An elite platoon of foot soldiers, loyal hounds of Aule, marched in tight formation until the ground beneath them trembled. From the mist and fractured treeline came the Milladorii cavalry, men on restless horses whose hooves struck the earth like war drums. They were not an army, only a scattered company, yet they descended upon the weary soldiers with the force of a landslide.
The proud men of Aule, once certain that their blades could carve through any foe, now met defeat not through lack of skill, but through the cruelty of circumstance. The mud clung to their legs, swallowing every step. Their armor, once radiant with victory, weighed upon them like punishment. Their eyes hung heavy, half-open, filled with fatigue and disbelief. And then came the rain again. Not from the sky, but from the shadows. Arrows.
A chorus of groans rose as shafts tore through shields, through crates, through sacks of potatoes that burst open like entrails. "Are these the wolves of our south?" sneered a Milladorii captain, his voice thick with pride. His steed shivered beneath him, veins bulging with fear and exhaustion.
He looked enormous, a figure impossible to miss. His garments were blue, the color of command. Without them, his own archers might have mistaken him for prey. He laughed then, loud and venomous, as though the sound itself could crush the defeated beneath his boots. It was the laughter of a man who believed victory had already chosen its side.
Fwoosh. Clank.
His laughter broke. What followed was not a cry, but a gurgle. His hand rose to his throat where the arrow had struck. He clawed at it, choking on his own disbelief. His horse screamed and fled, leaving him to collapse into the mire. The once-polished armor met the mud with a dull, final thud. The arrowhead, splintered and buried, found its way deeper as his body fell still.
The brown earth darkened. The mud turned to maroon. Blood mixed with rain in uneven streaks, as though the world itself pitied him too little to take his life cleanly.
The one who fired the bolt was no hardened soldier. He was a boy. His helmet tilted awkwardly to one side, too large for his narrow head. His leather armor sagged on his frame, thin as fabric, too soft to protect him from anything real.
"I... I killed him. I killed—"
A hand struck his crossbow aside. Another dragged him back from the open, away from the danger that claimed the man he had just felled. He stumbled, gasping.
Andras, older by little but hardened by more, twisted against the iron grip that seized him. His instinct screamed to fight. His teeth met metal. The pain that followed was sharp enough to still his heart. He wanted to shout, yet his breath caught in his throat.
"Your captain is dead!"
The voice came from far ahead. The boy's head jerked toward it, eyes wide. Through the blur of rain, he saw it. Only for a heartbeat, yet it burned itself into his mind.
An allied soldier raised the general's severed head for all to see. The sight was terrible, but the cry that followed was glorious. Their men roared, bloodied yet alive, their morale rising like a second wind. Even the wounded dragged themselves upright, screaming with what strength remained. The tide turned. Their enemies, once so sure, began to fall back in confusion.
The boy could no longer tell if what he felt was triumph or terror. Only that the air was thick with both.
.
.
.
Andras woke with a start, his chest still thrumming from a nightmare-tinged night. The adrenaline that had surged through his young body after killing his first prey had drained away, leaving him sluggish, hollow, and nauseous. His head felt both empty and impossibly heavy, like a cart stacked high with rotting crates.
"The lad's awake."
The voice was rough, gravelly, and lacking the excitement Andras had unconsciously expected. A man, broad-shouldered and smelling faintly of old wine, took a long pull from his wineskin and let out a satisfied exhale. His gaze flicked to his aide and then back to Andras, sharp and measuring.
"What are you still standing there for? Go, tell the commander that his boy is in my damn tent!"
The squire flinched, voice trembling. "Aye… aye, sir."
"No!" Andras protested weakly, but the words faltered.
He tried to push himself up from the makeshift bed, a thin mat of rough cloth layered atop another, barely shielding him from the cold, hard ground crawling with who-knows-what insects. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through his body, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him.
The man took another hearty gulp from his wineskin and grunted. "No?" he asked, securing his pouch among the scattered belongings.
"Lad, consider yourself lucky I recognized you among the others. If I hadn't… your lord father would weep with your lovely mother and the rest of their spawns over your empty casket."
Andras gripped the foul-smelling, worn sheets, voice shaking with outrage. "Do you even know who I am? How dare you insult my mother and my siblings!"
The man leaned closer, lowering his head to pass through the low tent. "I did not hit your head that badly, did I?"
"You are lusting after my mother! And my siblings, spawns?!" Andras tried to sit upright, but his body betrayed him. He collapsed off the heap of fabric, slumping to the ground.
He lay sprawled on his belly, limbs splayed like spilled ink. He groaned as soreness clawed at him from every angle. Muddy boots hovered near his face, forcing him to twist and roll onto his back.
The man kneeled before him, voice soft, almost coaxing. "First, I only complimented your mother. Second, what are you and your siblings but spawns? I never said devil's spawns…"
"Now you did!" Andras snapped, the words tasting bitter.
A sharp breath, a pause. The man opened his mouth to speak again, but the tent flap rustled.
"Aurelyeon!"
The man froze, raising his hands in surrender. He twisted toward the tent entrance. "What?" he called plainly, his voice calm but wary, as if bracing for another false accusation.
"What did you do to my son?" Aule asked, careful, steady, not accusing, only searching for truth.
"Oh, great," Aurelyeon muttered, a shadow of annoyance crossing his face.
"I am not accusing you of anything," Aule said firmly.
"Truly?"
Andras' chest tightened. He could not believe his father's calm. His skin prickled with heat, his stomach sank, and his limbs felt like lead. He wanted to scream, to fight, to throw himself at them both. Instead, he sniffed back the bitter sting of tears and snot, swallowing it into his aching sinuses. "Father…"
Both men shifted their gaze to him, the boy still sprawled on the rough, uneven ground. He tried to rise but the soreness locked his body in place. His hands trembled, his knees quivered, and he felt rage bloom against his own weakness. He could not fight this time, not yet, and the thought gnawed at him.
"Do not tell me this is not your heir, but a lady daughter of yours?" Aurelyeon asked, glancing at the man beside him. The other's expression was heavy with disappointment.
Aule sighed, a sound full of resignation and grief. "Unfortunately, he is my son."
Andras' sobs broke free, raw and uncontrolled. Shame clawed at him, his desire to appear strong colliding with the truth of his body and age. His savior pressed a hand gently over his own mouth, muffling the chuckle, and turned his back to prevent himself from embarrassing the boy even further.
"Father, forgive me," he whispered, voice trembling, breaking under the weight of fear and helplessness.
Aurelyeon could not restrain himself. Laughter spilled out, deep and uncontrolled, shaking his shoulders as he gripped the log that held up his tent. His hand rested heavily on his belly, the sound filling the tent like thunder.
Aule crouched beside his son, lifting him carefully and guiding him to the makeshift bed. His hands were firm but gentle, steadying the boy who felt like he might crumble under the weight of his own body.
The laughter and sobs echoed together in Andras' ears. They burned themselves into his memory, a collision of chaos and comfort he could never forget. Even if he tried to erase it, the sound, the feeling, and the helplessness would remain.