NOVEL NEXT Chapter 8: The Smell of Iron
Chapter 8: The Smell of Iron
The sun hung high in the sky when a sharp, metallic smell interrupted my thoughts. Darius had gone into the forest shortly after breakfast, saying he needed some fresh air, but he hadn’t returned yet. I had noticed his unease, but I respected his need to be alone. However, that unmistakable smell of iron immediately put me on edge.
I stood up from the porch and walked toward the edge of the forest, feeling a growing sense of discomfort. In the distance, I saw Darius's silhouette among the trees, his tall, muscular figure illuminated by the warm rays of sunshine. He stood still, staring at something on the ground.
“Darius...” I called, but there was no response. As I got closer, I understood why.
The first thing I saw were the bodies. Small, fragile, unrecognizable. The stench of death hit me in the face, mixed with the unmistakable scent of fresh blood. Two children, no older than Clara and Lucas, lay there. Naked, their lifeless bodies were covered in horrible wounds. The scene hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, the horror almost making me step back.
Darius was kneeling beside them, his breathing heavy, his fists clenched. I had never seen him like this, his face hardened by a cold, controlled anger that was palpable in the air.
“Who...?” I tried to ask, but the words stuck in my throat. Then I saw the other bodies, a little further away. Seven men. Or what was left of them.
Bandits. Their weapons were scattered around them, broken, while their bodies had been torn apart. There was no mercy in what Darius had done. The marks on the ground, the nearby trees burned and slashed, the air still vibrating with residual energy—it was clear he had used his power brutally. He hadn’t just killed them, he had crushed them, not giving a single one a chance to escape.
“I got here too late,” Darius murmured, not looking at me. “Too late to save them.”
The pain in his voice was palpable. This wasn’t the kind of man who failed, not the kind of man who arrived late to a battle. But this time, he hadn’t been fast enough.
“Darius...” I began, trying to find the right words, but what could I say in a situation like this? What do you say to someone who has witnessed such horror? “I’m sorry…”
He finally stood, his eyes fixed on the children’s bodies.
“These bandits…” he continued, his voice low and controlled, but with a fury I could feel. “They were within the range of ‘Elemental Sense.’ They weren’t just looters. They were monsters, Hasar. They killed those children… And not just that... They… they…”
I knew what he wanted to say without him needing to explain. I had seen many atrocities during my time in the military, but this… this was different. The horror had been unleashed on the innocent.
“They knew,” Darius continued, his jaw clenched. “They knew exactly what they were doing, and they did it anyway.”
The silence between us grew heavier. The forest, which usually gave me a sense of calm, now felt eerie, charged with the dark energy of what had happened.
“What are you going to do?” I finally asked, though I already knew the answer.
Darius took a deep breath, as if trying to control the anger still boiling inside him.
“I’m going to burn their bodies. They don’t even deserve the honor of being buried.” His tone was sharp, almost distant.
I knew this was his way of processing what had happened, of maintaining some kind of control over the situation. But the swift and brutal justice he had delivered to the bandits didn’t seem to bring him the peace he sought.
Darius extended a hand, and with an almost imperceptible movement, the air around the bodies began to vibrate. A small spark of fire appeared in his palm, floating in the air before, in an instant, it exploded into flames that consumed the dead men. The heat was intense, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.
“And the children?” I asked softly.
“I’ll take them to the village in the morning. They deserve to rest with dignity.” His voice softened a little, and I saw in his eyes the weight of responsibility he felt, as if his power, his ability to protect, had somehow failed by not arriving in time.
He picked up the small bodies with surprising delicacy, wrapping them in his cloak. As he did, I felt that something between us had changed. The peace that had reigned in our lives until now, the simple and quiet rhythm of life on the farm, felt fragile. The outside world, with all its cruelty and chaos, had intruded mercilessly.
We walked back to the farm together in silence. The sounds of the night felt distant, unreal. My children slept in their beds, unaware of the horror that had unfolded so close to them. I wondered how much longer I could keep them safe, how much longer we could live in this bubble of peace before everything fell apart.
Before we entered the house, Darius looked at me. His expression was still grim, but there was also a steely determination in his eyes.
“This isn’t over, Hasar. This kind of evil... it’s starting to spread.”
I nodded, though part of me still didn’t believe it.
The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the sky a deep orange that barely illuminated Hasar’s house. From my spot on the road, I watched as his figure faded into the approaching night. There was something unsettling about his tranquility, as if he was trapped in a bubble of peace he had created for himself. But that peace was an illusion, a refuge keeping him safe from the storm that was looming.
I had seen how that refuge had slowly consumed him. Hasar had dedicated his life to building a world where pain couldn’t touch him, but in doing so, he had forgotten what it truly meant to live. The echoes of war, the cries of his fallen comrades, and Jenni’s face always stood between us, even when we tried to talk about lighter things.
Every time I tried to get close, he found a way to evade me, to dive back into his daily routine, as if that could erase the scars he carried inside. His silence was deafening, a declaration that he had given up the fight, a decision that filled me with helplessness.
I knew his children were growing up without the guidance only he could offer them. He had to realize he was protecting them from himself, but that wasn’t enough. The nights were the hardest for him—I knew because he spent them awake, tormented by memories he couldn’t face. The war had left scars that followed him, and now he was determined to lock himself in his bubble, ignoring the warnings from those who truly cared about him.
“Hasar, you can’t go on like this,” I once told him, casting a hopeful glance his way. “The war didn’t define you, and you can’t let the past consume you. You need to face what happened, not bury it.”
“No…” he said in a whisper, almost pleading.
And that was the last straw.