Screams tore across the battlefield. They blended together until it was hard to tell one voice from another. Steel clashed against steel, iron rang out, and the sound never stopped. The ground beneath it all was nothing but mud, torn apart by boots and hooves. Blood soaked into it until the earth could take no more, leaving thick pools that clung to everything.
Cavalry thundered through the clearing. They didn't slow. Men were knocked aside or crushed outright, bodies disappearing beneath horses as if they had never been there. Those who fell didn't get back up. Hooves struck bone with dull cracks. The mud swallowed the rest.
The Aurien corps tried to form a line. It wasn't tight. It wasn't strong. Pikes were lowered anyway, hands shaking as men pressed close together. Leather creaked under strain. Some stared ahead, eyes wide and unfocused. Others looked down at the ground, already knowing how this would end.
The charge hit them head-on.
Lances tore through leather and flesh. Men were lifted off their feet, screaming as steel punched through them, before being dragged free and thrown aside. Bodies split open. Blood spilled out in heavy bursts, mixing with the mud beneath them. Hooves came down again and again, crushing ribs, shattering skulls, grinding faces into the ground. The dying thrashed weakly, coughing and choking as blood filled their mouths.
Arrows followed soon after.
They whistled through the air and slammed into the packed soldiers. Shafts buried themselves deep. Some men screamed and fell, clawing uselessly at arrows lodged in their necks or backs. Others dropped without a sound, bodies twitching as blood poured freely from punctured lungs. Orders were shouted, voices hoarse and desperate, but no one listened. Morale was gone. Weapons slipped from numb fingers. Some tried to run. They were cut down or trampled before they made it far.
The field was chaos. Nothing else.
As the last of the resistance faltered, as men lowered their weapons and waited for the end, a golden streak cut across the battlefield.
A man in shining armour moved through the carnage. His sword swung with mesmerizing efficiency, each strike killing with minimal effort. Arms were severed. Heads fell free and rolled through the mud. Bodies split open, spilling blood onto the ground. Wherever he went, men fell apart.
The cavalry didn't last long after that. Horses screamed as their legs were cut from beneath them, collapsing into heaps that crushed their riders. Knights were dragged from their saddles and killed before they could rise. Armour bent and broke. Bodies lay twisted and still. Broken lances and shattered shields littered the ground among the dead.
The battle ended there.
The field commander walked toward the golden figure. His armour was black, marked with the insignia of the Rulas Empire. Blood splashed around his boots with every step. He opened his mouth to speak.
The sword arched silently through the air.
The commander's head hit the ground with a wet sound. His body stood for a moment longer before collapsing into the mud, joining the thousands of dead. Blood poured freely from the ruined neck, soaking into the ground.
"This is what happens to those who think of surrender," the golden warrior said. His voice echoed across the field without effort. "Remember it. There is only one way forward. Victory is the answer. We will cleanse this land of the impure. Glory be to the empire!"
He turned and walked away, leaving the field behind.
Dark clouds broke overhead. Rain began to fall, heavy and cold, as if mother earth herself were weeping at the pointless bloodshed. It washed blood into shallow streams that ran between bodies and broken weapons. The colour faded, but nothing was hidden. The dead lay where they had fallen. Some of the wounded still moved. Some still breathed.
The rain-soaked field disappeared behind the hills. By the time it stopped falling, life elsewhere had already moved on.
The crack of splitting wood carried through the village, closely followed by another, then another. The evening sun warmed the empty fields as the last harvests were collected. James swung his axe again, muscles straining. The wood smelled faintly of sap and damp earth. He needed to finish before supper; otherwise, it would be too cold to work properly.
"Once you're finished, stack the logs by the barn, will you, son?"
James nodded between swings, sweat prickling at his brow. By the time the evening breeze chilled his neck, he was done—just in time, as his mother called everyone for porridge.
Stacking the wood neatly, he hung his cloak by the entrance and shuffled toward the table. Steam rose from the porridge, dotted with raisins and cranberries. He scooped a spoonful and swallowed, warmth spreading through him.
He fed the cows, their lowing echoing across the yard. He helped his father with the mill, catching the scent of fresh grain as it fell. Clothes were washed, hung, and folded. By the time he spread straw in the attic, the moon hung high, silver light spilling across the boards.
By the time he spread the straw in the attic, the moon hung high in the sky. The wind whispered through the oaks scattered around the orchard, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and earth. Stars littered the sky, clouds drifting lazily.
He lay back, muscles aching, eyes fixed on the open window. Exhaustion pulled at him, dragging him into sleep.
With the rooster's call, he woke up excited. Today, they headed into the city to sell their harvest, and whenever they did, his dad would buy him the fragrant pastries from the bakery.
The morning was chilly, but this warm cloak fended it quite well. He helped his uncle load the carts in silence, careful not to wake his sister or mother in the house. His uncle quietly slipped him an orange, already peeled. He smiled and accepted the gift, eating it quickly before moving on to the next cart.
James crouched to lift the last sack of grain, feeling its weight settle against his shoulder. "Easy there," his father said, watching him stack it carefully. "Don't toss it like it's a feather."
"I'm careful, Father," James said with a grin. "You'd be surprised what I can carry."
Uncle Merek chuckled, adjusting the straps on the cart. "Aye, he's strong enough to take the reins all the way into the city. Don't give him any trouble, old man."
His father smirked. "We'll see about that. Keep steady, lad. City streets are crowded; don't let the horse think it's a meadow."
James nodded, tightening his grip on the leather reins. "I'll be fine."
By the time the last load was secured, the horses pawed at the ground, impatient. "Mount up," Uncle Merek said. "If you lag behind, you'll be picking up bundles along the road."
James swung onto his horse, the familiar warmth beneath him calming his nerves. His father climbed into the lead cart, checking the straps one last time. "Keep the pace slow at first. The carts are heavy, and I don't want a wheel in the ditch."
As they moved out, the wheels creaked, and the horse shifted beneath James. The morning dew sparkled on the grass, and the sunlight caught the tops of the carts. "Not bad, lad," Uncle Merek said over his shoulder. "Steady hands and strong arms — you'll make a fine help around here for years to come."
James smiled, glancing at his father. "Thanks, Uncle. Thanks, Father."
His father gave a brief nod, eyes soft. "Just keep your head. Look out for yourself, and keep your mind on the road."
James let the rhythm of the carts and the horse's steps lull him into a quiet focus. The wind carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from the village, mixing with the crisp morning air. Somewhere ahead, a crow cawed, circling once before vanishing toward the horizon. James breathed it in, feeling the simple comfort of routine and family as the convoy moved toward the city.
END OF CHAPTER ONE