Basecules stepped onto the grassy plain, his eyes drawn to a distant pillar of smoke twirling into the sky. The plain was vast, dotted with wildflowers and encircled by distant hills. The smoke hinted at secrets hidden beyond the horizon.
"What could that smoke be?" Basecules mused, curiosity piqued. He started jogging towards the rising column, each step squishing softly on the lush grass. The smoke grew thicker as he approached, a beacon guiding his path.
As he neared, the truth emerged through the haze: a small village ablaze, attacked by some unknown force. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood and despair. Basecules' heart raced—time was of the essence.
Reaching the village, Basecules surveyed the damage: six sod and timber huts, their thatched roofs consumed by flames. The structures, simple yet sturdy, were designed for farming life but stood no chance against the fierce fire.
A faint sound caught Basecules' attention—a whimpering from one of the less damaged huts. "Could there be a survivor?" he thought, rushing towards the sound with renewed hope. He prepared himself for what he might find inside.
Basecules searches through the remnants of a hut, its charred timbers groaning with the wind. He stumbles upon a trapdoor, cleverly concealed under a layer of debris. Opening it, he finds a small, bald boy huddled in a root cellar, his eyes brimming with fear.
The boy flinches as the light floods his dark refuge, shielding his eyes with dirt-smudged hands. Slowly, he peeks through his fingers, his fear melting into a puzzled recognition. He stares at Basecules, something unsaid flickering across his face.
Breathless, the boy speaks with an urgent tone: "You have to take me with you. I must go with you!" His voice is desperate, and his small form trembles with the weight of his unshared knowledge.
Basecules, moved by the boy's intensity, kneels to his level. "What's your name, little one?" The boy shakes his head, "I have no name anymore. Just call me The Boy." His voice is hollow, echoing loss.
Basecules, moved by the boy's intensity, kneels to his level. "What's your name, little one?" The boy shakes his head, "I have no name anymore. Just call me The Boy." His voice is hollow, echoing loss.
"Why must you travel with me?" Basecules probes gently. The Boy hesitates and then reveals, "I had a vision—a vision of you, and I must be there."
"Why must you travel with me?" Basecules probes gently. The Boy hesitates and then reveals, "I had a vision—a vision of you, and I must be there."
"Is this vision real?" Basecules asks skepticism in his tone. The Boy nods vigorously, "Yes! Just like the attack on my village. I saw that, too, in a vision." "I saw fire raining from the sky, turning into a flood that washed everything away in flames," The Boy explains, painting a vivid picture of destruction.
The Boy points to extinguished arrows half-buried in the mud. "See? It was like my vision, but not exactly. The fire came like rain, but not rain." His understanding of his own prophecy is limited but sincere.
Putting his thoughts aside, Basecules builds a campfire and shares his provisions. The Boy eats quietly, his gaze drifting to the ruins around them.
Together, they sift through the wreckage. As they dig graves for the villagers, The Boy helps solemnly, marking each grave with a simple cross of sticks.
Basecules spots tracks leading away from the village—distinct marks left by the attackers. Should he pursue vengeance, risking both their lives on a perilous chase? Or should he prioritize the mysterious vision, steering them toward the city and potentially greater purposes?
