Unlit Memory - Sparks & Kindling Ch.2 - By Dale de Kock

Written By: Dale de Kock

Category: Book Chapter

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the compelling book chapter "Unlit Memory - Sparks & Kindling Ch.2," Dale de Kock invites readers on an intense journey of emotion and resilience. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this creative writing entry delves into themes of transformation, family, and the inescapable shadows of the past. De Kock's narrative captivates with its rich emotional tapestry, drawing readers into a world where the past and present collide with powerful consequences.

About the Work

This chapter delves into the intricate dynamics of family love and the haunting shadows of past actions. The narrative balances tenderness and tension, depicting a family's serene moments disrupted by a lurking menace. The literary style is vivid, with imagery that paints both the beauty and brutality of life. Through this lens, de Kock explores themes of legacy, protection, and the unforeseen ripple effects of choices, leaving readers engrossed in the unfolding drama.

Unlit Memory - Sparks & Kindling Ch.2

Original Submission by Dale de Kock

Chapter 2

Unlit Memory

"And the young lad was reborn as a butterfly, his family looking on in amazement. And it was the most beautiful butterfly you could ever lay your eyes on. All your favourite colours, mixing and blending together."

"I want a green and purple and blue butterfly, Paps!"

"A beautiful green, purple and blue butterfly, of course it was. Then, the butterfly fluttered away but would never roam far. Generations of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren still see that exact butterfly, even though their lives are much shorter than our own. But, because the lad loved his family so so so much, he was given a much longer life than even the oldest man in the village. He was reborn as a beautiful and delicate creation, so he could always watch over his family."

Rycan bends over to kiss Hila and Maryun on their foreheads, their arms wrapping around his neck.

"Whoa, wait, mfmfmmm!"

Their father barely has a second to brace himself before his children pull him between them, his face scrunched into the heavy down pillow. Giggling and yelps of surprise echo into the house, a tickle fight erupting in the small room against the back wall. Dimelia walks into their children's bedroom, smiling as she leans against the wall beside the bed.

"Alright, my scruffians. It's time for bed. We have a big day tomorrow, don't we?" Dimelia coos, her delicate hands brushing her children's hair away from their eyes.

"Yay, Marmar and baby Sannah's birthday! Ooh, sorry," Hila shouts before shushing herself. Rycan pushes himself off the bed with an exaggerated groan, his knees popping as he squats at the end of the bed.

"Oh, these old bones. Your paps is a creaky fellow, you know. Good night, my doves. The sweetest and most relaxing dreams upon you," he says, squeezing each of their feet as he turns to leave.

"Night night mammapaps, we love you," Hila yawns, her eyes fluttering closed. Maryun, already surrendering to the cooling darkness of slumber, simply raises a hand before letting it slump to the covers.

The beaded curtain parts with soothing clicks as the beaming parents walk into their bedroom, a slightly larger copy of their children's. Sannah sleeps quietly in her crib, already fed and changed for the second time since dinner. Dimelia kicks off her sandals and collapses onto the bed. Her grunts of annoyance at the blanket bundle illicit a snicker from her husband, followed by a sigh.

"Ah, my love. Time moves too quickly now. I'll be completely silver by the time Maryun is big enough to ride on his own," Rycan groans, sliding into bed next to his wife.

"And I shall find you just as gorgeous, my darling. Come rain, shine, or our faces etched with lines, I will be by your side," Dimelia whispers, audible only to herself and her husband. She taps his nose with a slender fingertip, their love so strong that it seems to float about their gaze. Rycan's hand cups her cheek, kissing her deeply, pulling her closer. Their lips part ways, and the lithe dancer drapes her arm and leg lazily over her love's flame-toughened shirtless form. He kisses her forehead, breathing in the sweet aroma wafting from her curled locks.

"You are my eternity. I will love you for as long as my consciousness roams this world, or any beyond. You have brought so much light to my eyes. But today..."Rycan trails off, eyes darkening as images of Kaibellus standing in the village square assault him once again.

"I thought I left that man behind. I thought we left it all behind, gods damn it! This village was supposed to be our haven, but my sins have followed me here. My legacy of steel, blood and deceit. I've put you and our children, our neighbours and their children, in peril by being here," Rycan growls, damp eyes fixed on the thatch roof above.

"Now now, my love. You could never have known Kaibellus would find us again, and that he would bring a force like that to bear. And for what? A show of strength, against a village of farmers and children? His presence here is but an indication that we made the right decision, my dearest. You showed such strength. Today, and back then," she whispers, pulling herself closer still.

"We made this life together, and we will continue to live it until our dying days'" Dimelia reassures. "That is your legacy, there in that crib and in that room beside ours. Our impact here, the friends and comrades we have garnered here. That will never be tarnished, not by that miniscule man and his bitches of war."

Her last sentence drips with venom, fierce and protective. Now latched around Rycan's torso, she kisses his cheek before nuzzling into his neck again. Rycan breathes out, his chest tight with anxiety. He blinks away the first vestiges of tears, instead choosing to focus on the slender fingertips scratching his beard.

"Thank you, Petal, for standing beside me. You are the agent of my transformation, the chrysalis from which this life came. I love you, endlessly and with my entire soul," Rycan whispers, planting a gentle kiss onto his wife's head. He splutters, her curly hair winding into his beard, up his nose and between his lips. The couple laughs quietly, nestling into each other as the melding sounds of night waft through the window shutters. Soon, sleep comes, as it did for their children, and the two nod off in each other's arms. The world stills, stars twinkle in their heavenly placements, and silence reigns over the fields.

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The five soldiers are silent, as they are trained to be. Their regiment is one tasked with covert operations: assassinations, sabotage, and political manipulation. These are men tasked with sowing seeds of discord, a darker side to an already blackened conflict. They are singled out young, exhibiting an almost inhuman capacity for violence. But, more importantly to their superiors, many recruits exhibit a puzzling juxtaposition of malicious self-service and a single-minded devotion to those who manage to earn their respect. Trained to be deadly, discreet, and efficient, some still debate the validity of their existence. Their true name known only to those who govern them, the Black Princes are the Empyre's hidden weapon, the poisoned dagger sliding through ribs.

Dark shapes under cloudy moonlight, they steal ever closer to Rycan's house. Each man moves in the same distinct manner: crouched low, they place a gloved hand on the ground before using it as a stepping stone with their opposite foot, effectively silencing their approach outright. If their thin leather boots are a scream atop loose gravel, their ih’kar-skin gloves are whispers in the dreary wind. Each of them carries but a single dagger, and a belt with ten throwing knives and three metal vials of poison. Their hooded gambesons are form fitted and long enough to cover any exposed skin, and they daub their faces with wet ash to further erase their presence. The squad leader’s brass laurel lays crooked across his brow, the metal treated to absorb light rather than reflect.

Slithering over the wall in turn, they silently communicate with a series of hand gestures to approach the house from two angles. The leader and his second in command pick the window closer to the rear of the house. Two of the remaining three choose one near the front door, with the final soldier waiting in the darkness of the boundary wall.

Slicing through the cord holding the shutters closed, each group slinks into the house. The leader and his second slide noiselessly through the parents’ room. Quietly lifting Sannah from her crib, the leader hands the slumbering bundle over. The other soldier clambers back through the open window and out into the cloud-choked moonlight. The remaining three glow with malicious anticipation as they stalk through the house. The leader closes the shutters before he hunkers down in the dark near the parents' bed, covering all parts of himself that would reflect any stray light. A manic giggle is stifled as beads click apart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Move, boy, or get left behind. There is no tolerance for weakness in The Grey!"

Smoke, sparks and screams slide over one another in a cacophonous sensory overload.

"Wait! Wait, my baby is still in there! No! Stop!"

Crackling flames, acrid burning odours, tears streaked through ash and blood.

"Break him! Find out how he knows or I will skin you alive and make dogmeat of your worthless flesh!"

Drip, drip, dripping red on a bearskin rug. Wails of anguish echoing off stone walls and iron bars.

"Death to the Grey Empyre! Fire for her leaders! Freedom for her slaves!"

Dark, sliding clouds over purple skies. A naked hand, freshly severed and dripping gore, held in a handshake by a black gauntlet. The gauntlet raises its bloody prize to the sky, as echoing drums and war cries fade in and out of earshot. Pale forms float past, slack faces dripping viscous fluid onto their naked, emaciated bodies.

"We need to leave this place. The things I've done, the blood on my hands. Burn it. Burn it all. Every diagram, every scrap of paper you can find. Now, before they…"

Cracking thunder, streaks of scarlet lighting. Thudding of rain on thatch roofs. A baby whining, rustling fabric, a warm body moving closer. Padded footsteps, glints of moonlight in dark hands. Crushing blackness, children screaming.

A grating voice bellows.

"GET UP, YOU FUCKING WASTES!"

Rycan gasps awake, staying perfectly still. His white-knuckled hands are buried in the covers and his wife's bedclothes. His face is red, slick with sweat from some tremendous, slumbering effort. Dimelia sleeps quietly beside him, shifted away to not overheat in the night. Rycan swings his legs off the bed, bare feet connecting to the packed earth beneath. He exhales, rattling the shutters on the window next to the bed. They open slightly, and he puts his hand out, absentmindedly stopping them before they can complete their swing. Wiping his face with the rough towel on the windowsill, he returns to his position next to Dimelia. Mind still fraught, he drifts off to her sleeping visage, a small smile on her full lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eyes snap open in the dark. The brass-wreathed butcher rises from his dark hiding spot. The silence sits heavy, the perfect conditions for their task. He taps his knife once against the wall, hearing two taps in reply. The signal to begin. The leader slithers up to the bed, perched on the balls of his feet. He reaches over his quarry, tongue smearing the charcoal around his lips. With a sharp jerk up and a flourish of the wrist, Dimelia’s crimson essence splatters in a wide arc across the room. Her eyes snap open and she retches, splattering her husband's face in her blood. He jerks awake, not fully lucid as his eyes pore over his wife's face, a red grin sliced into her neck.

"Dimelia?!" Rycan shouts, trying to blink away the sleep and ichor. Screams ring through the house, followed by sickeningly rhythmic chopping sounds. He tears his eyes away from his wife to on the squad leader. Blade dripping red, the leader's face twists into a sickening smile of pleasure. His free hand drags up Dimelia's neck and over her face, smearing blood across her slack features. He cackles, and Rycan roars, launching himself at the shadowy killer. A loud thud echoes as the two men crash to the floor, the knife clattering out of reach. The assassin laugh turns to strangled gurgling as leathery fingers tighten around his throat. Face still twisted in demonic glee, his eyes roll back and his arms fall to his sides. Whether by his own strength or the righteous anger of a man wronged, Rycan crushes the man's windpipe, feeling the vertebrae crack between his fingers. He looks up, Sannah's empty crib leering at him. Eyes wide, he lets out an animalistic shriek, blind fury ripping at his vocal cords.

A handful of small objects fly through the beaded curtain. They splat against the floor at his knees, clear and red fluid mixing and pooling into a viscous puddle. His children's eyes, and only their azure eyes, stare at him from the pool, dragging him down from his murderous rage. Anguish and violence wrestle in his breast, the former prevailing as it beats down on him. Tears cut through the blood stains on his face, blank with the incalculable weight of his loss. The ground crashes into his knees and his head slumps forward. Willpower drips from Rycan's cheeks in slow, aching streaks. An aching, empty groan escapes his lips. The two soldiers stroll through the beads hanging in the children’s doorway, scarlet rivers running from their fingers. They surround the broken man, their laughter like the cawing of carrion birds before the feast.

"You shouldn't have defied the Empire, old man," the first soldier sneers. There is a small, severed hand hanging from his waist. His comrade snickers, looping a red-drenched scrap of fabric through the hole in his dagger’s pommel.

"The General was kind enough offer you your old station, but you just had to refuse," the soldier with the fabric pipes up, stepping forward. His fingers slither through Rycan’s hair, pulling his head back. The soldier presses the tip of his newly accented blade between Rycan's parted lips. A small trickle of fresh blood runs down his chin, mixing with his wife's. He feels the point of the knife pierce his gum, dislodging his tooth. The soldier jerks back slightly as he meets Rycan’s eyes, seeing nothing but cold hatred within. He snickers again, trying to mask his rattled nerves.

"Now look at what you've brought upon your family, all because you were too stupid to recognize an act of charity," the one with the hand speaks again, crouched behind Rycan. His blade bites and tears a cavernous wound into the kneeling man’s back, the blade nicking spine like a butcher deboning a side of meat. Rycan bellows, physical and mental anguish tearing at his lungs. His head slumps back as the knife leaves his flesh, his breath crackling as the mud floor under him becomes damp with blood. His teary eyes fixate on the thatch roof for the second time that evening.

"Charity would be letting me die with my family," Rycan whispers through laboured gasps. "But I would rather you join them this night, than I."

The soldiers’ eyes flick to each other, and they break into peals of shrill guffawing. They mock their prey, spitting and kicking on Rycan. Their kicks thud against him, his hands raised instinctively to protect his face.

"You think you're going to kill us?" the fabric soldier sneers between kicks. His answer comes swiftly, as Rycan grabs his foot and twists it almost completely around. The soldier yelps in pain and surprise, dropping to the floor. His dagger clatters next to Rycan, who picks it up and slices clean through the joint of the hand soldier's knee. The scrap of fabric passes across the leg with a wet smack. He topples over backwards with a piercing scream, leaving his calf and booted foot standing without him. Rycan stands slowly, the two hobbled soldiers backing into separate corners of the main room.

The third soldier bursts into the house, alerted by the screams of his comrades. A patchy, red beard pokes through the ash covering his face, ending just below his Adam’s apple. His eyes dart from Rycan to the first soldier, ankle mangled and snot-faced crying. Then, to the second soldier, staring in wide-eyed stupor at his untethered limb. The slap of bare feet pulls his attention back to the current danger. It is, however, far too late. His eyes jerk back, just as Rycan spits a mouthful of blood in his face. He turns to run, fear trickling down his legs. Rycan lunges, grabbing a fistful of the soldier’s beard, wheeling him back around. A death-like whisper grinds out from between his lips as he glares into the soldier’s pleading eyes.

"You will not leave this place alive, boy." His other arm loops around the soldier’s neck, as if embracing a loved one. The fabric on the pommel of the dagger whips across the men’s heads, the blade sinking into skin and between bones, high up on the darkened man’s spine. The soldier drops, wheezing and sobbing, held up only by Rycan’s grip. Slowly removing the dagger, he holds the soldier by the beard long enough to look down in fury and disgust. The soldier is thrown backwards, his head flopping over the threshold of the house. Rycan leaves him in a growing red and yellow puddle, turning to assess the rest of his quarry.

"Where did you take her?" Rycan says, face fixed and voice even. His injuries, severe to any other man, pale in comparison to the harsh reality of his loneliness, his loss. He turns his blank gaze to the soldier with the hand on his belt.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Rycan screams in staccato, each syllable hitting the soldier like a club.

"The baby? Kaibelllus will have her before the week is over" he splutters, stump gushing blood despite all attempts to staunch the flow.

Rycan doesn't reply, walking towards the soldier. He grabs the other man by the face, bashing his head into the wall behind him until he goes sufficiently limp. Checking if life, however faint, is still flowing, Rycan grunts in approval, and begins to slowly carve out the soldier's eyes. The soldier awakens, screaming, as Rycan deftly slides the knife between his eyeball and eye socket. He tries everything to bat away the hands at his face, but the repeated meetings with the wall bludgeoned the feeling from most of his body. His left eye squelches as it falls between his chest and breastplate, his head shoved far back enough to expose his collarbones. Rycan begins work on the right eye as the soldier faints from shock and blood loss. This eye comes away relatively easily, mostly due to the lack of interference by its owner. Rycan pulls the unconscious soldier’s head back by the hair, staring down at the intruder with bared teeth and twisted features. He spits in the soldier’s face and releases his grip, leaving the throat exposed and allowing the blood to drip into his ears. The soldier without the fabric whimpers in the corner as Rycan turns his attention to him.

"Please. Let me go," the soldier begs, backing up further, as if the wall at his back could open to protect him. Rycan drops the dagger with the fabric

"You didn't let my family go," Rycan says, planting his right foot on the soldier's broken ankle. A howl of pain echoes through the house, the pitch raising as Rycan crouches as he did with the hand soldier. The soldier stabs at Rycan’s face in a panic, but Rycan simply leans his head to the side, letting the attack sail through his loosened hair. His right hand almost crushes the fingers holding the dagger, his left set of knuckles smashing into the soldier’s neck. He gurgles, stunned into inaction as Rycan deftly shifts his right hand, taking the dagger from the soldier’s slackened grip. He plunges the dagger deep into the soldier’s thigh, illiciting a shrill squeal. Hands now free, Rycan grabs both vile claws still smeared with his children’s blood. He raises them, wrenching the knife from its makeshift scabbard and stabbing clear through the soldier’s wrists, pinning his arms to the wall. The soldier squirms in silent agony, dragging in a ragged breath before choking on his own saliva.

“How? How are you doing this? I know about you, you’re supposed to be an old man. Easy pickings. The Black Lord said so,” the stuck pig wails, tears and sweat streaking through the ash, revealing clammy, pallid skin beneath. Rycan is silent for a moment, then begins to smile. The grin spreads across his lips but goes no further. His eyes are stagnant pools of pitch black, drilling steaming holes into the man at his mercy.

“Easy pickings, eh? I see the Grey still tries to keep their men-at-arms in the dark,” Rycan croaks. Grin still plastered to his face, Rycan grabs the dagger with the fabric. He shifts his weight to jab his left knee into the soldier’s groin, heel still pinning his quarry down. The dagger flashes, Rycan gripping the soldier’s hair and cutting a deep, thin slash at the soldier’s hair line. He digs his fingers in, feeling his nails scrape against bone as he peels the soldier's scalp back. No sound escapes from the soldier’s mouth, though, to those without hearing, his grimace and flailing legs convey a piercing wail. Ripping the flesh free, Rycan drops it into the lap of the writhing mess at his feet. The soldier's eyes dart from his comrades, to Rycan, to the vivisected flesh soaking his clothing. Grunts and whimpers pull the butcher from dressing his kill, and Rycan turns to see the final soldier on his back, squirming in a vain attempt to escape. He stands, twisting his right foot and jerking the scalped soldier’s broken ankle yet again. He squeals in unmuted pain, and Rycan lashes out with a swift and vicious kick to his temple.

"Shut the fuck up, useless dog," he drones, a forgotten persona rearing its head from the recesses of his mind. The soldier groans, sufficiently silenced, as Rycan turns and steps toward the paralyzed man laying over the doorway. A fetid mixture of urine and blood now pools around his body, turning the packed dirt floor into a muddy brine. Feet planted on either side of the soldier’s torso, Rycan grabs the red beard again, pulling their faces within an inch of each other.

“I’m sorry, sir. Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t do anything; I was just standing watch. I swear,” the piss-soaked man whimpers, limbs limp and heart galloping in his breast.

Rycan is silent, dropping the dagger with the fabric. The tip of the blade sinks into the wet earth like a gravestone, the fabric like a flag honouring the dead laying below. Rycan flips the soldier over onto his belly, his terrified features fixed unwillingly on the cesspool he created. He drops suddenly, the weight of the descent wedging the mud securely inside his nostrils and open mouth. Rycan presses his head down with two fingers, ensuring the soldier is well and truly suffocating. Confirmation comes with a procession of bubbles in the mud, and the soldier lays still.

"Put down like rabid mongrels by the old man you were sent to kill. Ironic," Rycan muses as he looks around at the carnage his house has become. Blood splatters the walls and soaks into the floor, turning it into a shallow bog of dirt and fluids. The three soldiers, in various stages of dismemberment, lay strewn across the room like autumn leaves blown through an open door. Rycan walks to the only other conscious soul, whimpering as blood from his pinned hands drips into his eyes. The dagger with the fabric is raised, pointing at the scalped soldier. Then, without so much as a grunt of effort, he whips the dagger through the air. The soldier squawks, eyes screwed shut as he waits for the blade to find his flesh. He hears gurgling and opens his eyes to see the dagger protruding from the throat of the eyeless soldier with the hand and one leg. Rycan approaches, crouching next to the soldier, squirming as he tries to distance himself from his attacker. His scalp is raised by the hair before his face, Rycan gazing at it like some ponderous bit of writing.

"This is my punishment, is it?” Rycan whispers, their faces side by side. “Then I shall visit the most heinous and bone-chilling dread on your paltry, stinking Empyre. Your leaders, in their holds and spires drenched in innocent blood, will know the horror that you have visited upon me this night. Your comrades, sparring and drinking and fucking their days away. They will share your fate, or worse. Hear these words, boy, for they will be the message your corpses carry. The Grey will die, by my hand or the hand of those who come after me. Sleep, now, and let my face be your last before the darkness."

Rycan presses the bloody viscera to the soldier’s face, suffocating him as he did with red beard. Tears drip onto Rycan’s arms, rolling like rain off granite. The soldier kicks, as much as he can with his good leg, to no avail. He slowly goes limp, head slumping forward, chest falling one last time.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates diverse voices in literature. This prestigious platform provides writers worldwide the opportunity to showcase their talents in poetry, short stories, essays, and creative writing. It fosters a community of creativity and artistic expression, encouraging participants to explore and push the boundaries of their craft.

Thank you, Dale de Kock, for sharing "Unlit Memory - Sparks & Kindling Ch.2" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your chapter is a remarkable contribution that vividly illustrates the power of storytelling through its emotional depth and intricate narrative. We appreciate your participation and look forward to more of your creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.