KIERAN POV
The conscription cart arrived at dawn, and I barely had time to think about Father discovering Mira's secret before soldiers were shoving me toward it.
"Move it, Lord Ashfeld!" A grizzled sergeant barked. "We're already behind schedule!"
I threw my pack into the cart and turned for one last look at the manor. Elara stood at her window, one hand pressed against the glass. A promise. She'd protect them.
She had to.
The cart lurched forward, and my old life disappeared behind a cloud of dust.
Fifteen other conscripts crowded the cart—farm boys with calloused hands, a merchant's son who wouldn't stop crying, and two minor nobles who looked as terrified as I felt. Nobody spoke. What was there to say? We were all riding toward the same nightmare.
On the third day of travel, everything changed.
We stopped at a garrison town to pick up more conscripts. That's where I met Ser Davos Hunt.
He was everything I wasn't—thirty years old, built like an ox, with scars crisscrossing his arms and a sword that looked like it had tasted real blood. He climbed into our cart without asking permission and sat down like he owned it.
"Listen up, children," he growled. "I'm Ser Davos Hunt, and I've been killing orcs for ten years. Command assigned me to keep you idiots alive long enough to be useful. So here's lesson one: forget everything you think you know about fighting."
"I trained with swords for five years," one of the noble boys said defensively.
Davos laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "Training dummies don't bleed. They don't scream. They don't try to rip your throat out with their tusks while you're swinging that pretty sword. You ever killed anything bigger than a chicken, boy?"
The noble went pale and shut up.
"That's what I thought." Davos pulled out a wicked-looking knife. "Real combat is ugly, fast, and dirty. The orc who hesitates lives. The human who hesitates dies. Remember that."
For the next two weeks, Davos trained us during every rest stop. He taught us how to hold a sword properly, how to dodge, how to kill quickly. But mostly, he told us stories about orcs.
"They're seven feet tall," he said one night around the campfire. "Gray skin thick as leather. Tusks that can gore a horse. And they're strong—one orc can snap a man's spine like a twig."
The merchant's son whimpered.
"They eat human flesh," Davos continued, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Worship demon gods who demand blood sacrifice. When they raid our villages, they take the children first. You know why?"
Nobody answered.
"Because children are tender. Easier to cook."
My stomach churned. I thought of Mira, pregnant with our child. If orcs were really like this, then maybe this war was necessary. Maybe I was protecting her by being here.
But something nagged at me. "Sir Davos? If orcs are so dangerous, why did they wait until now to attack? They've been in the mountains for generations."
Davos's expression darkened. "Because they're smart, boy. They've been breeding, building their numbers. Now they think they're strong enough to take our lands. The Church says they want to wipe out humanity entirely."
"The Church says," I repeated slowly. "But have you ever talked to an orc? Asked them why they're fighting?"
The other conscripts stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
Davos leaned forward, dangerous and cold. "You don't talk to monsters, Ashfeld. You kill them before they kill you. And if you go into battle thinking orcs deserve conversation, you'll die in the first five minutes. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." But doubt gnawed at my gut.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the supply crates I'd seen in the orc village during my first raid—the ones with Church seals dated before the war started. Why would the Church have supplies in orc territory?
"Can't sleep either?" A voice whispered beside me.
I turned to find a boy about my age—seventeen at most—with red hair and nervous eyes. "I'm Finn," he said. "My da runs a tavern in the capital. You're the lord's son, right?"
"The spare son," I corrected. "Not worth much."
"Still more than a tavern keeper's kid." Finn's laugh was shaky. "My da sent me because business is slow. Thought soldier's pay would help. Now I'm wondering if any amount of money is worth this."
"It's not," I said honestly. "But we don't get a choice anymore."
"Ser Davos scares me more than the orcs," Finn admitted. "He talks about killing like it's normal. Like it's easy."
"Maybe for him it is." I thought about the knife-sharp gleam in Davos's eyes when he described orc deaths. "Maybe that's what war does to people."
"Then I hope we don't survive long enough to become like him," Finn whispered.
We reached the war camp on the fourteenth day.
It was massive—thousands of tents, training grounds, weapons forges, and soldiers everywhere. The air smelled like smoke, sweat, and something metallic I couldn't identify.
Blood. It smelled like blood.
"Welcome to hell, boys!" Davos announced cheerfully as our cart rolled through the gates. "That's Commander Voss's tent—the big one with the golden banner. He's the hero who's going to win this war. Try not to embarrass yourselves when you meet him."
But I wasn't looking at Commander Voss's tent.
I was looking at the cages.
Dozens of iron cages lined the eastern edge of camp, and inside them were orcs.
My first real look at the enemy.
They were tall, yes—maybe six and a half feet. Gray-skinned. But they didn't look like monsters. They looked like prisoners. Wounded, starving prisoners.
One orc—a female, I thought—sat in the corner of her cage, her arm hanging at a wrong angle. She wasn't snarling or threatening. She was crying. Silent tears running down her gray face.
"What are those cages for?" I asked Davos.
"Interrogation prisoners," he said casually. "We capture them, get information, then execute them. Can't keep orcs alive—they're too dangerous."
"But that one is injured. She's not dangerous right now."
"She's an orc, Ashfeld. Dangerous is what they are." Davos grabbed my shoulder and spun me away from the cages. "Stop thinking of them as people. They're not. They're animals that look like people. The sooner you learn that, the longer you'll live."
He walked off to report to the commanders.
I stood frozen, watching the crying orc woman.
Ser Davos said orcs didn't feel emotions like humans did. That they didn't love their families or grieve their dead.
But if that was true, why was she crying?
That night, I lay in my assigned tent with Finn and three other conscripts, trying to sleep. But I couldn't stop thinking about that orc woman's tears.
Around midnight, screaming erupted from the direction of the cages.
Then silence.
In the morning, the cages were empty.
"Where did the orc prisoners go?" I asked a passing soldier.
He grinned. "Commander Voss executed them last night. Made examples of them for the troops. You missed a good show, fresh meat."
My blood ran cold.
They'd killed that wounded, crying woman. Killed all of them.
And everyone acted like it was entertainment.
Finn grabbed my arm. "Kieran, your face is green. Don't puke. Soldiers will think you're weak."
"I need to—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"Formation in five minutes!" A sergeant bellowed. "Commander Voss addresses all new conscripts! Move!"
We stumbled into formation with hundreds of other new soldiers. Commander Voss stood on a platform, golden-haired and handsome like a hero from stories. When he smiled, the crowd cheered.
"Welcome, soldiers!" His voice boomed across the camp. "Tomorrow, we march to orc territory. Tomorrow, we strike at their homeland and end this threat forever! Tomorrow, you become the heroes who saved humanity!"
The crowd roared approval.
But all I could think was: Tomorrow, I become a murderer.
And then I saw him.
Standing beside Commander Voss, wearing Church robes and smiling that same cold smile.
My father's Church friend. The one who'd arranged the conscription in our village.
The one who'd built the gallows.
He saw me too. And his smile widened.
He leaned over and whispered something in Commander Voss's ear, pointing directly at me.
What had Father told them about me?