But there was a terrible sight waiting for me there. As I reached the edge of the village, I saw nothing but dead bodies strewn like discarded dolls, broken buildings crumbling into rubble, fires licking at the remnants with hungry orange flames, and the strong, overpowering smell of blood that made my eyes water. He killed and destroyed my entire village. Entire families lay in the streets—old Mr. Harlan, who'd always given me candy, his throat slit; little Lila from down the lane, her doll clutched in lifeless fingers. The air was thick with smoke and screams that had long since faded. My home, the hut where we'd laughed just hours ago, was a charred skeleton, embers glowing like evil eyes.
I ran around frantically, looking for survivors, my voice cracking as I called out names. 'Dad?Anyone?' But to no avail. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant howl of wind. But then I saw some people in the distance. I thought they were survivors at first, hope flickering weakly in my chest. As I got closer, though, I realized they weren't even humans!
There were about seven of them. They had long ears, pale skin that glowed faintly in the firelight, and black clothes that clung to their lithe forms like shadows. They were tall—about seven feet two, towering over me like giants. They had katanas of different colors sheathed at their sides: one crimson, another emerald green. Two of them carried rifles, sleek and modern-looking, with glowing runes etched along the barrels. They were elves, I realized, straight out of the forbidden stories Dad used to whisper about when Mom wasn't listening—tales of ancient beings who lived in hidden enclaves, wielding magic and blades.