Tara QR-Portal
The Night the World Went Dark
The last thing Tara ever saw was her daughter’s face.
She would remember that detail for the rest of her life.
Not the monster.
Not the blood.
Not the darkness that came afterwards.
Saya.
Her youngest.
Seven years old, barefoot on the wooden floor, clutching the little cloth fox that she refused to sleep without, looking towards her mother because children possess a terrible and beautiful certainty that their parents can save them from anything.
Tara saw that certainty in her eyes.
And then the world ended.
But before that night, there had been happiness.
Real happiness.
The kind people rarely recognise while they possess it.
On the Vita Planet of Asaka, among the valleys where cedar forests climbed towards blue mountains and rivers wound between old settlements and great modern cities, the name of Tara’s clan carried a particular meaning.
They were Fighters.
Not mercenaries.
Not soldiers by necessity.
Fighters.
It was an old tradition among their bloodline, older than many of the cities that now surrounded their ancestral lands. Generation after generation had taught the next that a weapon was not an instrument of anger but an extension of discipline.
Strength without control was weakness.
Speed without judgement was panic.
A blade drawn without purpose was already a defeat.
Tara had heard those words since childhood.
She had probably repeated them to her daughters too many times.
Especially Mina.
Mina had recently decided that she would become a Fighter just like her mother, which meant that every stick she discovered in the forests of Asaka immediately became a sword.
“You’re holding it backwards,” Tara told her one afternoon.
“I’m inventing a new style.”
“You are holding a branch backwards.”
“It is a very advanced style.”
Tharan laughed from beneath the tree where he was preparing their food.
“Careful,” he warned Tara. “You may be speaking to the future greatest Fighter in Asaka.”
Mina lifted the branch triumphantly.
“You see?”
Tara looked at her husband.
“You encourage them.”
“Of course.”
“That is why there are three of them and only one of me.”
Tharan considered this.
“There are four of us.”
Tara raised an eyebrow.
Tharan smiled.
“Against you.”
Lira laughed first.
Then Mina.
Then little Saya, who had no idea what everyone was laughing about but had already learned that laughter was contagious.
Tara tried to remain stern for perhaps two seconds.
Then she laughed with them.
Those were the moments she would later torture herself with.
Not the extraordinary ones.
The ordinary ones.
The ones nobody thinks to preserve because everyone assumes there will be thousands more.
Tara fought with two blades.
It was uncommon even among her clan.
Her dominant weapon rested in her right hand: a long, slightly heavier katana designed for committed strikes, powerful counters and decisive cuts.
The second katana was shorter.
Faster.
Precise.
She carried it in her left hand.
Her father had once described the weapons as two halves of the same thought.
The longer blade created the question.
The shorter one answered it.
Tara had spent years perfecting that philosophy.
Her right hand could break an opponent’s rhythm.
Her left could find the opening that followed.
Against inexperienced Fighters, she seemed impossibly fast.
Against experienced ones, she was worse.
She was patient.
That was why the clan respected her.
And that was why her daughters believed there was nothing their mother could not defeat.
Tara never corrected them.
Perhaps she should have.
Her eldest daughter, Lira, was fourteen and already beginning to acquire the quiet intelligence that would one day make conversations between mother and daughter increasingly dangerous.
Lira observed.
Remembered.
Asked questions hours after everyone else had forgotten the subject.
Mina, eleven, was fire.
Everything was a challenge.
Everything could become a competition.
She could transform breakfast into a duel if somebody allowed her.
And then there was Saya.
Seven.
Saya loved animals, hated storms, believed every moon had a secret name and still climbed into Tara and Tharan’s bed whenever she had a nightmare.
Three daughters.
Three completely different worlds.
Tara loved them with an intensity she had never managed to explain.
She had faced armed opponents without trembling.
She had crossed wild country at night.
She had fought while injured.
Yet when one of her daughters developed a fever, Tara became terrified.
Tharan used to tease her about it.
“The legendary Fighter of Asaka.”
“Be quiet.”
“Defeated by a thermometer.”
“She feels hot.”
“She has a cold.”
“She feels very hot.”
“She stole three honey cakes an hour ago.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves she is going to survive.”
Those arguments usually ended with Tara pretending to be annoyed while Tharan kissed her forehead.
She loved him for things like that.
Not because he was extraordinary.
Because with him she never needed anything to be extraordinary.
The day Silence came began beautifully.
That was perhaps the cruelest part.
The sky above Asaka was clear.
The mountains seemed close enough to touch.
They spent much of the afternoon outside the city, near a stretch of forest where the family had been going since Lira was small.
Tharan cooked.
Mina attempted increasingly impossible feats with fallen branches.
Lira sat beside the river.
Saya collected smooth stones and insisted that each possessed a different magical property.
“This one heals wounds.”
Tara accepted the stone solemnly.
“And this?”
“Invisibility.”
Tara examined it.
“I can still see it.”
Saya sighed.
“Not the stone, Mama. You.”
“Ah.”
“You have to hold it properly.”
“Of course.”
Tara turned to Tharan.
“Can you see me?”
“Unfortunately.”
She threw the stone at him.
Tharan caught it.
The girls burst into laughter.
Years later, Tara would remember that moment and wonder whether there had been some cruelty hidden in the universe itself.
An invisible stone.
An invisible monster.
A joke made only hours before something unseen entered their home.
But that afternoon there had been no omen.
No warning.
Only sunlight.
Only voices.
Only her family.
Night settled gently over their district.
By the time the girls prepared for bed, rain had begun tapping softly against the windows.
Tara placed both katanas on their stand near the main room.
Tharan noticed.
“You’re expecting war?”
“Habit.”
“You always say that.”
“And I am always prepared.”
He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“For what?”
Tara leaned back against him.
“Anything.”
Tharan kissed the side of her head.
There are promises people make without speaking.
That was one of them.
I am here.
You are safe.
Tomorrow will come.
From the hallway, Mina shouted.
“Saya stole my blanket!”
“I did not!”
“You did!”
“It was abandoned!”
Tara closed her eyes.
Tharan whispered:
“Your warriors require leadership.”
“They're your daughters.”
“During peaceful times.”
Tara turned around.
“You coward.”
He smiled.
She kissed him.
It was their last kiss.
Across the street, something watched the house.
Nobody saw it arrive.
Nobody heard it move.
Later, neighbours would disagree about the details.
One claimed the dogs had stopped barking.
Another remembered the lamps flickering.
Someone thought they had felt an unusual coldness moving through the street.
Perhaps those memories were real.
Perhaps people merely invented warnings afterwards because accepting that catastrophe can arrive without warning is much harder.
The creature would eventually acquire many names.
But Tara would know it by only one.
Silence.
Its body could disappear completely from ordinary sight.
Not become transparent.
Not camouflage itself.
Disappear.
It could move through darkness leaving almost nothing behind except the faint displacement of air and, occasionally, the soft scrape of something sharp against stone.
It reached Tara’s house without being challenged.
It waited.
Listened.
Learned where everyone was.
And entered.
Tara noticed the silence first.
Not Silence.
The absence of sound.
Rain continued against the windows.
The fire crackled.
But something had changed.
Her instincts reacted before her mind understood.
She looked towards the hallway.
“Tharan.”
He immediately recognised the tone.
The humour vanished from his expression.
“What?”
Tara listened.
Nothing.
Then—
A floorboard moved.
Not creaked.
Moved.
As though something heavy had placed weight upon it.
Tara stood.
Her right hand moved towards the weapon stand.
“Girls.”
Lira appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Mum?”
“Go to your room.”
The lights died.
Every one of them.
At once.
Darkness swallowed the house.
Saya screamed.
Tara reached the blades.
Steel whispered from their sheaths.
Long katana.
Right hand.
Short katana.
Left.
Her breathing changed.
The woman disappeared.
The Fighter remained.
“Tharan, get them out.”
Something moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Tara heard a violent impact.
Then Tharan gasped.
Not shouted.
Gasped.
The sound a human being makes when the body suddenly discovers something the mind has not yet understood.
“Tharan?”
Tara turned towards the sound.
A shape appeared for perhaps half a heartbeat.
Not fully.
Only two burning eyes.
A suggestion of wings.
Something long and black protruding through Tharan’s chest.
Tara froze.
The thing withdrew its tail.
Tharan fell.
“NO!”
Lira screamed.
The monster vanished again.
Tara attacked.
Her long katana cut through empty air.
The short blade followed precisely where an opponent should have evaded.
Nothing.
“RUN!”
The girls scattered.
Tara heard Mina crying.
Furniture overturned.
Tara slashed towards movement.
Again nothing.
Then a sound from the hallway.
A wet impact.
Lira screamed her mother’s name.
Once.
Only once.
“LIRA!”
Tara ran towards her.
She found her daughter on the ground.
Her hands searched desperately for the wound.
Warm blood covered Tara’s fingers.
“No. No, no, no—Lira, look at me.”
Lira tried to breathe.
“Mum…”
“I’m here.”
“Mum…”
“I’m here, darling.”
Tara pressed both hands against the wound.
Her katana fell beside them.
“I’m here.”
But Lira was already gone.
Behind Tara—
Mina screamed.
Tara turned.
The invisible creature had crossed the room without making a sound.
“Mina!”
Tara seized the long katana and charged.
For the first time, instinct found something.
Steel struck flesh.
A roar exploded from empty space.
Black blood appeared suspended in the air.
Tara attacked again.
The shorter katana followed.
She felt resistance.
The monster recoiled.
For an instant its invisibility flickered.
Tara saw it.
Stone-dark flesh.
Jagged claws.
A monstrous tail.
Wings folded against a body built like a nightmare.
And eyes filled with absolutely nothing human.
Tara understood only one thing.
It could bleed.
“COME ON!”
She advanced.
Long blade.
Short blade.
High cut.
Low thrust.
She drove the creature backwards.
For several seconds, grief disappeared beneath training.
Tara became every lesson her clan had ever taught her.
The right blade commanded space.
The left hunted openings.
The creature attempted to circle.
She anticipated it.
The long katana sliced across its side.
Silence shrieked.
Then Tara heard Saya crying behind her.
“Mama!”
The smallest voice.
The most important voice in existence.
Tara turned.
That was the mistake.
Silence moved.
Something struck Tara across the body and hurled her into the wall.
Her head hit wood.
Her vision blurred.
She forced herself upright.
“Saya!”
And there she was.
Her daughter.
Barefoot.
Clutching the little fox against her chest.
Terrified.
Looking at her mother.
Waiting to be saved.
The last thing Tara ever saw.
Silence appeared behind the child.
“No.”
The tail moved.
“NO!”
Tara lunged.
Too far.
Too slow.
Saya’s eyes widened.
The fox fell from her hands.
Tara screamed with a sound she had never made before.
Silence turned towards her.
Its mouth opened.
Tara saw something glisten.
Then fire entered her eyes.
Pain erased the world.
Tara collapsed.
Both hands flew instinctively towards her face.
She screamed.
The substance burned deeper.
She rolled across the floor, trying to wipe it away, succeeding only in spreading the agony.
Light became red.
Red became white.
White became nothing.
“Tara!”
Mina.
Mina was still alive.
Tara forced herself onto one knee.
“Mina! TALK TO ME!”
“Mama!”
“KEEP TALKING!”
She reached blindly for the weapons.
Her fingers found the shorter katana.
“MAMA!”
A rush of air.
A scream.
Then silence.
“Mina?”
Nothing.
“Mina!”
Nothing.
Tara swung wildly.
“MINA!”
Her blade struck furniture.
Wall.
Floor.
Nothing.
“MINA!”
She heard something dragging across the room.
Tara crawled towards it.
“Please.”
Her fingers found cloth.
Small cloth.
Mina’s sleeve.
Then a hand.
Motionless.
Tara stopped breathing.
“No.”
She touched her daughter’s face.
“No.”
Warm.
Still warm.
“Mina.”
She shook her gently.
“Mina, get up.”
Nothing.
“Mina, sweetheart, get up.”
Nothing.
“Mina.”
Tara pressed her forehead against her daughter’s.
“Please.”
Behind her, something moved.
Tara turned immediately and swung.
Her katana connected.
Silence screamed.
Tara struck again with such force that the blade cut deeply into something she could not see.
The creature retreated.
She heard claws against wood.
Then the window shattered.
Rain rushed into the room.
Silence was gone.
Tara remained on the floor.
Blind.
Bleeding.
Surrounded by people she loved more than her own life.
For a long time she said nothing.
Perhaps minutes passed.
Perhaps hours.
Time no longer meant anything.
Eventually she began crawling.
First she found Lira.
Then Mina.
Then Saya.
Finally Tharan.
She touched each face because touching was all she had left.
Tharan’s hair.
Lira’s cheek.
Mina’s fingers.
Saya’s tiny hand.
She found the cloth fox beside her youngest daughter and placed it against Saya’s chest.
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice barely existed.
“I’m sorry.”
The legendary discipline of Tara’s clan was gone.
The Fighter was gone.
There was only a mother on her knees.
“I’m sorry.”
She moved from one body to another as though somehow she could still decide which one needed her most.
“I was here.”
She pressed her hand against Lira’s hair.
“I was here.”
She held Mina.
“I was right here.”
She crawled towards Saya.
“You called me.”
Her voice broke.
“You called me, and I was here.”
That was the thought that destroyed her.
Not that she had been absent.
Not that she had arrived too late.
She had been there.
A few steps away.
Armed.
Trained.
A Fighter.
Their mother.
And it had changed nothing.
Tara bent over Saya’s body and finally surrendered to the grief.
The sound travelled through the ruined house and into the rainy streets of Asaka.
Neighbours came.
Members of her clan came.
Some entered.
Some could not.
Nobody knew what to say.
Nobody could give Tara back the four people lying around her.
Someone tried to take her away.
She fought them.
Blindly.
Weakly.
Desperately.
“No!”
“Tara—”
“DON’T TOUCH THEM!”
She crawled back towards her family.
“They're cold.”
Nobody answered.
“They're getting cold.”
A healer knelt beside her.
“Tara…”
“Help them.”
Silence.
“You're a healer.”
“Tara—”
“HELP THEM!”
The healer began to cry.
And Tara understood.
For the first time since the attack, she became completely still.
She lowered her head.
Her ruined eyes remained open beneath streaks of blood and venom, staring into a darkness that would never leave them.
Outside, Asaka continued.
Rain fell.
Lights burned in distant homes.
Families slept.
Children dreamed.
The planet turned beneath the stars as though nothing important had happened.
But inside that house, an entire universe had ceased to exist.
Tharan.
Lira.
Mina.
Saya.
Gone.
And Tara could not even see them one final time.
She reached across the floor until her hand found the larger katana.
Her fingers closed around the grip.
For a moment everyone watching thought the Fighter had returned.
She tried to stand.
Her legs failed.
Tara collapsed beside the blade.
The weapon struck the floor with a hollow sound.
She did not reach for it again.
She simply lay there beside her family.
And whispered into the darkness:
“Why am I still alive?”
No one answered.
For the first time in her life, Tara wished someone would.
Anyone.
A god.
A legend.
The universe itself.
But the only answer was rain.
And somewhere beyond the walls of her ruined home, unseen beneath the night of Asaka, Silence was still alive.