Leafe Hill was a small village to the west of Meliorn known for being the place where Leafe the Conqueror died protecting his lands from Balmordian invaders. Leafe Hill was an honored place because of this, and he people in the village were known for their Leafe Festival every year on the day of his death because of his bravery and sacrifice.

On that day, when Leafe gave his life to protect his lands, he had been found with four arrows in his back, one in his throat, and the body of the Balmordian leader beneath him. The man had had his throat slit, and to all who looked upon the corpses, it looked as though Leafe had been about to take the man’s head right off his body.

With that image of Leafe in their minds, the villagers of Leafe Hill kept themselves battle ready and hardened. They prospered thanks to their weaponry and their known capabilities as hardened soldiers. If anyone needed a killer with honor, they went to Leafe Hill. If anyone needed a weapon that would disassemble a dragon in two heaves, they went to Leafe Hill.

And Leafe Hill is where Scoria’s story begins.

        Leafe Hill’s blacksmith hammered away at the sword he was forging while his son and daughter watched with eager eyes. Steinar wanted to teach his children, Rolf and Scoria, the art of the forge. He wanted his children to be great blacksmiths as well as great warriors. Rolf, as the son, was going to take over the smithy and needed to uphold the standards of the family. Scoria, as the daughter, needed to show her craft and competencies in order to enter the home of a suitable man. As the best blacksmiths in Leafe Hill, many men and women were prepping their offspring to join Steinar’s household through marriage.

        The red light from the embers made Steinar’s eyes glow in the darkness of the forge. The only outside light came from under the hides that were stitched together to form a tarp which covered the forge to keep the rain from entering. When the forge had first been built, the heavy rain and cold winters were too much for the wood, and it had taken many attempts to find a solution before they had reached the tarp solution.

        When the sword has done being hammered at, and it was dipped into the icy water to cool, the three headed into their home that was attached to the forge.

        “Rolf, tomorrow you start making your sword. Scoria, you will make watch as I make the hilt for the sword I have just made.” Steinar said as they entered the hovel.

        “I welcome the challenge, father.” Rolf said, his eyes full of excitement and honor. He had been preparing to make his own sword for months and had been begging his father to allow him to make one before the winter started. The snow was about to fall soon, and this was his chance to prove that he was a man and able to hunt when spring arrived.

        Scoria was still too young to make a sword, or life one properly, so she was fine with watching how to make everything before actually making anything. She worried that she would make a mess of everything and lose her father’s love and respect. Her mother had already taught her everything that she needed to know about caring for the home and hearth, so the forge was all that was left for her to learn aside from learning to fight.

        These things she would learn in a few years when she would be able to finally lift a sword above the ground and not fall over from the force used to lift it.

        “Steinar, come here,” his wife waved him to the front door and in hushed tones spoke to him as she led his gaze outside. His back straightened and they looked at one another and then to the two children before sweeping into action.

        “Rolf! Get to the forge and grab my sword,” he directed his son as his wife grabbed kitchen blades and dragged Scoria to the bathing room, “And grab one for yourself! Today you become a man or die one.”

        At his words, Scoria and Rolf’s eyes met and they knew something bad was happening. Something bad for the enemy. There was no way that the people attacking them would survive. They were the warriors of Leafe Hill. They would kill anyone who tried to overtake them.

        “Scoria,” Her mother whispered, “You do not know the arts of death yet, but soon you will. The people coming will either kill you or enslave you. Take these blades and protect yourself. Do what you must to survive. I will hold them off for as long as I can to protect you and this home, but if I fall, you must defend yourself.” She stared at Scoria and Scoria stared back before nodding. The little girl was not ready to die, but she was also not ready to let those around her die. Before her mother left the room to grab her daggers, she turned back to her daughter. “And don’t lose control. Not unless you are the last one alive. Then, and only then, can you take them all to Neifros, the Land of the Dead.”

        Scoria nodded, suddenly shocked and afraid. If her mother was giving her permission to use her power, a power that they had kept hidden from the villagers, it meant that she was worried. Which meant that there was a possibility the people coming to destroy their village were possible of actually destroying it. This was something that Scoria could not fathom at her young age.

        The sounds of battle were easily heard behind the walls of Scoria’s home. She could hear the horses’ hooves beating against the ground and trampling everything in their paths. She could hear the clang of metal from the weapons of the invaders and the villagers clashing. She could hear the sounds of her people screaming and whooping war calls and battle cries as they attacked. And she could hear the resounding reply from the invaders.

        The twin blades in Scoria’s hands felt cold against her skin, and she could smell wood burning. The flames outside the window were easy enough for her to see, but she dared not move in case she herself was seen by an invader. From her view, she could only see the flames. She couldn’t see the battle.

        The sound of the front door being kicked in knocked Scoria to her senses, her mother’s voice a low growl from the other side of the door. More metal clashing against one another, followed by wet slicing sounds. The wet slices reminded Scoria of the sound of the cattle being butchered. Then there was the sound of something being beaten, like when the children her age would practice swordplay with wooden swords against padded stationary dummies in the woods.

        Then there was silence.

        Silence both outside the house and within. It was the sound of death.

        Scoria stood, unsure of what she should do. On one hand, if her mother were alive, she’d call for her. On the other hand, if anyone were alive, they would be celebrating their victory over the invaders loudly while putting out the fires. All Scoria could hear was silence and the burning of her home.

        It was a long time for her before she heard movement outside, and saw people through the bedroom window. The invaders were dressed in black armor, a red bird in flames painted onto their shoulders to signify who they were fighting for. It was a sign of Meliorn, the kingdom that Leafe Hill resided in. Scoria stood still in the burning bedroom as she watched the men set their torches aflame and toss them onto the other homes in the village.

        Her mother’s words echoed in her head. Not unless you are the last one alive. Then, and only then, can you take them all to Neifros.

        “Mother. Father. Rolf. I’ll see you all soon.” Her tiny voice shook as she glared at the men outside. The blades in her hands turning bright red from a heat source that only Scoria knew to control.

        As she slowly made her way outside, a trail of flames following her in her death walk, she made her way through the house and outside. On her way, she saw her mother’s mangled body on the ground, a sword still in her hand even though it had been cut off clean from the rest of her body. Outside, the invaders barely paid attention to her. The only thing they cared about was the burning of the homes. One soldier saw her, and decided to take her life, and he went up in flames as soon as he was in her line of sight. His screams brought attention to the rest of the men, and soon Scoria had all of the invaders in her grasp.

        The last thing she saw before she allowed herself to lose control was the body of her father near the end of the village, a sword in his back. Her brother lay under him, his small hand mere inches from their father’s blade. A lone shadow of a figure watched on a hill overlooking the village. Scoria’s only thought was that she hoped that person would feel the flames against their skin as she burnt everything to the ground.