Free Unknown by Poppy

trees, illuminating two figures lying on the ground amongst wet leaves and tree branches. Aya opened her eyes and frowned in the morning sunlight. She sat up slowly, her whole body aching, wet leaves stuck to her skin, confused – why was she outside?
She reached up to rub her eyes, and saw the dried blood on her arms. It all flooded back to her in an instant – the attack, the sound of screaming, the fire, the smoke, and blood, so much blood…
The Tyran next to her gave a heavy sigh and she jumped away from him. He lay with his arms folded, his blood stained sword and axe lying beside his sleeping figure. His steel armour and dark hair were stained with spatters of blood – the blood of Elves. Aya got shakily to her feet and backed away from him.
He was enormous – at least six or seven feet tall, bigger and wider than any Elf man Aya had ever seen. She had never seen a Tyran before last night, and now she had, they reminded her of nightmares.
She turned and fled back towards the direction of the village. Panic flooded through her as she recalled the horrors of last night. Would anyone still be alive? Had Llyliana and the servant girls got away safely? What had happened to Flint and Dorran, her father?
Aya ran, her terrified breath clenching the insides of her lungs, her heart pounding with fear, low-hanging branches scratching her face and arms as she struggled through the thick trees. She was terrified at what she may find, but there was no way she could turn back. There had to be someone, anyone, left alive.
She finally emerged from the trees and found the muddy hill from the previous night; she could see the tops of the towers rising behind them, the plain flags swaying in the morning breeze, as if nothing had changed at all. She clambered up the slope, half-wanting to turn back, frightened of what she was about to see, and desperately hoping against hope that it had all been a terrible dream.
The sun had risen, and morning sunshine beamed onto the streets of the village. Aya reached the top of the hill, panting, and at the sight she found, gave an anguished scream and collapsed to her knees.
Where her precious village once was, lay a stretched landscape of black and red. Most of the small wooden houses been burned to the ground; the few left standing were half-destroyed, splintered wood scattered around them. The tables from the night before had been overturned; the ground was littered with old food and spilled wine.
Amongst the houses and the destroyed decorations were hundreds of motionless bodies, some holding weapons, some empty-handed, lying lifeless, their empty eyes open, but not seeing the blood-red sky of the morning. Some bodies had limbs torn from them, weapons buried in their chests or backs. Bloody weapons lay here and there, and the ground was covered in ripped strips of coloured ribbon, smashed lanterns, stone and straw.
Aya clutched at her hair, sobbing uncontrollably; she felt as if she was drowning in terror. Everything she had ever known and loved now lay destroyed before her. Where was her father? Where was Flint? Did they lie among the poor, mutilated bodies that filled the streets?
She drank in the horror, the endless mess of bloody corpses, fighting back the urge to vomit. Shakily, she got to her feet and stumbled down the hill, unable to stop herself retching at the sea of mutilated bodies in front of her. As she came to the streets, a terrible smell of blood, death, sweat and smoke made her cover her mouth with her sleeve. The pale corpses looked worse from up close, pained and cold, caked in dried blood and worse. Aya staggered along on the glass, stone and broken wood stabbing at her feet through her sandals. A deathly silence hung over the almost unrecognisable city; not even a single bird chirped, and the breeze seemed to have disappeared.
“Father?” she called desperately.
Sometimes she saw an E lf she knew, and turned away, tears burning in her eyes, feeling as if she’d lost