The sky is pitch-black, gloomy except for the ash spewing from the tongues of fire hovering over what once harbored life. A sketch of a horror that will be etched on everyone's conscience. The burning stench seeps through the nostrils, reaches the lungs and ignites your soul. Ash itself becomes the setting, the misty blur that carries the souls into the realm of darkness.
A rumble.
The sky is torn apart. A flash of lightning flickers marking the end of what once was. The cries do not cease, one can still hear the haunting hellish echo, the echo of the end. The land is stained with sickening colors, and the fire does not end until it has cleared everything away. In the distance, a woman mourns, screaming with her hands through her hair as if to tear it out because the woman is a mother, but what made her one doesn't exist anymore.
A man comforts her, although he himself senses the burden of what has been lost.
Another woman stands at the edge of a cliff, as icy cold as the surrounding air, and observes. The war is over. She has won. But it still isn't enough.
The flames die down and with it the screams, the wails, the cries. A stony stillness prevails and the mother, whose tears mingle with the lifeless soil, feels her heart halt.
She will make her pay bitterly for the lives taken in vain, for the lives of the ones she gave life to.
But suddenly there is the sound of crying.
Babies' cries.
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"Your emotions are a tool. Nothing more, nothing less." Rosalind's voice reverberated distinctly at the stone circle, commanding the attention of all the students. In the center power buzzed from the hand of the student confronting Bloom, "They are a source of energy. You were taught to control them," flames erupted in Bloom's, "it's not always the best choice." Bloom was struck by static.
"In combat you will have to rely on instinct," her voice sickened Lark, though it was no news that there was something that irritated him. He would have found Bloom's circumstances of being subjected to the incessant jabs of electricity like a puppet rather comical had it not been for the fact that Lark was not what he used to be.
Lark was broken. The events of that evening had grimly been seared into his memory and were not only haunting him during the day but also took the lead in his worst nightmares. He was forced to relive the horrific sights of the bodies of his mother and sister mauled and limb- missing, with blood pouring from the gashes inflicted by those beasts and not intact and as if they were just asleep as they had been found.
That was what troubled him. They appeared too peaceful, as if they had not undergone any pain, as if not a strand of their hair had been harmed, as if not-but Lark would shake these lingering thoughts, such hopes. He did not want to deceive himself because evidence of half of his family being gone lay six feet underground.
