Chapter 1
3rd person pov.
Deep in the tall, green mountains, there was a small hidden village called Azalea village. The village was surrounded by giant trees that reached high into the sky, their leaves whispering softly in the wind. No one from outside knew about Azalea village because it was tucked away behind thick, twisting paths and tall, ancient trees that hid it from view.
The houses in the village were small and cozy, made of wood and stone. Each cabin was unique, with colorful flowers growing around the doors and tiny smoke clouds rising from chimneys. The villagers loved their little homes and took great care of them. They built their cabins close together, so everyone was like a big family.
But the people of Azalea village weren’t ordinary. They were different from normal humans. They had bright, sparkling eyes and skin that shimmered in the sunlight. They moved quietly and gracefully, like they were part of the forest itself.
The villagers were kind and gentle, always helping each other. They loved nature and believed that the trees and animals were their friends. Every morning, they would walk among the giant trees, listening to the birds sing and watching the deer wander past. They knew the secrets of the forest and understood its quiet language. They could talk to the animals and hear what they said in return.
Kaelith's pov:
In our villiage, life was simple and peaceful. The villagers spent their days weaving, cooking, and playing music. They had special festivals under the full moon, where everyone would gather around a big fire and dance. Their songs were soft and sweet, blending with the sounds of the forest. The villagers believed that their magic came from the trees and the earth, making their small village a place of wonder and calm.
Despite their peaceful life, the villagers knew their village was special. They kept it a secret from the outside world to protect their home and the magic that kept it alive. They believed that as long as they stayed hidden, their peaceful life would continue forever.
More than five hundred years ago, long before our homes stood where they do now, our people lived in a different place. It was a quiet village, surrounded by fields and trees, with a river that ran gently along its edge. The mornings there were soft and golden, and the nights were calm, filled with the sound of wind through leaves. People worked, laughed, and raised their families. Life was not perfect, but it was peaceful, and that was enough.
There was one thing, though, that made our people different from others. We had gifts. Not everyone had the same kind, but each person carried something special. Some could heal wounds with their touch. Some could sense danger before it came. Others could make plants grow faster or call small lights into the darkness. These gifts were not meant to harm. They were part of who we were, like breath or heartbeat. In our village, they were normal. No one feared them. They were used to help, to protect, and to make life better.
But outside our village, people did not understand.
Stories began to spread beyond our lands. Travelers carried whispers from place to place. They spoke of strange abilities, of unnatural powers, of people who could do things that others could not. With each telling, the stories grew darker. What had once been simple gifts became, in those stories, dangerous magic. Fear slowly replaced curiosity. And fear, when left to grow, can become something much worse.
At first, nothing seemed different. Our people still lived as they always had. Children played in the streets, elders told stories by the fire, and the river kept flowing as it always did. But then, signs began to appear. Strangers were seen at the edges of the forest, watching but never coming close. Travelers stopped visiting. Trade became rare. The world beyond our village was changing, even if we did not fully see it yet.
Then, one night, everything changed.
It began in silence. The moon was high, and most people were asleep. The air felt heavy, though no one could say why. A few among us, those who could sense danger, woke with a feeling they could not explain. Some stepped outside their homes and looked toward the dark tree line. Others tried to shake the feeling away and return to sleep. But the unease did not leave.
Then came the first sound.
It was faint at first, like distant thunder. But it grew louder. Heavy footsteps. The clinking of metal. Voices, low and sharp. Before anyone could react, the edge of the village lit up with sudden flames. Torches cut through the darkness, and shadows moved quickly behind them.
The attack had begun.
People rushed from their homes in confusion. Some called out to their families. Others tried to understand what was happening. But there was no time. The attackers came in numbers, more than anyone could count. They wore armor and carried weapons that caught the firelight. Their faces were hard, filled with fear and anger.
They did not come to talk.
The first houses fell quickly. Flames spread from roof to roof, fed by dry wood and strong winds. Fire climbed the walls and burst through windows. Smoke filled the air, thick and choking. People tried to put out the flames, but there were too many, and the fire moved too fast.
Cries filled the night. Children screamed. Parents shouted names, searching for loved ones in the chaos. The peaceful village that had stood for generations was turning into something unrecognizable.
Some of our people tried to use their gifts to protect others. Those who could control water pulled from the river, trying to stop the flames. Those who could heal rushed to the wounded. Others tried to create barriers or push back the attackers. But the enemy had come prepared. They feared our gifts, and because of that fear, they struck with force and without hesitation.
Arrows flew through the air. Blades clashed in the firelight. The ground trembled under the weight of the attack. Every moment felt like it stretched too long and passed too quickly at the same time.
The river, once calm and gentle, reflected the burning sky. The trees at the edge of the village caught fire, their leaves turning to ash. The fields that had fed our people were trampled and scorched. Everything that had once been full of life was being destroyed.
Some tried to fight. Others tried to run. Many were caught in between.
Families were separated in the confusion. Friends lost sight of each other in the smoke. The sounds of the village—laughter, conversation, music—were replaced by the roar of fire and the clash of violence.
It did not take long for the village to fall.
By the time the first light of dawn touched the horizon, very little remained. The fires still burned, though some had begun to die down. Smoke hung in the air, drifting slowly over what had once been a home.
The attackers were gone.
They left as suddenly as they had come, taking nothing with them except the destruction they had caused. Whether they believed they had done the right thing, no one could say. But they left behind silence, broken only by the crackle of dying flames. For them, everyone was dead, everyone burned or killed, but a few of our people survived.
They were the ones who had managed to escape into the forest or hide from the worst of the attack by the elders of our village. Some were injured. Some had lost everything. All of them carried the weight of what had happened.
They gathered slowly, one by one, at the edge of what had once been their village. No one spoke at first. There were no words for what they were seeing. Homes reduced to ash. The river darkened by soot. The land itself scarred by fire.
They searched for others, hoping to find more survivors. Some were found. Many were not.
In the end, only a small group remained.
They knew they could not stay.
The place that had been their home was no longer safe. Even if they rebuilt, the fear that had brought the attack would not disappear. Others might come again. And next time, there might be no one left at all.
So they left.
The journey was long and difficult. They traveled through forests, over hills, and across unfamiliar lands. They carried what little they had managed to save. Along the way, they helped each other, using their gifts carefully, quietly, afraid of being seen.
They did not speak much about what had happened. The memory was too heavy, too painful. But they did not forget.
Eventually, they found a place where they could begin again. It was far from their old home, hidden and quiet. There, they built new houses. They planted new fields. They tried to create a new life from what remained.
But things were not the same.
The gifts that had once been openly shared were now kept hidden. People used them only when necessary and often in secret. The fear of being discovered stayed with them, passed down from one generation to the next.
Stories were told, but never in full. Children grew up hearing only parts of what had happened. They knew that their people had been attacked. They knew that it had something to do with their gifts. But the
details faded over time, softened by distance and silence.
What remained was a simple understanding.
Our existence was dangerous to others.
Not because we wanted it to be. Not because we meant harm. But because people feared what they did not understand. And fear, as our ancestors learned, can destroy even the most peaceful of places.
So we live quietly now. We build, we grow, we care for one another, just as our ancestors once did. But we are careful. We remember, even if we do not know every detail.
Because more than five hundred years ago, everything we had was taken in a single night. And the world has never fully forgotten what we are.
