Holdin Stump's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Holdin sat in his cabin, sharpening a kitchen knife by the stove. He wanted one thing: to rebuild what his grandfather had raised, board by board. Then the window shattered. Blue pixies poured through, all teeth and yellow eyes. He grabbed his sidearm from the shelf and fired until the chamber clicked empty. The swarm kept coming. They tore through the rafters and ripped a hole clean through the roof. Holdin ran. He sprinted to the village watch quarters in the square, lungs burning. Guards shouted and barred the doors behind him. He sank against the wall, knife still clenched, useless. A dry click was all his empty sidearm offered now. He needed something real before the next wave came. On a rack near the cots, he spotted it — a stubby flame thrower with a weathered fuel can. He pulled it down and tested the grip. Outside, he dragged a chair and a chest into a rough barricade across the doorway. He set the empty pistol on top as a marker, a line he would not let them cross. A soldier was coming, they said. He only had to hold. Holdin crouched behind the barricade, nozzle aimed at the square. Wings whined in the distance. He watched the treeline for the swarm — and for the fairy he did not trust to stay away.