An elite platoon of Aule's foot soldiers moved forward in tight formation. Their boots sank into the waterlogged earth with each step, sucking at their heels. Mist clung to their skin, sliding under armor seams and dampening hair. The air smelled of wet pine and iron, thick and suffocating.
They were disciplined, trained to endure any hardship. Loyal to the marrow. Yet even the most steadfast could not ignore the unease rising in their stomachs. The ground beneath them shivered, subtle at first, then insistent.
From the fractured treeline, a shadow emerged. Not a full army, only a scattered company, but the thunder of hooves shattered any sense of safety.
The Milladorii cavalry surged forward, restless horses stamping and snorting. Hooves struck the mud like war drums, vibrating through bone and steel. The mist caught the glint of armor and flashing eyes. For a heartbeat, the forest seemed alive, eager to swallow them whole.
Hands tightened on slick blades. Mud stole strength with each step. Armor, once a badge of honor, dragged against shoulders, heavy and unyielding. Confidence, once unshakable, began to falter.
Then the arrows fell. First a few, harmless enough to dodge. Then more, and more, an endless tide. They sang through the mist, cutting shields, embedding in crates, bursting sacks of potatoes like bruised, uncanny fruit.
Groans, curses, and shouts rose with the pounding of hooves. Fear seeped in like water through cloth, slow and insidious, staining even the proudest hearts.
A voice cut through the chaos. High above, a Milladorii captain rode at the front. "Are these the wolves of the south?" he sneered. His horse trembled, nostrils flaring, muscles coiled with wild energy. The vivid blue of his cloak marked him, drawing eyes from allies and enemies alike.
His laughter rolled across the battlefield. Crushing. A declaration of inevitable victory.
Then it stopped. Fwoosh. Clank.
The laughter died in his throat. A wet gurgle escaped him. Fingers clawed at his chest, useless. His horse panicked, bolting into the chaos. He hit the mud with a dull, final sound. Rainwater mixed with blood, turning the earth dark, maroon. The world offered no mercy.
The shooter was a boy. Thin, unseasoned. Helmet tipped awkwardly, leather armor sagging.
"I… I killed him," he whispered, breathless, voice barely carrying above the storm of battle.
A hand struck the crossbow from his grip. Another yanked him backward. He stumbled, tripping over the mud, shock pressing tight against his ribs.
Andras, only a few years older but hardened by experience, twisted him roughly. Instinct screamed to resist, to fight, to strike. Pain flared as teeth met metal, a sharp warning. The urge to scream caught in his throat, stifled by mud, rain, and adrenaline.
"Your captain is dead!"
The words tore through the chaos. The boy's head jerked up.
Through rain-streaked air, he saw it, the impossible image. A soldier had lifted the severed head of the general, holding it high for all to see. Blood ran in rivulets, dripping into the mud with a sound louder than any shout.
Horrifying. Yet triumphant.
Aule's soldiers, battered and weary, roared anew. Wounded men clawed themselves upright, dragging limbs through sucking mud. Confidence cracked in their enemies, faltering into chaos, hesitation, and fear.
The boy could not tell what he felt, triumph or terror. The air pressed down with both, heavy and suffocating, tasting of iron, wet earth, and smoke. In the storm of mud and blood, he was small, unprepared, yet strangely unbroken.
.
.
.
Andras woke with a start. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves. Sweat slicked his forehead and stuck his hair to his temples. His body thrummed with echoes of the nightmare, each pulse reminding him of the first kill he had survived. The adrenaline that had carried him through it had long since drained away. He was hollow, sluggish, nauseous. His head felt impossibly heavy, yet empty, like a cart overfilled with rotting cargo.
"The lad is awake," a rough, gravelly voice announced.
Andras' eyes darted toward the sound. A broad-shouldered man leaned against a support pole. The smell of wine and sweat clung to him. He lifted a wineskin, drank deeply, and exhaled. His gaze flicked to a squire frozen at the tent flap, then back to Andras with calculating sharpness.
"What are you waiting for? Go. Tell the commander his boy is in my tent."
The squire stammered, voice shaking. "Aye… aye, sir."
"No," Andras rasped, weakly. The word caught in his throat and fell apart.
He tried to push himself up from the thin mat layered over the cold, uneven ground crawling with insects. Each movement sent jolts of pain through his arms and legs. His chest heaved. The world tipped beneath him.
The man shifted, settling more comfortably. One hand rested on a bundle of belongings. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "No? Consider yourself lucky I recognized you. Otherwise, your lord father would be mourning your empty casket… and I might as well take the liberty of admiring your mother while doing so. A woman like her… it would be hard for any man to look away."
Andras' fingers dug into the coarse mat. Heat flared in his chest and spread to his face. His teeth clenched. "You dare! How dare you speak of my mother like that!" He tried to rise, trembling. His arms refused to obey, jolts of pain shooting through every limb.
Aurelyeon crouched a few feet away, leaning forward slightly. Eyes widened. The boy who had faced death, who had slain an enemy captain without hesitation, now quivered on the ground. Chest heaving. Fury and shame tangled in his expression. Aurelyeon's lips twitched. A corner of a smile threatened to break into disbelief. He let out a low, incredulous laugh, barely audible, almost swallowed by the tent's shadows.
"You… you are lusting after my mother!" Andras shouted, voice cracking, shaking from rage and exhaustion. "And you—how dare you even—" He tried to rise again. Legs trembling. The cold, uneven ground betrayed him. His hands slipped on the rough mat. His body refused to cooperate.
Aurelyon leaned back, silent, letting the words linger in the air. He tilted his head. Eyes narrowed. Lips pressed together in disbelief. He could not believe what he was seeing. The same boy who had marched through death calmly, now writhing on the ground like a storm of raw, uncontrolled emotion. His chest rose with a quiet, restrained laugh. Not mockery. Astonishment. Relief. Disbelief. All at once.
"You will not speak of her that way!" Andras rasped, almost choking on his fury. Dirt and tears streaked his face as he tried to steady himself. Each word was a struggle. "Never!"
Aurelyeon leaned forward again, resting a forearm on his knee. Eyes fixed on Andras with disbelief that mirrored every thought he dared not voice. His shoulders slightly hunched. Hands curled loosely. A rare mixture of incredulity and awe. He had seen Andras in battle, blood on his hands, calm as death itself. And now… this.
Andras' chest heaved. He let out a short, shuddering breath. The rage flared again, then faltered. Trembling shame replaced it. Every muscle ached. Every limb screamed. Yet he could not stop staring at Aurelyeon, as if seeking acknowledgment that his anger was justified.
The tent flap shifted abruptly.
"Aurelyeon," a firm, commanding voice cut through the tension.
Aurelyon froze. Hands rose slightly. Eyes narrowed as the name passed the threshold. "What?"
"What did you do to my son?" Aule's words landed like steel. Precise, cold, unwavering. Every syllable demanded focus. There was no softness. No concern. Only authority.
Aurelyon straightened. Eyes flicked to Andras trembling on the mat. His faint, incredulous laugh died in his throat. The disbelief lingered in his gaze. A silent acknowledgment of the boy's raw humanity and vulnerability.
Andras' chest tightened. Dirt and tears streaked his face. His voice barely above a whisper. "Father."
Aule's gaze swept over him. Sharp. Assessing. Unreadable. He crouched slightly, hands at his sides. Giving nothing away. Mere survival did not excuse weakness. Courage alone would not satisfy him.
Andras sank further onto the mat, trembling. Aurelyeon's quiet, restrained laugh lingered in the air. Disbelief threaded through it. Acknowledging the boy who had endured impossible odds, yet now revealed his raw, human frailty.
His chest heaved. Dirt and tears streaked his face. He swallowed hard, trembling with exhaustion and the last remnants of anger. "Father… he—he spoke of Mother!" Andras' voice cracked. Desperation bled into it. "He—he dared to—"
Aule's eyes swept over him. Sharp. Unreadable. He crouched slightly, hands at his sides. Giving no room for interruption. "I heard enough," he said evenly, tone like iron. "Aurelyeon's words were meant as a joke. That you took them seriously only makes your reaction more… disappointing."
Andras froze. The words sank into him like stones. His chest tightened. All the fury he had been clinging to collapsed into raw, aching vulnerability. The moment he thought he might expose Aurelyon and reclaim dignity dissolved before his father's composed, unyielding authority.
Aurelyon leaned back slightly. Smirk fading into something softer, almost pitying, as he watched the boy flounder under Aule's gaze. He had wanted to tease, to see the fire in Andras' chest, but not this level of humiliation. Andras' face burned with shame. His trembling intensified. Every attempt at composure failed.
Aule's quiet authority pressed down on him. Unyielding. Immovable. Courage alone would not satisfy. Anger alone could not protect him. Andras' sobs rattled his chest, mingling with the memory of Aurelyon's restrained laugh. Fear, shame, and human recognition enveloped him.
He understood at last that trembling, crying, and fatigue were not failures. They were evidence he had endured. Proof he was alive. But for the first time, he also understood the sting of misjudgment, the quiet, cutting disappointment of his father, and the weight of a lesson cruelly delivered. Even survival and endurance could not shield him from reality, nor from the consequences of misplaced trust.