How does it feel to kill a man? For some, desperate for war, it brings a perverse thrill. For others with a shred of kindness, it brings remorse. But for a child like Norvin, who had just killed a man not to win a battle, but simply to have a chance at a meal, it felt like something else entirely: a sickening disgust with himself. What kind of inhuman creature was he to rob someone of their life for a share of their bread?
He stood there, his small body a monument of shame, the axe in his right hand covered in a bizarre film of blood, and the knight's severed head hanging loosely in his left. He didn't want to look down at it, but he couldn't let go, either. He carried it with him, trying to keep his mind focused on the voice of the old man he was speaking with.
"What's your name, boy? Are you okay? You look like you're about to fall over from sheer exhaustion."
"My name is Norvin. I am alright, I can continue moving forward toward the camp. From my perspective, you look like you will die any instant. Shouldn't you be resting?"
The old man,let out a tired, dry chuckle. "Norvin, huh? My name is Remus Crestfell. I am a Cipher of The Serpents. The man we just killed was probably a Core Nexus. You did surprisingly well against such a powerful foe."
Here it was again, "Core Nexus." Norvin muttered. What did it mean? Was the enemy not merely a human? and what is a 'Cipher' and who are the 'The Serpents'? Is it some group of huge snakes of the Roric Kingdom? Norvin had no way to know anything about it. He had only heard about serpents in his mother's bedtime stories. He was too hesitant to ask Remus anything, fearing that if the old man knew Norvin understood nothing about battle, or even what seemed to be its most basic concepts, Remus would never allow him to fight again.
It was already dark, and the horn signaling the end of the day's battle had long since sounded. They hadn't even heard it, so focused they were on survival inside the dome. It took a tremendous effort to break free, and it was honestly the old man's efforts alone that finally made a hole in the thick earthen wall.
"I wasn't really scared of death," Norvin replied, his voice flat and empty. "I've seen death standing in front of me a hundred times before. This was just a man."
"A man, perhaps, but a powerful one," Remus said, his own voice sounding weak now. He knelt on the grass, his hand going to his wound. "He was a master of his crafts. I've fought men like him before, but never one so consumed by his own pride." He took a slow, laboured breath. "You weren't scared of death, you say? Then what did you feel? That look on your face... it's not the look of a victor."
Norvin didn't answer right away. He simply stared at the head in his hand, a look of profound sorrow in his eyes. "I felt …I felt nothing."
Remus watched the boy, his own pain forgotten for a moment. He saw the same haunted look of not yet accepting the horror that has fallen on someone, he had seen on countless young soldiers. "War has a way of making you feel that way," he said softly*. "It makes monsters out of all of us. You just... you just have to decide what kind of monster you're going to be."*
Norvin's eyes found Remus's. "I'm not a monster. I just... I just wanted to eat."
Remus smiled, a tired, weary smile. "I know, child. I know".
The thick, warm blood from the severed head dripped onto Norvin's left leg. The sudden, raw feeling of it flowing over his skin made his stomach lurch, and he fell to his knees and lurched. But nothing came out; he hadn't eaten in days.
"Is the head really necessary to take to the camp?" Remus inquired, his voice laced with concern.
"Yes. I must show it to the others that I've risked my life and fought in the war alongside them. I deserve a meal just like them. Having the head of my enemy will make them believe I'm not lying, and you're here to back up my words."
Remus sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't believe what a desperate, grim plan Norvin had pulled off on his own.
They entered the tent, which, as usual, was a gruesome scene of knights and soldiers receiving treatment. Most of the space was taken up by the dragons to sleep whom Norvin admired so much, wanting to have one of its own. The air was thick with the sounds of pain and agony, but this time, the atmosphere was different.
An astonished silence fell over the room as everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the scene before them: a young boy holding the head of an enemy knight. This was the same boy who used to sleep by the fireplace and cry himself to sleep every night from hunger. Norvin went straight to the dinner line, still clutching the head.
All the soldiers quickly began to spread the word about Norvin, with many rushing out of the tent to get a look at him. This time, the server didn't deny him a meal. "Here, two pieces of bread, a glass of milk, and a plate of curry. Come back if you want more," the server said, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and guilt as he handed over the food.
Norvin began to eat like a wild animal, not even chewing properly, devouring the food as fast as he could as if he hadn't eaten in eternity—which was half true. The food, though it reeked of a bad smell, was the best meal he had ever eaten.
He ate in the same spot he always slept, by the fireplace, but this time old man Remus was by his side. "Calm down, kid, your food isn't going anywhere," Remus said softly, but Norvin paid him no attention, quickly going back for a second helping.
The knights and Ciphers continued to stare directly at him, for he had become a new, famous figure in the camp. "Where will you sleep tonight, Norvin?" Remus asked.
"Here," Norvin answered simply.
"Come to my tent. I have a spare bed you can use; it's near the heater."
"Are you sure? I can really sleep on a bed? Is that okay for me?" Norvin asked, his voice tinged with a slight amusement and a deep, buried excitement. All his life, he had slept on the muddy ground among livestock, and the idea of a real bed was unimaginable.
Remus looked at him, confused by his question. "Yes, of course."
After he quickly finished his meal, Norvin followed Remus to his tent. The tent was huge, filled with expensive armours and weapons. Brightly glowing lanterns made the tent feel like a warm, safe refuge.
Remus settled onto his creaking wooden chair, the sound a low, protesting squeak as his weight shifted. He watched Norvin step inside the tent, a silent welcome in his gaze.
Norvin moved with a quiet reverence, his eyes wide as he took in the space. He had spent his time in the camp beneath the open sky, and the simple fact of having a roof—a physical boundary against the cold and the damp—was an overwhelming comfort. A gentle smile touched Remus's lips, a shared acknowledgment of the small, hard-won victory.
"So you were just starving, then?Is that it? That's why you went out there?"
Norvin met his gaze, his eyes hardened by a lifetime of hunger. "What else was I supposed to do? I'm just a lowborn slave. I have no family, no home, and no one to rely on. I've been eating scraps and sleeping on the ground for as long as I can remember. The only way I saw to survive was to fight." He gestured to the head in his arm. "This is my meal ticket."
"That's no way to live," Remus said softly, his voice full of a weary compassion. "A boy your age shouldn't have to carry such a burden. You shouldn't have to kill just to eat."
"But I did," Norvin retorted. "I killed a man, and I got a meal. It's that simple."
They were startled by the young boy's words. What horrors must a boy his age have endured to speak with such a straight face, a face devoid of all fear? They looked at each other, a question passing between their eyes: how could a child's heart become so hardened, so completely free from the simple, human fear of death?
Remus quickly began to tend to Norvin's wounds. He cleaned and bandaged the small cuts on Norvin's body, his hands gentle and sure. "You're lucky the attacks weren't more severe," he said. "He could have killed you with a single blow."
"I know. But so could you."
"But I didn't," Remus countered. "I protected you. That is the purpose of us, to protect the innocent, not to kill them."
After their wounds were tended to, Remus led Norvin to a spare bed in his tent. It was the first time Norvin had ever seen a bed up close. He ran his hand over the soft blankets, the warm fabric a foreign feeling against his skin. He lay down on the bed, the mattress so soft he felt like he was floating on a cloud. He had never felt so safe and comfortable in his entire life. The warmth of the tent, the full stomach, and the soft bed lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, the sound of the morning horn did not wake Norvin. He was so deeply asleep that he did not hear the soldiers in the camp getting ready for the day's battle. When he finally woke, the tent was empty. He ran out of the tent, looking around in search for the old man and his grandson. He saw the camp was almost empty. The soldiers had already left for the battlefield.
He ran to the dinner line, his heart pounding in his chest. The server looked at him, surprised. "You're still here? You didn't go to the battlefield?"
"No," Norvin stammered. "I overslept. I... I won't get a meal today"
The server looked at him with a mix of pity and guilt. "Of course you will. You've earned it." He handed him a plate of food. "Now eat. The war isn't over yet."
The food was tasteless in Norvin's mouth. He ate in a brooding silence, his gaze perpetually drawn to the distant vista of ruin. He had a full stomach and the memory of a warm bed, but these unfamiliar comforts only carved a deeper hollowness inside him. They left a bitter, unearned feeling in their wake—a debt that settled deep in his bones.
The next day, Norvin was up before the sun. His small frame, though properly rested for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, was coiled with a tense energy. His small hands tightened around the worn haft of his axe. His tattered clothes, still pungent with the metallic stench of old blood, felt more fitting than any clean garment. On his face was a mask of cold resolve that did not belong on a boy his age. He found Remus by the armory fire, sharpening his sword for the day's grim work.
"I am fighting with you," Norvin announced, his voice a low, steady thing. "I am not a coward."
Remus sighed, a plume of white in the cold air. "You have nothing to prove, boy," he urged, his gaze softening with a painful pity.
"I do," Norvin insisted, turning his head. His young eyes locked onto the sprawling canvas of destruction, a hellscape of broken siege engines, churned mud, and the dark, unmoving shapes of the fallen.