Purple Core

The air was thick with smoke, carrying a harsh metallic scent that clung to every breath. The clash of swords rang through the village, but the noise seemed to fade around a young boy no older than ten. He knelt beside his mother’s still body, unable to process the chaos around him. Her eyes, once warm, now stared past him, the faint traces of dried tears marking her cheeks. The boy sat motionless, shock numbing every thought as the battle raged on. A chilling scream suddenly cut through the haze. His head jerked up, tearing his gaze away from his mother. Villagers were sprinting for their lives, some falling as bandits swept through the streets. A few men tried to fight back, but they lacked the training to handle such a situation. Then he saw them—the source of the scream. Two children his age, his neighbors and closest friends, pressed back against the wall of a home. A bandit loomed over them, blade raised. Something ignited inside him. A burning rage surged from deep within, tightening in his chest and rushing down his arms. His eyes landed on the small knife lying near his mother’s hand—the one she must have grabbed to defend herself. Instinct overtook him. He snatched up the knife, its weight strangely natural in his palm, and sprinted toward the bandit just as the man lifted his sword for a killing strike. The two children shut their eyes, bracing for the blow. A moment passed. Then another. A rough, choking noise broke the silence. They opened their eyes to see the bandit stagger, his weapon slipping from his grip and clattering to the ground. The man turned, trying to face the boy who now stood behind him, but his steps faltered. He collapsed forward, revealing the knife lodged in his back. The young boy stood frozen staring with pure hatred in his eyes. That was the night that marked the end of his childhood.