The wind shifted the moment they left the Skyward Bastion.

  Dry.

  Cold.

  Empty.

  It carried no birdsong.

  No distant chatter.

  No signs of travelers or scouts.

  Only silence.

  Rowan guided the caravan forward with a grim set to his jaw. Lira sat close to Pyrope, her hands resting nervously on her knees. Tidewhisper watched the horizon with troubled eyes. Anatolian hugged the reins with trembling fingers, still shaken from the chaos of the Rooster Kingdom… and still trying to understand why they had been thrown out.

  They decided their destination would be the Rabbit Kingdom, choosing the normal route that caravans often used—the safe route. After everything that had just happened, they wanted no more commotion.

  Hours passed before the Rabbit Kingdom finally appeared on the plain.

  A circular wall, a simple silhouette rising on the horizon.

  But the land grew emptier with every step.

  And then the Rabbit Kingdom appeared—

  —or what was left of it.

  The Dead Gates

  The main entrance—once a decorative arch carved with soft curves and gentle patterns—stood shattered. The doors hung crooked, burned black at the edges. The stone below was cracked and clawed, as if something massive had pushed through without resistance.

  No guards.

  No sentries.

  No shadows behind the broken gate.

  Just wind blowing through ruins.

  Lira whispered, voice tiny, “Is this… really it?”

  Pyrope couldn’t speak.

  His breath thinned. His heart pressed painfully against his ribs. The closer they moved, the colder his chest became—as if something inside him already knew the truth and refused to let him look away.

  Rowan stepped off the mount first.

  “Stay behind me,” he murmured.

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  But no one wanted to stay behind anything.

  They passed under the destroyed gate and entered the kingdom proper.

  A Kingdom Without Life

  The streets stretched out like veins drained of blood.

  No bodies.

  No footsteps.

  Not even the faint scent of people.

  Just collapsed rooftops, torn banners, shattered lanterns.

  Rabbit-patterned textiles hung ripped on broken beams.

  Shops were overturned.

  Homes cracked open.

  But not a single sign of violence on any person.

  Because there were no people.

  Tidewhisper ran a paw along a broken wall, whispering, “Even in war… there are always remains. Always someone left behind. This is…”

  “Wrong,” Rowan finished quietly. “This isn’t the work of normal raiders.”

  Anatolian’s voice trembled into a squeak. “H-how do you wipe out everything? A whole kingdom? A whole people?”

  Lira clutched her sleeves, eyes shimmering. “Where… where did they go…?”

  Pyrope didn’t move.

  His mind was screaming, but no sound escaped his throat.

  Splitting Up

  Rowan forced his voice to steady.

  “We need to search. Thoroughly. There might be survivors hiding or trapped somewhere.”

  They split without argument.

  Tidewhisper and Anatolian turned toward the left district—Tidewhisper gliding low and swift, Anatolian stumbling behind him, muttering prayers under his breath.

  Rowan and Lira headed toward the collapsed market—a place where laughter once echoed.

  And Pyrope walked alone… drawn deeper into the silent remnants of his village.

  Pyrope’s Path

  His paws brushed ash.

  Soft grey dust clung to his fur.

  Every step was a memory he never asked for.

  He passed a small, shattered fountain.

  He passed broken wooden toys left in the street.

  He passed the ruins of homes shaped from gentle curves—homes built for families who no longer existed.

  Pyrope blinked slowly, desperately, as if trying to keep himself from unraveling.

  He wanted to scream.

  He wanted to cry.

  He wanted to run until the world stopped spinning.

  But he kept walking.

  Because something was pulling him.

  A feeling.

  A pressure.

  A presence.

  The Humming

  The first note was soft.

  Barely a vibration.

  Barely a breath of sound.

  But Pyrope froze instantly.

  Because he knew that hum.

  He had heard it in nightmares.

  In the dark.

  In the echo of Havenroot’s destruction.

  A chilling, almost playful tune drifted through the wind like a lullaby meant for the dead.

  And the others heard it too.

  Far behind him, Rowan stiffened.

  Lira grabbed Rowan’s arm.

  Tidewhisper looked up sharply.

  Anatolian dropped to his knees.

  The humming grew clearer.

  Calm.

  Gentle.

  Wrong.

  Pyrope slowly turned toward the source.

  And there—at the far end of the road—stood a lone silhouette.

  Light grey fur.

  A long scar over the left eye.

  A mangled, furless mouth.

  Hands tucked behind his back.

  Posture relaxed.

  Humming.

  Severus.

  Watching him.

  As if he had been waiting.

  The Spark in Pyrope’s Chest

  Pyrope’s entire body locked.

  Not with fear.

  Not with confusion.

  Not even with pain.

  But with something sharper.

  Hotter.

  More dangerous.

  Something rising from the bottom of his stomach to the crown of his skull.

  Something that felt like a spark striking dry tinder.

  Something beginning to burn.

  Anger, maybe.

  Or something older.

  Something deeper.

  Something Severus should not have woken.