Magnus, 6 years old
The men tie us up and hurl us into the cart—the same kind farmers use to haul their harvest to the Kingdom's Capital. Rough wooden boards bite into my wrists as I fall against them, the air thick with the sharp scent of sweat and smoke. The horses strapped to the front snort and paw at the cobblestones, their breath fogging in frantic bursts as though they too can sense the danger.
We are the first to be captured, but as I steal a glance around, I notice there are more carts standing nearby, waiting—empty for now, but I wonder for long.
Dozens of brown wolves stalk the perimeter, pacing restlessly with glowing eyes, their movements sharp and impatient, like predators waiting for the command to strike. Behind us, the royal palace is swallowed by flames. Fire claws at the night sky, and every so often, a scream pierces the chaos—a reminder of those still trapped inside, of lives already lost to this inferno.
