The sun never rose in Fort Drenhall—at least, it never seemed to. Smoke from smoldering fields mixed with fog and ash, blurring the sky into a dull, iron gray. Auren Varik stood on the edge of the northern rampart, looking down over the burnt valley below.
He had been a blacksmith once. That fact seemed absurd now.
His hands, once strong from shaping steel, now trembled with the memory of what they had done in the village two nights ago. He still saw the Dareth spearman—Calen—on the ground, bleeding out, his mouth opening to ask a question, not curse.
Do you have a daughter?
Auren did. Lysa. She had died in a raid by Dareth skirmishers—burned alive in their home in South Varrow while Auren was shoeing horses on the other side of the river.
Now he fought because there was nothing else left to do.
"You're up early," came a voice behind him.
He didn't turn. "Didn't sleep."
Captain Rhoen stepped beside him, arms folded under his thick cloak. "Nightmares again?"
"Always."
Rhoen's tone was unreadable. "There are two kinds of men who fight in war. Those who dream of killing. And those who dream of the ones they couldn't save."
Auren gave a bitter laugh. "And which are we?"
Rhoen looked out at the valley. "Doesn't matter. We're the ones who still dream."
Auren turned to him. "Do you ever regret it?"
Rhoen raised an eyebrow. "Which part? Enlisting? Surviving? Commanding broken men?"
"Burning villages. Killing men who might've had the same reasons we do."
Rhoen didn't answer immediately. His eyes scanned the smoke and earth.
"I regret that the world made us choose this."
Later that morning, Auren found himself back at the forge. The army blacksmith had gone lame with a fever, and someone needed to fix the bent armor coming in from the scouts. Word had reached them that Dareth was sending another wave south, and Volgrin intended to crush it before it reached the river.
He hammered out a dented breastplate as Tessan, a younger recruit barely twenty, leaned against the wall with a grin.
"You really were a smith before all this?"
"Yes," Auren said.
"And you came back to it voluntarily?" Tessan asked, laughing. "I'd rather face a pike wall than do your job."
"Facing a pike wall is easier," Auren said. "Steel doesn't scream when it breaks."
Tessan grew quiet. After a moment, he sat down on an overturned crate.
"You killed that spearman, didn't you? The one from the village?"
Auren nodded.
"I heard you hesitated."
"I did."
"Why?"
Auren glanced at him. "He asked if I had a daughter."
Tessan shifted uncomfortably. "And that was enough?"
"It was everything."
Tessan didn't speak again for some time. When he did, it was quiet.
"My brother died in that village. A Dareth spear right through the throat. If it were me, I wouldn't have hesitated."
Auren looked at him. "That's the difference between vengeance and justice."
"And what are we fighting for?" Tessan asked.
Auren didn't answer. He just went back to hammering.
That night, the war council met inside the stone chapel that once served as Fort Drenhall's spiritual center. Now, maps covered the altar, and prayer books were shoved into corners to make room for strategy markers and troop placements.
Auren stood beside Captain Rhoen and Lieutenant Drea Vael, one of the only ranking women in Volgrin's field forces. Her face was hard as flint, and she spoke like she meant every word to carry through a storm.
"We have intel," Drea began, tapping a red marker near a cluster of trees. "Dareth's supply caravans are taking refuge in the village of Green Hollow. Civilians are shielding them. Farmers, old men, children."
"Another meat shield," Rhoen growled. "Cowards."
Auren frowned. "Or maybe they have nowhere else to go."
Drea narrowed her eyes. "That sentiment will get you killed, Varik."
"Or keep me human."
"No one is human in war," she snapped. "You can cry over corpses after we've won. Right now, your orders are to burn the granaries, disrupt their movement, and kill any combatants you find."
Rhoen turned to Auren. "Can you handle that?"
Auren met his gaze, jaw clenched. "Yes."
He left the chapel with the memory of Calen's final breath ringing in his ears.
Green Hollow smelled of grain and smoke. The moment the Volgrin raiding party entered the valley, children screamed. Men grabbed pitchforks. One fired a crossbow bolt that ricocheted off a soldier's greave and embedded in a horse's neck.
Chaos broke out.
Auren led a three-man squad down the western path toward the barns, his axe drawn but not raised.
He kicked in the door of the first building.
Inside were two old men and a woman trying to hide sacks of grain under a blanket.
"Move aside," Auren said.
One of the old men raised a small sickle.
"Please," the woman begged. "It's all we have. If you take it, we'll starve."
Auren stood still.
Behind him, Tessan stepped forward. "Orders, Sergeant."
Auren's eyes met hers. She had the same eyes Lysa had. Determined. Afraid. Unyielding.
"We're not here to kill," Auren said. "Just the food. Go."
They fled. Auren lit the sacks on fire.
As he exited the barn, a soldier shouted down the hill.
"Combatant fleeing into the woods!"
Auren ran toward the sound.
He reached a small cottage where the door had been thrown open. Inside, he found a young woman holding a fireplace poker, shielding a boy behind her. They both looked at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Auren said.
The woman didn't believe him. "You're Volgrin."
"I was a father once. I've seen enough fire."
Then, without warning—CRACK.
Auren was struck from behind.
He staggered forward, turning to see a man with a blade, ragged from running and coated in soot.
Thom Garven.
"You killed him," Thom spat. "Calen. My friend. He never even wanted to fight."
Auren stared, stunned. "You were the one who stayed behind."
"I should've gone with him," Thom said, and plunged the blade forward.
But this time, it wasn't fatal.
Auren grunted, twisting away, and slammed Thom into the wall, knocking the weapon from his grip. Blood streamed from Auren's arm. He didn't pick up his axe.
"You came for vengeance," Auren said, panting. "But I'm not your victory."
Thom lay there, breathing hard, rage burning in his eyes.
Auren turned to the woman and the boy. "Take him and go. I'll say the house was empty."
She hesitated—then helped Thom to his feet.
When Auren returned to camp, bleeding and half-limping, Captain Rhoen was waiting.
"You let civilians escape."
"I followed orders. Burned the grain. Left the living."
"You should've killed them."
Auren met his gaze. "Then court-martial me."
Rhoen said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he grunted. "There's a storm coming. I'll need men like you for what's next."
Auren nodded and limped to the infirmary.
That night, Auren opened his journal and wrote:
Thom Garven. Dareth scout.
He spared me when he could have killed me.I spared him when I could have finished it.Maybe that's something. Maybe not.But for now, we're both still alive.
For Lysa. For Calen. For all of us trying to remember who we are beneath the armor.