CHRONOFOUDRE Book 1: The Awakening Chapter 2: The Raid
The axe is coming.
That's the only thought in my head. Not a prayer, not my life flashing before my eyes, just that simple, stupid observation: the axe is coming and I'm going to die.
Father's hammer connects with the orc's knee. There's a crack—bone or metal, I don't know—and the creature stumbles. The axe meant for my skull bites into the dirt beside my foot instead.
I don't think. I swing the timber I'm holding like I'm swinging a hammer at the forge. It connects with the side of the orc's head with a wet thunk that makes my stomach turn. The creature staggers but doesn't fall. Of course it doesn't fall. Why would anything be that easy?
"Run!" Father shouts at me, but I can't move. My legs won't work. I'm nineteen years old and I've never hit anything that wasn't metal on an anvil, and I just watched a piece of wood bounce off a living thing's skull like it was nothing.
The orc shakes its head, refocusing. Blood runs down its temple, black in the moonlight. It grins at me. Actually grins, like this is fun.
Father hits it again, this time in the back. The orc whirls with a roar that vibrates in my chest, and suddenly Father's the target. He's good with a hammer—forty years of forge work built those shoulders—but this isn't metal he's shaping. This is something that wants to kill him.
The orc swings. Father ducks. Barely.
Something in my brain finally kicks into gear and I'm moving, running at the thing's back with my pathetic piece of timber raised high. I don't have a plan. I don't have training. I just have panic and the absolute certainty that I cannot watch my father die.
I bring the timber down on the back of the orc's neck as hard as I can.
It turns around and backhands me across the face.
I fly. Actually fly through the air like I weigh nothing, and hit the wall of a house hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs. Stars explode in my vision. My mouth fills with blood—I bit my tongue. The timber is gone, somewhere in the dirt. Everything hurts.
Through blurring vision, I see Father charge the orc. Brave, stupid man. The creature is twice his size and half his age, but he doesn't hesitate. The hammer comes down on the orc's shoulder, and this time something definitely breaks.
The orc howls. Drops its axe. Grabs Father by the throat with one massive hand.
"No." The word comes out as a wheeze. I try to stand and my legs give out. "No, no, no—"
Father's hammer falls to the ground. His feet kick uselessly in the air. The orc's hand tightens, and I can see Father's face going red, then purple.
I scream. Or try to. What comes out is more of a broken sob.
A sword bursts through the orc's chest.
The creature's eyes go wide. It releases Father, who collapses to his knees gasping. The sword withdraws, and the orc falls forward like a tree, hitting the ground with a thud that I feel through the earth.
Behind it stands Captain Erdan, sword bloody, breathing hard. He's in partial armor, hastily donned. A cut across his cheek drips blood onto his breastplate.
"On your feet, smiths," he barks. "Get to the square. We're making a stand there."
Father is still on his knees, one hand at his throat, the other braced against the ground. I stumble over to him, every part of my body screaming in protest.
"Can you walk?" I ask. My voice sounds wrong, thick with blood and fear.
He nods, not trusting himself to speak yet. I get an arm under his shoulder and haul him up. He's heavier than I expected, or maybe I'm weaker. We lean on each other like drunks.
More soldiers appear, forming a loose line. There are maybe twenty of them, against God knows how many raiders. Screams echo from every direction. Buildings are burning now—I can see orange light reflecting off the low clouds, smell smoke mixing with blood and worse things.
"Move!" Erdan shouts at us again.
We move. Down the street toward the village square, part of a growing stream of survivors. I see people I've known my whole life—the baker with his young daughter clinging to his legs, old Gregor bleeding from a dozen cuts but still walking, Marta from the inn supporting a woman I don't recognize.
Where's Kira?
The thought hits me like the orc's backhand.
Where the hell is Kira?
"Father," I say urgently. "Kira. She's at the house—"
"She'll stay put like you told her," Father rasps. His voice is ruined, rough as gravel. "She's safe there."
"What if they reach the house?"
"The garrison will hold them. We'll—"
An explosion cuts him off. Not fire, not thunder. Something else. I turn and see a building collapse, just fold in on itself like a house of cards. In the rubble's dust, I see a massive shape—a troll, has to be, nothing else is that big. It's swinging what looks like an entire tree trunk, crushing everything in its path.
Magic flares—blue-white, cold as winter. One of the Imperial garrison's mages, a woman I've seen around the village but never learned the name of, stands with her hands extended. Ice spreads from her fingers, racing across the ground toward the troll. It hits its legs and freezes solid, rooting the creature in place.
The troll breaks free with a single stomp. The ice shatters. It swings the tree trunk, and the mage doesn't move fast enough.
I turn away before I see the impact. But I hear it.
"Eyes forward," Father says quietly. "Keep moving."
The square is chaos organized into desperate order. Erdan and his soldiers have formed a perimeter, shields locked, spears out. The civilians—maybe a hundred of us, probably less—cluster in the center. Children crying. Women and men alike covered in ash and blood and terror.
I scan the crowd frantically. "I don't see Kira."
"She's probably in the second group," Father says, but his eyes are scanning too. "Give it time."
More people arrive. A squad of soldiers, backing slowly, fighting as they retreat. They're herding maybe thirty more civilians. I see a goblin dash in from the side and one of the soldiers—can't be more than sixteen himself—runs it through with his spear. The goblin screams, a sound too human, and goes still.
The boy-soldier's hands are shaking.
Still no Kira.
"I'm going back," I say.
"You're not." Father grabs my arm. His grip is still strong, even with his throat crushed. "You'll die."
"She's alone—"
"She's smart. She'll hide. You going back helps no one."
I want to argue. Want to wrench free and run back through burning streets to our house, to find my little sister and drag her to safety. But Father's right and I hate it. I'd die before I reached our street. And then what would happen to Kira?
So I stay. And I hate myself for it.
The perimeter stabilizes. For a moment—just a moment—it seems like we might actually hold. The garrison is well-trained, Awakened or not. They work together, covering each other's blind spots, rotating tired fighters to the back. Captain Erdan moves among them, barking orders, plugging gaps in the line.
Then I see him. Them.
Three orcs, bigger than the others, wearing armor that actually matches. Proper armor, not scraps. They move with purpose, with coordination. And between them walks something else.
Human-shaped, but wrong. Too tall, too thin. Wrapped in tattered robes that seem to move on their own. Where its face should be, there's just shadow. Deep, empty shadow.
"Mage," Father breathes. "They brought a raider-mage."
I've heard stories. Shamans from the north, twisted by dark magic, trading their humanity for power. They're supposed to be rare, more legend than truth.
This one is very real.
It raises skeletal hands, and the air around it shimmers with heat. No, not heat. Something worse. The space itself seems to warp, reality bending like hot glass.
One of our soldiers screams. Not in pain—in terror. He's clawing at his own face, seeing something the rest of us can't. Two of his squadmates grab him, try to restrain him, but he's thrashing with inhuman strength.
The raider-mage gestures, almost lazy, and another soldier goes down. Then another.
"Mages!" Erdan roars. "Counter-magic, now!"
Two garrison mages step forward—the ice-woman survived, somehow, and a man I recognize as a fire-wielder. They begin weaving their own magic, trying to disrupt whatever the raider-mage is doing.
For a few seconds, it works. The afflicted soldiers stop thrashing, gasping on the ground but alive. The shimmer around the raider-mage flickers, destabilized.
Then the mage claps its hands together.
The sound isn't loud. It's almost gentle, like two pieces of cloth touching. But the shockwave that follows throws both our mages off their feet. The fire-wielder doesn't get up. The ice-woman tries, fails, tries again.
The raider-mage begins walking forward. Slow, measured steps. The three armored orcs fan out beside it.
"Spears!" Erdan commands. "Concentrate fire on the mage!"
Half a dozen spears fly. The raider-mage doesn't even flinch. The spears curve in mid-air, bending around it like water around a stone, and clatter harmlessly to the ground.
This is it, I think distantly. This is how we all die.
Father must be thinking the same thing because he pulls me close, one arm around my shoulders. "Whatever happens," he says, his ruined voice barely audible, "I'm proud of you. You're a good son. A good man."
"Father—"
"Tell Kira I love her. If you get the chance."
"We'll tell her together."
He doesn't respond to that.
The armored orcs charge. The shield wall braces. Impact comes like thunder, and the line buckles but holds. Soldiers stab through gaps, aiming for joints in the orcs' armor. One orc goes down with a spear through its neck. But the other two are through the line now, inside the perimeter, among the civilians.
Screaming. So much screaming.
I lose track of Father in the chaos. People are running, scattering, the organized defense collapsing into individual struggles for survival. I'm pushed, shoved, nearly trampled. Someone's elbow catches my already-bruised ribs and I go down on one knee.
An orc looms over a woman clutching a child. It raises an axe. I grab a fallen spear—God knows whose—and run at it. The spear catches it in the lower back, right where armor meets leather belt. Not deep. Barely an inch. But enough to make it turn.
The orc backhands the spear away. Looks at me. I see my death in its eyes for the second time tonight, and this time there's no one to save me.
A hammer takes the orc in the temple.
Father appears from the crowd, my father with his forge hammer, and he hits the creature again and again until it stops moving. Then he stands there, breathing hard, covered in black orc blood, looking ten years older than he did this morning.
"Stay close to me," he says.
We fight our way back toward the center of the square. It's not fighting, really. It's surviving, moment to moment, using whatever we can grab as weapons. I club a goblin with a rock. Father breaks another orc's knee with his hammer. We're not warriors. We're smiths. But we're Ardents, and we don't go down easy.
The raider-mage reaches the edge of the square. It doesn't hurry. Why would it? We're already broken. It raises both hands, fingers spread, and that horrible shimmer intensifies. Reality warps, twists—
A horn sounds. Different from before. Clearer, higher, musical almost.
Reinforcements.
A column of horsemen thunder into the square from the southern road. Cavalry, proper Imperial cavalry in full plate, lances lowered. They crash into the raider forces like a steel avalanche. Orcs go flying. The raider-mage turns, seems almost surprised, and raises a hand—
A lance takes it through the chest.
The mage makes no sound. It just... stops. The shimmer dies. The thing looks down at the lance protruding from its robes, touches it almost curiously, then crumbles to ash.
Just ash. The robes collapse empty, and wind scatters the remains.
With their mage dead, the raiders break. Some try to fight, die on cavalry lances or soldier spears. Others run, disappearing back into the darkness beyond the village. The three armored orcs make a fighting retreat, covering the rout, and even the cavalry seems reluctant to press them too hard.
Ten minutes later, it's over.
Just like that. Over.
The square is a charnel house. Bodies everywhere—raiders, soldiers, civilians. The living sit or stand in shock, many wounded, all traumatized. Children wail for missing parents. A man rocks back and forth, cradling his dead wife. Smoke from burning buildings fills the air, making everything hazy and unreal.
Father and I stand together in the middle of it all. I'm shaking. Can't stop shaking. My hands won't stay still, and there's blood on them—orc blood, human blood, I don't know and don't want to know.
"Kira," I say. The word comes out broken. "We have to—"
"Check on her. Yes." Father nods. "Come on."
We make our way through the crowd, through the scattered survivors being tended by the cavalry's medics. Captain Erdan is organizing a headcount, calling out names. Too many names go unanswered.
The walk back to our house feels miles longer than it is. Buildings are burning or burned. Bodies in the street. I try not to look at faces, try not to recognize anyone. Fail repeatedly.
Our house is intact. Thank God, it's intact. The door is still locked from the inside, just like I told Kira.
I pound on it. "Kira! It's us! Open up!"
Nothing.
"Kira!"
Still nothing.
Father pulls out his key with shaking hands. Unlocks the door. We push inside.
The downstairs is dark, undisturbed. I grab a candle, light it with fumbling fingers. "Kira? Where are you?"
Father checks the kitchen. I take the stairs two at a time, going to her room. The door is closed. I throw it open.
Empty.
Her bed is made. Her few possessions are untouched. She's not here.
"Kira!" I'm shouting now, panic overwhelming sense. I check my room, Father's room, the storage closet. Nothing. Nobody.
Back downstairs, Father is standing in the kitchen, staring at something on the table. I rush over.
A note. In Kira's careful handwriting:
"Went to help at the inn when I heard the horn. Don't worry. - K"
She went to help. Of course she did. Sweet, brave, stupid Kira went to help during a raid.
Father and I look at each other. Then we're running again, back out into the night, toward the center of the village. The Golden Grain Inn. If it's still standing. If she's still—
No. I won't think it. Can't think it.
The inn is on fire. Not fully engulfed, but the second story is burning, flames licking from the windows. People are gathered outside, some trying to organize a bucket brigade, others just standing and watching.
I scan the crowd frantically. "Kira! Kira!"
Marta appears from the smoke, her face streaked with soot and tears. When she sees me, something in her expression breaks.
No.
"She went back in," Marta sobs. "There were people trapped on the second floor. I told her not to, but she—she just ran in—"
I'm moving before Marta finishes speaking. Father grabs at me but I wrench free. The inn's front door is open, smoke pouring out. I can hear screaming from inside.
"Kael, don't!" Father yells.
I don't listen. I'm through the door, into hell.
The common room is an oven. Heat presses down like a physical weight. Smoke makes breathing impossible—I pull my shirt over my mouth and nose, crouch low where the air is slightly clearer. The ceiling is burning. Debris falls around me.
"Kira!"
A cough answers me. From upstairs.
The stairs are intact but burning at the edges. I take them anyway, my boots scorching, wood creaking under my weight. The hallway at the top is an inferno. Flames on both sides, ceiling sagging, floor buckling.
"Kira!"
"Here!" Her voice, weak, from the end of the hall.
I run through fire. Later, I'll have burns. Later, I'll feel pain. Right now, there's only forward, only reaching her.
She's in the last room, huddled with two children—can't be more than six or seven years old, both crying. Kira's dress is singed, her face blackened with smoke, but she's alive. She's alive.
"I couldn't leave them," she says when she sees me. "Their mother was downstairs, and they were alone, and I couldn't—"
"We're going. Now."
I scoop up one child, Kira takes the other. We move back toward the stairs, but the floor chooses that moment to give way. Just collapses, a section of it, right where we need to walk.
There's another exit. A window at the end of the hall, overlooking the alley. It's our only chance.
We run. The ceiling is coming down now, great chunks of burning timber. One misses Kira by inches. We reach the window. I kick out the glass, look down.
Twelve feet to the ground. The children won't survive the fall. Kira might. I definitely will.
But all of us? I don't know.
"I'll lower them," I tell Kira. "You go first, catch them."
She doesn't argue. Climbs out the window, hangs from the sill, drops. Lands hard but gets up. I lower the first child—a girl, maybe six—as far as I can, then let go. Kira catches her, stumbles but doesn't fall.
The second child, a boy. Same process. Lower, drop, catch.
Now Kira looks up at me. "Jump!"
The floor beneath my feet shifts. Cracks. I don't have time to climb out carefully. I just go through the window headfirst, trying to turn it into a roll, failing completely.
I hit the ground wrong. Pain shoots through my shoulder, bright and sharp. But I'm down. I'm alive.
Behind us, the inn collapses. The entire second floor caves in with a roar of fire and destruction. If we'd been in there ten seconds longer...
Father appears, running from around the corner. When he sees us—sees all of us—he actually falls to his knees. Then he's up again, pulling Kira into a crushing hug, then me, then Kira again.
"You idiots," he says, voice breaking. "You absolute idiots."
"I'm sorry," Kira sobs into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I just—"
"You're alive. That's all that matters. You're alive."
The children's mother finds us minutes later, and the reunion is loud and wet and too much for my frayed emotions. I sit down against a wall, suddenly aware of how much everything hurts. Burns on my hands and arms. Bruises everywhere. Shoulder possibly dislocated. Lungs raw from smoke.
Kira sits beside me. We don't say anything. Don't need to.
The sky is lightening. Dawn coming, impossible as that seems. This night has lasted a thousand years, but dawn comes anyway.
Captain Erdan finds us as the sun breaks the horizon. He looks worse than I feel—armor dented, face bruised, a rough bandage around his left arm.
"Final count," he says. "Eighteen dead. Thirty-seven wounded. Could've been worse."
Could've been worse. Eighteen people I knew are dead, and it could've been worse.
"The raiders?" Father asks.
"Scattered. Won't be back tonight, at least." Erdan looks at me, then at Kira, then back to Father. "You've got brave children, smith."
"I've got stupid children," Father corrects. But there's no heat in it.
Erdan almost smiles. Then he sees something over my shoulder, and his expression hardens. "You three. Come with me."
We follow him through the devastated village. People are everywhere now, fighting fires, searching rubble, tending wounded. The cavalry that saved us—maybe forty riders—are helping where they can. Their commander, a stern woman with lieutenant's insignia, confers with Erdan in low tones.
We're led to what used to be the village meeting hall. Inside, a makeshift command center has been established. Maps on tables. Soldiers reporting. And in the center of it all, two people I've never seen before.
Both wear robes marked with the Imperial seal. Both have the unmistakable bearing of power—not just authority, but actual power. Awakened.
"These are the smiths?" one asks. A man, older, with silver hair and cold eyes. "The father and son who fought during the raid?"
"And daughter," Kira says firmly.
The man's eyes flick to her, dismiss her, return to me. "You. Boy. Come here."
I stand, confused and wary. Father puts a hand on my shoulder but doesn't stop me.
The man produces something from his robes—a crystal, maybe six inches long, perfectly clear. It pulses with inner light.
"Touch this," he commands.
"What is it?"
"A measuring crystal. We're testing everyone who fought. Raiders are getting bolder, bringing mages. We need to know if we have any Awakened among the survivors."
My heart sinks. I know what this means. Every Awakened is conscripted into Imperial service. It's law, inviolable. If I touch that crystal and it shows power...
"I'm not Awakened," I say.
"Then you have nothing to fear. Touch it."
Father's hand tightens on my shoulder. A warning, maybe. Or goodbye.
I reach out. Touch the crystal.
It flares. Bright violet-silver light that makes everyone in the room shield their eyes. The crystal vibrates in the man's hand, humming with power. Then, with a sound like breaking ice, it cracks.
Fragments fall to the floor, still glowing.
The man stares at his empty hand. At the shards. At me.
"Impossible," he breathes.
The second robed figure—a younger woman with curious eyes—steps forward. "That's never happened before. Not in all my years testing."
"Could be defective," the man says, but his voice lacks conviction. He pulls out another crystal. "Try again."
I touch it.
Same result. Violet-silver flare. Vibration. Crack. Fragments on the floor.
The man and woman exchange glances. Some silent communication passes between them.
"What's your name, boy?" the woman asks, not unkindly.
"Kael. Kael Ardent."
"Well, Kael Ardent, congratulations. You're Awakened." She pauses, frowning at the shards. "Though we're not quite sure what rank. These crystals are designed to measure up to rank B, and you've broken two of them."
"Is that... good?" Kira asks in a small voice.
"It's unusual." The man has recovered his composure. "Very unusual. By Imperial law, all Awakened must report for training and military service. Pack your things. You leave for the capital in three days."
"Three days?" Father's voice is hoarse. "He's just been through—"
"Three days," the man repeats firmly. "Be grateful we're giving you that long. Normally, we'd take him now."
And just like that, my life changes. Again.
I look at Father. At Kira. They're all I have left. And I'm being taken from them.
"I'll come back," I say, the words automatic, hollow. "I'll complete the training and come back."
Kira's face crumples. She knows that's a lie. Everyone knows it. Awakened don't come back to villages on the frontier. They're too valuable, too needed. They serve the Empire until they die.
Father just nods. Once. Then he pulls both of us into another hug, and we stand there in the ruins of our life, holding each other while the world moves on without us.
Dawn breaks fully. The fires are mostly out. The dead are being laid in rows, covered with whatever cloth can be found.
Eighteen people.
Could've been worse.
I close my eyes and see the orc. The fire. The raider-mage crumbling to ash.
I see violet-silver light exploding from broken crystal.
And I wonder if worse is yet to come.
End of Chapter 2