Riftborn: The Fall of Light

The smoke rising in the distance was faint, barely visible against the darkening sky. Valen's footsteps were steady, his boots crunching against the brittle earth. The plain stretched endlessly before him, broken only by scattered ruins and the occasional jagged boulder. The quiet was unsettling, a vast emptiness that seemed to amplify every sound he made. Yet, he pushed forward, drawn by the thin, wavering column of smoke—a sign that he was not alone in this desolate world.

Hours passed before Valen reached the source of the smoke. What he found was less a village and more a scattering of broken homes, their stone walls crumbled and their wooden beams blackened by fire. The smoke rose from a smoldering fire pit at the center of the settlement, its embers glowing faintly in the night. There was no sign of life.

Valen crouched beside the fire, his hand hovering over the warmth. It hadn't been abandoned for long. Whoever had been here was either hiding or had fled just before his arrival. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, noting the signs of a struggle—scattered belongings, broken tools, and claw marks etched into the dirt.

As he examined the scene, a soft sound reached his ears. A faint, shuffling noise, coming from one of the crumbled homes. Valen rose slowly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. The air was tense, charged with the possibility of danger.

"Come out," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "I won't harm you."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, from the shadows of the broken structure, a figure emerged. It was a child—thin, dirt-streaked, and trembling. The child's eyes were wide with fear, but there was a glimmer of defiance in their gaze. They clutched a makeshift weapon—a broken piece of wood with a sharpened edge.

Valen lowered his hand from his sword, his expression softening. "You don't need to fight me," he said. "I'm not your enemy."

The child didn't speak, but their grip on the wooden weapon loosened slightly. Valen took a cautious step forward, his movements slow and deliberate.

"What happened here?" he asked.

The child hesitated, their eyes darting toward the distant horizon. Finally, they spoke, their voice barely above a whisper. "They came."

Through the child's halting words, Valen pieced together the story. A group of marauders—survivors who thrived on the chaos of the broken world—had descended upon the settlement. They took what they wanted, destroying everything else in their wake. The villagers had tried to resist, but they were no match for the marauders' brutality. Those who survived had fled, leaving behind only a few stragglers, like the child.

"Do you know where they went?" Valen asked.

The child nodded, pointing toward the east. "They're camped near the river. That's where they take… everything."

Valen's jaw tightened. He didn't need to ask what "everything" meant. The marauders were more than just thieves—they were a scourge, preying on the weak and defenseless. He looked down at the child, who was staring at him with a mixture of fear and hope.

"Stay here," he said. "Hide until I return."

The child's eyes widened. "You're going after them?"

Valen nodded. "They won't harm anyone else."

Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the east. The child watched him go, their small frame silhouetted against the faint glow of the dying fire.

The river was a thin, winding ribbon of water cutting through the barren landscape. Valen reached it just before dawn, the first light of day casting long shadows across the ground. The marauders' camp was easy to spot—tents and crude structures clustered near the water's edge, surrounded by stolen goods and makeshift weapons.

Valen observed the camp from a distance, his sharp eyes counting the marauders. There were six of them, their movements lazy and unguarded. They clearly didn't expect anyone to challenge them. He noted the way they carried themselves—confident, almost cocky. These weren't seasoned warriors; they were opportunists, emboldened by the weakness of their victims.

He approached silently, his movements as fluid as the river itself. The first marauder never saw him coming. Valen's blade flashed in the dim light, and the man crumpled without a sound. The second fell just as quickly, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground.

The remaining marauders were on their feet now, shouting in alarm. Valen stepped into the open, his dark figure a stark contrast against the pale dawn. His sword gleamed, slick with blood.

"Who are you?" one of the marauders demanded, his voice shaking.

Valen didn't answer. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes—a cold, unrelenting determination—was answer enough. The marauders hesitated, their bravado faltering. They weren't used to facing someone who fought back.

The battle was over in moments. Valen moved with precision, his strikes swift and lethal. By the time the sun rose fully, the camp was silent once more.

Valen stood amidst the wreckage, his sword dripping with blood. Around him lay the bodies of the marauders, their reign of terror ended. He surveyed the camp, his gaze lingering on the stolen goods. Among them were items that clearly belonged to the settlement—tools, clothing, and even a few scraps of food.

He gathered what he could carry and began the long walk back to the settlement. When he arrived, the child was waiting, their small face lighting up with a mixture of relief and disbelief.

"They're gone," Valen said simply, handing the child a bundle of recovered items. "The others can return now."

The child stared at him, their eyes wide with gratitude. "Thank you," they whispered.

Valen didn't respond. He turned and began walking away, his dark figure disappearing into the horizon once more. He didn't need thanks, nor did he seek recognition. His path was his own, guided only by the faint glimmer of something he couldn't quite name—a hope that, somewhere beyond the ruins, a better world might exist.