The town of Halford lay in ruins, its cobblestone streets slick with blood and ash. Fires danced across the rooftops, casting eerie shadows on the broken remnants of what had once been a thriving settlement. The stench of death clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Somewhere in the distance, a dying scream cut through the night.

  A lone figure sprinted down an alleyway, breath ragged and uneven.

  Ash didn't dare look back.

  His heart pounded in his chest, his swords—once a source of confidence—felt like dead weight, anchors pulling him deeper into the abyss of his own shame. Behind him, the echoes of battle still raged—the clash of steel, the guttural roars of creatures birthed from the miasma, and the desperate, fading voices of his comrades.

  Brighthollow was making its last stand.

  Ash stumbled against the charred remnants of a stone wall, his vision swimming. His mind rebelled against the truth, conjuring images of his party—the people who had taken him in when no one else would—holding the line against an unstoppable force.

  Onyx Clear, their steadfast leader, stood at the forefront, shield planted firmly as he bellowed commands. His armor was battered, streaked with blood, but his posture remained unshaken. He had promised Ash that every great adventurer started somewhere. That he had potential.

  Lysara Duskwhisper, ever sharp-tongued, had planted herself on the crumbling balcony of a ruined tavern, loosing arrow after arrow. Even as her quiver ran dry, she was already reaching for a dagger, her smirk unwavering. "Guess I'll have to make these last shots count, huh?" she had joked moments before Ash ran.

  Kael Mercer, the towering warrior was drenched in blood—his own and the enemy's. He swung his greatsword in wild arcs, grinning even as he staggered from his wounds. "Hope you know how to run, kid," he had muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. "Cause we're about to buy you a head start."

  Sorin Nightbloom, their tactician and mage, stood at the center of a glowing arcane sigil, hands weaving desperate spells that turned the battlefield into a hurricane of violet fire. "I'll slow it down," he had murmured, voice eerily calm. He already knew he wasn't making it out.

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  And Sylri Silver, the quiet healer, had been the last to reach Ash. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to his wounds, golden light flickering weakly between her fingertips. "You have to go," she had whispered, voice filled with unyielding resolve. "We're not saving you so you can die here."

  The air had thickened then, the weight of the miasma pressing down on them as the Night Warden approached.

  It was a colossal humanoid construct, a towering figure of metal and stone, its form fractured and shifting as though barely held together. Runes of unknown origin glowed across its surface, pulsating like a heartbeat. Its head, featureless but imposing, turned toward them with mechanical deliberation. With every step, the ground trembled, and the air itself seemed to distort around its massive frame.

  Onyx turned, his expression set like stone. "Go, Ash."

  The command struck like a hammer.

  Memories poured into his mind as Ash began to run.

  Lysara Duskwhisper, had often teased Ash, she had been the first to call him "Dead Weight." But over time, the nickname had lost its bite, replaced by a grudging respect—and the occasional smirk when he managed not to trip over his own sword. "You're improving, Ash," she'd said once, her voice dripping with mock surprise. "I only had to save your life twice today.

  Kael Mercer, with a laugh that could shake the rafters, had been the first to welcome Ash into the group. "You're scrawny, kid," Kael had said, ruffling Ash's hair with a hand the size of a dinner plate. "But you've got heart. And if you stick with me, I'll teach you how to swing that sword without embarrassing yourself."

  Sorin Nightbloom, the group's resident mage, had a way of speaking that made even the most dire situations seem manageable. "The Miasma is spreading faster than we anticipated," Sorin had said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "But panic won't save us. Focus, precision, and a well-timed fireball—those might." He'd glanced at Ash, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Try not to set yourself on fire this time."

  Sylri Silver, the healer with hands that glowed like moonlight, had a way of calming even the most restless souls. "You're not dead weight, Ash," she'd said once, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're one of us. And we don't leave our own behind." Her words had been a balm to his doubts, even if he hadn't fully believed them.

  "You're greener than a spring sapling, Ash," Onyx had said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "But even the tallest oaks start as acorns. Stick with us, and you might just live long enough to see your potential." He clapped Ash on the shoulder, the weight of his gauntlet nearly knocking him over. "Just try not to die before you get there."

  The last thing he saw was Kael charging into the storm, Lysara drawing her last dagger, and Onyx standing, unbroken, against the abyss.

  The shame burned worse than any wound.

  The Night Warden's roar echoed through the ruins, a cruel and final requiem for Brighthollow.

  Ash stumbled forward, his legs trembling beneath him. Tears blurred his vision as he clutched the torn remains of Brighthollow's banner, the booms of battle fading behind him as he fled into the darkness.