Ashes of Crotchet

  The path through Clef Hills twisted sharply down toward the valley where the town of Crotchet lay nestled. The morning mist still clung to the grass, silver and quiet—until the horizon broke.

  A pillar of black smoke tore through the sky.

  Themis stopped dead in his tracks. His heart dropped like a stone.

  “No…” he whispered.

  Below, flames devoured rooftops. The once?peaceful streets writhed in chaos—screams echoing through the valley, the clang of steel carried on the wind. The town was burning.

  “Shilol,” Themis breathed, eyes wide with panic. Without another word, he broke into a sprint down the slope, boots pounding against the earth.

  Heathcliff cursed under his breath and followed, spear in hand.

  “Trieni, cover the ridge!” he barked.

  Trish and Tristan exchanged a glance—no time for words—before racing after them.

  The wind howled through the hills, carrying the scent of ash and ruin.

  Crotchet was no longer a homecoming.

  It was a battlefield.

  In the Heart of Crotchet

  Chaos. Fire. Blood.

  Children cried. Mothers screamed. Men fought with farming tools and kitchen knives—futile resistance against the brutal tide of Rhapsodian soldiers sweeping through the streets.

  Smoke curled into the air as DarkHorn stood in the town square, his black armor glinting crimson in the firelight.

  “Burn everything,” he said coldly, as if discussing the weather.

  Beside him stood Orion—tall, imposing, muscles tense beneath his battle?worn coat. His sword hung lazily at his side, already slick with blood. His wild mane of dark hair whipped in the wind, and his eyes glittered with cruel delight.

  He grinned as a soldier dragged a pleading villager into the dirt.

  DarkHorn turned toward him. “I’ll leave for Lar Sonata. You have your orders. Do it right.”

  Orion gave a casual nod. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to get the target.”

  Without another word, DarkHorn strode toward the southern road and vanished into the smoke.

  Orion stepped forward, surveying the ruin—houses collapsing, townsfolk scattering, cries echoing through the haze. The air was thick with ash and terror.

  Then, across the square, he saw her.

  Shilol Lunareth.

  A slender, graceful woman with long golden hair that caught the firelight like molten sunlight.

  Backed against a scorched wall, dust?streaked and bloodied, she fought with twin tonfa—fending off three soldiers at once. Her movements were sharp, desperate, driven by fury and fear.

  “Who are you?” she shouted, voice raw. “What are you doing in our town?”

  Something flickered in Orion’s eyes—admiration, perhaps, or curiosity.

  No matter.

  He moved.

  With terrifying speed, he closed the distance just as she struck one soldier down. She turned, eyes widening—too late.

  A single, brutal punch to the gut. The air left her lungs in a gasp. She dropped to her knees, tonfa clattering to the dirt.

  “Heathcliff… Themis…” she whispered, voice trembling. “Where are you?”

  Orion crouched before her, brushing blood from his knuckles.

  “You’ve got fire,” he said softly. “But you burn out all the same.”

  He grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet.

  A soldier rushed up, panting. “Sir! Mercenaries approaching from the Clef Hills! We think they’re the Luminous Vanguard—Captain Zilla and Empusa reported them before!”

  Orion didn’t flinch. His grin widened, wicked and calm.

  “I have other matters to attend to,” he said, tightening his grip on Shilol’s arm. “Take care of the cockroaches.”

  He turned toward the burning streets, dragging her into the smoke.

  Behind him, the screams of Crotchet rose higher—

  and the night burned red.

  Moments Later — Themis Arrives

  They crested the final hill. Crotchet—once a sleepy town nestled between wind?chimes and wheat fields—lay in ruin.

  Flames licked the sky. Rooftops collapsed in sputtering embers. Smoke choked the heavens, turning daylight to ash?gray dusk. Screams echoed faintly, drowned by the crackle of fire and the groan of splintering wood. The scent of burning flesh clung to the wind like a curse.

  Themis froze.

  The others stood behind him, stunned. But he saw none of them.

  Because in his mind—

  —Crotchet was still alive.

  Flashback — Themis’s POV

  Laughter. Children chasing each other around lampposts, ribbons fluttering in their hands. Vendors shouting over one another at the morning market. Old man Varnel arguing with a cow in the square again—because she wouldn’t move unless someone sang to her.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  And there was Shilol, radiant as the sun, spinning barefoot through the dust, teaching local kids the steps to a folk dance. Her voice rose like a melody—sharp, bright, unforgettable.

  “You’re always watching me like that, Themis,” she’d tease, tossing him a flower. “You’ll go blind if you keep looking into the light.”

  He smiled. Said nothing.

  He should have said something.

  —End flashback.

  Reality returned like a blade to the gut.

  Now, the flower shop was gone. The dance square scorched black. A small hand poked from beneath shattered rubble. A lullaby he’d once heard sung here was replaced by the howl of a dying town.

  Themis dropped to his knees, choking—not on smoke, but on memory.

  Then came the voice—raw, desperate, breaking through the roar of fire.

  “SHILOL!”

  Ashes of Crotchet — The Inferno

  He didn’t remember standing.

  Didn’t remember drawing his blade.

  He only knew rage.

  His scream tore from his lungs like a beast unchained as he surged into the flames—a lone figure charging into hell.

  Rhapsodian soldiers emerged from alleys and smoke, faces smeared in soot, eyes wild with bloodlust. Some laughed. Others barked orders. One carried a child’s doll at his hip like a trophy.

  Themis struck like lightning.

  His blade was no longer steel—it was vengeance made manifest. He carved through armor and flesh alike, his roars louder than the fire. A soldier reached for help; Themis answered with steel. Another begged; he didn’t hear.

  He didn’t want to.

  “You took everything,” he whispered to no one.

  “So I’ll take it back in blood.”

  Behind him, his companions fought to keep pace—Trieni covering the flanks, arrows cutting through the smoke; Trish weaving frost to shield the wounded; Tristan’s sword intercepting stray bolts as he shouted orders through the chaos.

  “Watch him!” Tristan barked. “He’s out of control!”

  Even Heathcliff, voice trembling, whispered, “Themis…?”

  But the battlefield no longer heard names. Only wrath.

  And still he pressed forward—through ash, through screams, through the dying heart of Crotchet.

  The world narrowed to fire and fury. Every heartbeat was a strike. Every breath, a promise.

  And somewhere, deep within the flames…

  He thought he heard a girl singing.

  The Fall of the Vanguard

  From the blaze emerged Orion, dragging his sword behind him like a predator at play. Blood streaked his coat, and his eyes burned like embers.

  He stepped calmly over the corpses, looked at the group—and smirked.

  “I underestimated you,” he said.

  Heathcliff didn’t wait. He lunged with a fierce cry—only for Orion to catch his spear mid?strike, twist, and slam the hilt into Heathcliff’s gut, sending him crashing into a burning wall.

  Tristan charged next. “Fall, damn you!”

  They clashed, swords screaming against each other—until Orion kicked his knee and drove an elbow into his throat. Tristan hit the ground, gasping for air.

  Trieni fired from the rooftops—a rapid flurry of arrows.

  Orion spun and slashed, cutting them from the air in mid?flight. One he caught and hurled back; it grazed her shoulder, drawing blood.

  Trish raised her staff, shouting, “Freeze!”

  A storm of icy shards burst forth—but Orion moved through them like smoke, stepping between their gaps with horrifying precision.

  Then, one by one, he struck them down.

  And then came Themis.

  Blood streaked his face. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the storm raging within. Smoke clung to his skin, mixing with ash and sweat. His breath came ragged. His eyes locked on the figure ahead. Orion.

  A blur of screams echoed in his mind. The laughter of children—gone. The warmth of old market days—snuffed out. And above it all, one voice sang like a ghost.

  Shilol.

  “Are you the one who took her?”

  Themis’s voice cracked as he stepped forward, low and guttural.

  “Tell me. Are you the one? Where is Shilol?”

  Orion tilted his head slightly.

  “…That name means nothing to me.”

  Themis roared.

  He surged forward like wildfire, blade in both hands, dragging his rage behind him.

  Steel met steel.

  Once. Twice. A third time—faster, harder, more brutal than before. The clash of blades echoed through the ruins, sparks bursting with every strike. Themis fought like a man possessed—driven not by strategy, but sorrow.

  His feet barely touched the ground. Each swing screamed of loss. Each parry begged for release.

  “She was just a girl!” he shouted. “She taught children to dance—she—she laughed like sunlight—”

  “Then tell me! Where is Shilol? Did you kill her?”

  Orion spat. Themis broke.

  His next attack was blind. Wild. Reckless. Orion slipped aside.

  A sharp pivot—and his fist cracked across Themis’s jaw. The young swordsman staggered, blood spilling from his mouth. Before he could recover, Orion was on him.

  A crushing knee to the ribs. A brutal slam of hilt to shoulder. Then—steel pressed to Themis’s neck.

  Themis collapsed.

  His blade fell from his hand.

  Ash swirled.

  Heathcliff, already wounded, struggled forward. “Get up,” he rasped, reaching for Themis. “Don’t—don’t let it end like this…”

  But Themis only lay there—broken, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the burning sky.

  Orion stood above them, his silhouette framed by fire.

  “You fight for nothing,” he said coldly. “Just like he died for nothing.”

  He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, voice lowering to a near whisper.

  “Everyone fights for something. I fight to make sure the world never forgets.”

  He turned his back.

  “Take them. Alive. Put them in Bastille.”

  Rhapsodian soldiers stepped from the smoke, chains and manacles gleaming like fangs.

  No one moved to resist.

  Not this time.

  And as the Tower of Wind faded behind them, the heroes of Harmonia were dragged away into the shadows of Adagio Bastille.