The village of Cinderbrush had no walls. No defenses. It was too small, too forgotten for war, and its people were simple—gardeners, weavers, and bone-pickers who told old stories by firelight. They had heard of the Old Faith, yes, but in the way one hears thunder from miles away: distant, ominous, not real.

That changed when the banners came.

Black cloth with white sigils fluttered on spears, carried by armored zealots whose faces were hidden behind gold masks. At their center walked Shamura, robed in crimson and bone-threaded silk, many eyes half-lidded in eerie serenity. They moved like a shadow with purpose—graceful, terrible, assured.

The villagers gathered in the square, trembling but proud. Their elder, shaking on his staff, said simply: “We worship no god here. We want no quarrel.”

Shamura tilted their head, slowly. “Then you are mistaken. Your quarrel has already begun.”

The command was given with a gesture. The massacre was efficient. Artful.

Screams pierced the morning stillness as homes were set alight and families scattered. Blood soaked the packed earth streets. The Old Faith soldiers moved through the village like a tide, washing away everything that dared to stand.

And in the aftermath, as the fires crackled and the crows gathered…

Shamura found them.

A small creature—barely a child—curled behind a broken barrel, silent tears streaking down their soot-stained cheeks. Their wide eyes met Shamura’s, frozen in terror.

The god knelt.

They reached out with surprising gentleness, four spindly hands carefully lifting the trembling youngling into their arms.

“Shh…” Shamura murmured, soft as silk. “You are spared. A seed among ashes.”

The child clung to them, too frightened to resist.