Imagine A Happy Ending

The storm that had been brewing in the skies for days finally descended upon the village with all the fury of a beast awakened. The wind howled through the cracks of the wooden houses, bending the trees until they groaned under the pressure. The air was thick with tension, and for once, the people of the village weren't focused on their empty stomachs or the hunger gnawing at their insides. This time, the threat was different—a danger that had come not from the earth, but from beyond the horizon.

The mercenaries arrived as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, their figures dark against the roiling clouds that seemed to close in on the village like a predator stalking its prey. There were five of them, each one a shadow of menace, draped in weathered, dirt-streaked cloaks. They were not the type of men to be feared for their size or strength alone, but for the darkness that followed them—the memories of blood spilled, villages ravaged, and people left in the wake of their cruelty.

Their clothing, though torn and stained with time, held unsettling adornments—trophies from other conquests. Bones of beasts, teeth of fallen foes, and pieces of tattered flags from forgotten villages hung from their belts like grotesque decorations. One of them—a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face—wore a necklace made of human teeth. The teeth of victims, his victims, their grim remains rattling in the wind as if still trying to scream.

The village was caught in an unholy silence as the mercenaries approached. People locked their doors, huddled in their homes, but the fear that radiated through the streets was palpable. Everyone knew that there was no hiding from these men, no sanctuary in the shadows. They were here, and nothing would stop them.

"Open the gates!" the leader of the mercenaries shouted, his voice a gravelly bark that cut through the storm. "We know you have food, and we'll take it. You won't fight us. We've already seen what happens to those who try."

At first, there was hesitation. The villagers looked at each other, their faces drawn in fear, but there was no mistaking the inevitable. They had nothing left to fight with. The weapons they had were rusted, the bows snapped from years of disuse. They had been surviving by the slimmest of margins for months. To fight would mean certain death.

But my father, Dacian Varlan, stood in the village square, his hand clutching a crude sword, a man who had known the weight of the earth beneath him but had never been one to bow easily to fate. "We will not surrender," he growled, his voice low but fierce. "These are our people, and these are our lands."

I could hear my mother behind him, her voice trembling as she called to him. "Dacian, don't! Please!"

But my father did not listen. He raised his sword high, the blade catching the fading light of the storm, and charged. The mercenaries laughed as he ran toward them, a lone figure standing against the approaching dark. His bravery was fleeting, his sword a poor match for the cruel blades of the mercenaries.

The battle was brief. The mercenaries were well-trained, ruthless in their violence. They met my father with the cold precision of men who had fought in battles far worse than this one. A blow to his side brought him to his knees, and before I could even scream, the leader of the mercenaries raised his sword and brought it down, cutting through the air with the finality of death itself.

I saw my father fall. His body crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping from his grip. My mother screamed, a sound that shattered the rain, and I could feel the air grow thick with grief, as though even the storm itself mourned the loss.

The mercenaries didn't stop. They advanced, their hands grabbing the remaining villagers and dragging them into the square. I could hear the whimpers of the women and children, the pounding of feet as they tried to flee, but there was no escape. The mercenaries were everywhere.

I watched as my mother was grabbed by the leader, her arms twisted behind her back as she was forced to her knees. Her eyes met mine, full of pain and terror, and in that moment, I knew she was afraid. Afraid for what would happen to her—and to me—if we didn't comply.

"Get him," the leader said coldly, his breath thick with the stench of blood and sweat. "The boy's the last one."

I ran then, my heart pounding in my chest like the sound of the storm itself. I didn't know where I was going, only that I had to get away. I didn't look back; I couldn't. The village was a blur of smoke, flames licking the sides of houses, and the shadows of men chasing after me.

I didn't know where the forest began, but I ran until the trees swallowed me whole.

---

The forest was a place I had been warned about since I was a child. The old ones, the elders who spoke of the Shadows of Famine, always said that the forest was not for the living. It was a place of darkness, of spirits and forgotten things, where the wind howled like the souls of the lost. I had never dared to enter it before, but now, in the wake of all that had happened, it seemed the only place where I could hide.

I could hear the mercenaries behind me, shouting, their voices growing fainter as I stumbled deeper into the woods. The trees seemed to close in around me, their twisted branches reaching out like skeletal hands, and I could feel the chill of the air as it wrapped around me, seeping into my bones.

For a moment, I thought I could hear something else in the distance—something darker. A low murmur, a whisper on the wind, like the voices of the forest itself, urging me forward.

I didn't know how long I had been running. The storm had grown worse, and the rain beat down in sheets, making it hard to see. My clothes were soaked, my feet numb from the cold, but I couldn't stop. The shadows in the forest were all around me, watching, waiting.

And then, just as I thought I might collapse from exhaustion, I saw something. A figure, standing just beyond the trees. A pale, ghostly shape, illuminated by the pale light of the storm. It was a woman—or at least, it looked like one—but her eyes were empty, hollow.

She was watching me, and I could feel her gaze piercing through me, as if she could see every fear, every weakness within me. And then she spoke, her voice like a soft sigh on the wind.

"Kael," she whispered. "You have come... just as the prophecy said."

My heart stopped. How could she know my name? How could she know anything about me?

Before I could move, the shadows around me deepened, and I felt the weight of something unseen press against my chest, holding me in place. The forest itself seemed to whisper, urging me to listen.

"Come," she said again, her voice like a song from a distant place. "Come, Kael, for you are not alone in this storm."

But even as her words reached me, I knew—deep in my soul—that the storm wasn't just outside. It was inside me, and it was only just beginning.