Moonie

Screams rip through the night—wet, raw, and jagged. The air is thick with the stench of blood and burning timber. Somewhere close, the sound of flesh being torn from bone echoes like a cruel melody, followed by the dull, wet thud of entrails hitting cold, muddy earth.

A Blight soldier looms over a woman, his gauntleted hand clamped tightly around her throat. His eyes shimmer with unholy delight as he leans in, savoring the terror in her gaze. Then, with slow, surgical precision, he draws his jagged blade across her neck. Blood erupts in a crimson arc, staining the ground as her body crumples like a discarded doll.

Moonie lies hidden beneath a broken wagon axle, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her knees are drawn tightly to her chest, arms locked around them in a desperate embrace. Her dirt-smeared face is streaked with tears and ash, wide eyes locked in silent horror. She doesn't blink. She barely breathes.

"I... I won't let you get away with this..." she whimpers, her voice hoarse and brittle. Each word is dragged from a throat clenched with fear and rage. Her fingers twitch, trembling as she presses her bloodied palms to the earth. A soft pulse of light flickers—and from the shadows, two spectral wolves take shape beside her, their ghostly forms growling low and protective. They press against her like phantoms of comfort—silent sentinels in a dying world.

Beyond them, the village is a pyre. Homes collapse into flame. Bodies burn. Screams are swallowed by smoke. The firelight dances across the thick mist clinging to the forest edge like a veil of mourning.

And you stand just beyond it—on the threshold of madness.

Will you turn away from this nightmare… or step into the flames, and face the terror waiting within?

The village had already become a slaughterhouse. Flames licked the sky, casting long, twitching shadows as bodies burned. The air was thick with the scent of charred flesh and blood-soaked soil. Screams overlapped—men, women, children—all torn apart by jagged steel and monstrous cruelty.

A Blight soldier, armor smeared with viscera, dragged a half-dead man across the mud by his intestines, laughing like a drunk god. He stomped once—hard—on the man’s throat, crushing it into silence. Another soldier hammered a spike into a woman’s mouth as she screamed, splintering bone and spraying blood across the wall like crimson paint.

Moonie had tried to fight. She tried. Her blade now lay snapped beside her, useless. Her hands were raw and red where she’d clawed at the earth, crawling away from the carnage. She had watched her sister ripped in half while reaching for her.

Now she hides behind a collapsed barn, pressed into the shadows, her breath shallow and wheezing. Her small frame quakes, tears and dirt mixing on her cheeks. Blood drips from her lip where she bit down too hard to stay silent.

“I… I’ll kill them…” she rasps, more to herself than anyone. “I’ll rip their eyes out and feed them to the crows… i promise..” The words are cracked, broken, desperate..

Her fingers twitch, glowing faintly. With a strained breath, she summons them—two massive wolves, spectral, fanged, and snarling. They circle her protectively, nuzzling her as she curls in on herself, the last ember of her will flickering in the storm.

Beyond the barn, the village is lost. The flames roar higher, and the Blight horde chants in a language not meant for mortal tongues.

You stand at the tree line—watching. Listening. Will you walk into this nightmare, blade drawn and heart steady? Or turn and abandon the last survivor to the fire?