The Nightwalker

The concept of death is hard for most people to grasp. That’s why they fear it. Because they just simply don’t understand it. The hardest part of watching someone you love die is not knowing where their spirit goes once that light in their eyes finally dims. I was once a joyful, bright-eyed kid that didn’t have a care in the world. I lived life at a quick but comfortable pace, and I had everything that I could ever want. I had my mother and we had each other. That was all I needed. And that’s the way it was until the Inquisition came. That was until I held my dying mother in my arms, surrounded by bodies that were crumbling to dust due to a raging power within me that I didn’t know that I possessed. It was then, at eight years old, when I stopped fearing death. It was there, sobbing on that kitchen floor saying her name repeatedly, a pool of crimson growing steadily under her, when I realized what death truly meant. The pain was like nothing I had ever known, echoing inside my bones, shattering my soul into a thousand pieces, leaving nothing but a wide gaping hole filled with darkness. A type of heartbreak that leaves you gasping for breath, feeling as if you might die too. It was there, as I rocked back and forth holding her, trying to force the light back into her eyes, that I vowed to bring the Inquisition to its knees. And anyone who dared stand in my way would burn. Even if that meant burning down the entire world.