tasteful vengeance

chapter 1

The room was warm, filled with the soft glow of the fire and my mother’s gentle voice reading stories. I laughed, safe in her arms, the world outside forgotten. Elara sat beside us, her small hands clutching a rag doll, eyes wide with wonder. The scent of pinewood and fresh bread filled the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of my mother’s hair. It was a moment of peace, fragile and precious.

My mother’s voice was steady, soothing, weaving tales of heroes and magic. “And the brave knight saved the kingdom, my little light,” she whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. I felt her warmth seep into my skin, a shield against the dark world beyond our door.

Then, the silence shattered.

A sharp thunk—an arrow slammed into the wooden door, splintering the frame. The sound was like a crack in the sky, sudden and terrifying. My mother’s head snapped up, eyes flashing with fear I had never seen before. Her story faltered, her voice caught in her throat.

Before I could ask what was wrong, the door exploded inward with a violent crash. Silver-tipped arrows rained down like deadly hail, splintering wood and flesh alike. The air filled with the sickening thud of arrows piercing walls, the wet slap of bodies hit, and the sharp scent of blood.

“Lucien! Hide!” Her voice cracked, trembling with panic and fierce love. She grabbed me, her arms shaking but strong, and shoved me under the floorboards. The wood was cold and rough against my skin as she pressed me down into the dark earth beneath our home. “No matter what happens—do not come out. Promise me!”

I whimpered, my small hands clutching at her face, but she kissed my forehead, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Remember, you are the light. You must survive.”

The pounding of heavy boots grew louder, shaking the floor beneath me. The door crashed open fully, and cold steel gleamed in the firelight. The soldiers poured in, their armor clinking, faces hard and merciless.

“Where is the boy?” a cruel voice barked, sharp as a blade.

My mother stood, blood dripping from an arrow wound in her shoulder, her eyes blazing with defiance despite the pain. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she refused to yield. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie, witch,” another snarled, stepping forward, dagger in hand. “The boy stolen from the tomb. Tell us where he is.”

“I swear, he’s dead,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Please, spare me.”

A soldier lunged, dagger flashing in the firelight. It plunged deep into her side. She screamed—a raw, piercing sound that tore through the night, filled with agony and desperate love. Her body convulsed, blood spilling hot and sticky onto the floorboards.

“Speak!” they demanded, pressing their weapons against her throat, voices cold and merciless.

She shook her head, tears mingling with blood, her lips trembling. “No… no…”

One soldier grabbed her hair, yanking her head back with brutal force. Another raised a sword high, and with a sickening s***h, her head was severed from her body. Her scream echoed, a haunting wail frozen in the air, then faded into a chilling silence.

From beneath the floor, I heard Elara’s tiny footsteps pounding, frantic and terrified. “Mummy!” she cried, her voice breaking the dreadful quiet.

She burst into the room, eyes wide with shock and pain. Before she could reach my mother’s fallen form, a blade caught her mid-step. She fell, a soft thud muffled by the roar of destruction outside. The soldiers descended on her like wolves, stabbing again and again, each strike brutal and merciless. Her blood pooled around her, mixing with our mother’s, dark and thick.

Her last breath was a whisper, a broken plea for mercy that never came.

Outside, the village burned. Flames devoured homes, licking the night sky with fiery tongues. The screams of neighbors ripped apart by steel and fire filled the air—men, women, children, their cries swallowed by the chaos. Soldiers showed no mercy. They tore through the streets like a plague, hacking down anyone who dared resist or hide.

I could hear the crackle of burning wood, the shouts of the attackers, the desperate sobs of survivors. The air was thick with smoke, blood, and the stench of death. The ground beneath me trembled with the pounding of boots and the collapse of homes.

I stayed hidden, trembling, my heart shattering with every scream, every cry, every lost soul. The world I knew was dying around me, and I was powerless to stop it.

That night, the light in my life was snuffed out. My mother’s voice, once a lullaby, was now a haunting memory. Elara’s laughter, once a balm to my fears, was silenced forever.

But beneath the floorboards, beneath the ashes and tears, something dark and fierce awoke inside me—a fire fueled by loss, rage, and the desperate need for revenge.

I swore then, in the cold earth beneath my destroyed home, that I would rise. That I would become the storm that would bring justice to those who tore my family apart.

I am Lucien. I am the light—and the darkness that will consume those who dared to extinguish