatens to overwhelm her. The sword at her hip catches the dim light of the dying embers, its edge stained dark with the blood of those who had fallen defending the village.
"They came at dawn," she says, her words hoarse. "Orcs and goblins, more than we could count. They came through the mist like ghosts." She looks away for a moment, her jaw clenching as she swallows hard. "I tried to hold them back."
On the sky, orc leader flies to the battlefield and trying to smash both of them.
Lyra holding his attack The massive orc leader's attack comes down with devastating force, but Lyra moves with inhuman speed, her sword blurring as she deflects the blow. The impact still sends her stumbling, but she manages to keep her footing. Her white hair whips around her face as she raises her sword, the moonlight reflecting off its polished surface.
"I won't let you hurt him!" she shouts, her words carrying a fierce intensity.
The orc leader snarls, revealing rows of yellowed teeth, and swings his massive axe in a wide arc. Lyra ducks under the swing, her blade slicing across the orc's thigh. Dark blood sprays as the creature roars in pain and rage.
Steel clashed with savage roars as the orc lunged, its crude axe raised high. Lyra met the strike with a flash of silver—her blade slid up, parrying the blow with graceful precision. Sparks danced in the air.
She stepped back, breath steady, eyes cold.
Three more orcs closed in behind the first, their heavy footsteps thundering against the earth. Estaria called out, but she didn't turn. Instead, she whispered something under her breath. A silver glow pulsed from her body.
"Shadow of the Moon."
In an instant, her form split—three shadowy silhouettes burst out like afterimages under moonlight. Each one moved as fast as the wind, circling wide. The orcs hesitated—but too late. One shadow struck from the left, blade piercing clean through an exposed neck.
The second came low, slicing tendons and toppling another. The real Lyra blurred forward, driving her sword through the chest of the leader before he could raise his weapon again. The three shadows converged into one as the last body hit the ground.
After they had finished off the enemies, the two of them went in search of the elder.
"Elder Borin!"
Estaria staggered forward, stepping through ash and splintered wood. Dried blood clung to his hands, but he didn't care. The ground beneath his feet was still warm, the air thick with the stench of burnt flesh and blood—a choking scent of death. But Estaria didn't stop. He ran.
"Elder! Please—answer me!"
He sprinted down the old paths, past the places where old lady Toma once sold her herbs, past the corners where children used to laugh, playing with wooden toys he had carved. Now, there was only silence.
Houses that once glowed with firelight were now blackened skeletons.
A body lay curled by the village well, one arm reaching out as if grasping for life's last thread—Estaria couldn't bring himself to look for long.
He crossed the square, turning at the small fork that led to Elder Borin's house—a simple pinewood cottage, once covered in pale silver vines.
Now, most of the roof had collapsed. Charred beams lay twisted, support columns cracked and slanted.
"Elder Borin!!" Estaria shouted until his voice was raw.
He rushed into the wreckage, shoving aside broken boards, scorched timbers, his hands working without pause.
"Are you alive!? It's me—Estaria!"
The wind howled through the ruins, scattering ash across his face and into his hair. Dust stung his eyes. He fell to his knees, blood trickling from his fingers, raw and torn from desperate digging.
And then—
A scrap of cloth… gray-white… smeared with ash.
He knew it instantly: Elder Borin's scarf, the one she always wore when the air turned cold.
He yanked away the wood beneath it, revealing a small, frail body.
Estaria froze.
Before him, a nightmare unfolded.
An orc—massive and snarling—swung its war axe down in a brutal arc. The blow crushed Elder Borin's skull, the same gentle woman who once taught him the ancient history of Aethelgard beneath the sacred tree's shade.
A sickening crack echoed.
Her frail body collapsed, swallowed by a pool of blood spreading across the scorched earth.
"No…" Estaria choked, his voice cracking into a strangled sob.
Hot tears spilled down his face, blurring the horror before him.
He wished—more than anything—for strength. Even a little.
Enough to change this.
Enough not to be helpless in a world filled with wonders and monsters.
Lyra stood over the elder's broken body, her sword trembling in her grip.
The orc snarled, its massive axe dripping with blood—her blood, their people's blood. Tears streamed down Lyra's face, hot and silent. Her breath came in shudders, but her eyes burned with fury. Not fear. Not anymore.
"You…" she whispered, voice cracked and shaking, "You took her from us."
The orc roared and charged, axe raised high.
Lyra didn't move.
Not until the very last moment. In a blur of motion, she stepped forward—tears still falling—and raised her blade. A silver flash split the air.
One strike.
Clean. Precise. Unstoppable.
Her sword cut through the orc's chest with a shriek of steel and flesh. The beast froze mid-swing, eyes wide with shock—then collapsed to its knees, then to the earth.
Lyra stood there, shaking, blood and ash clinging to her as her sword slipped from her hand and struck the ground with a dull thud.
Still crying. Still standing.
Victorious. And broken.