*Marcus's perspective - Fifteen years before the Fall*
Marcus Greysteel had killed his first man at fourteen and spent the next thirty-six years trying to forget the sound bones make when hope leaves them.
Now, standing in the command tent with maps that lied and wine that tasted like ash, he wondered if Theron had been right all along—that war was just men playing at being dragons, badly.
"They're moving through the Bitter Pass." Theron's voice cut through memory. His friend—brother in all but blood—traced troop movements with fingers that had once painted, before war taught them better uses for steady hands. "Three thousand Ghul'rok. Maybe more."
"Ghul'rok don't use passes. They climb."
"These ones are different. Organized. Someone's leading them."
Marcus studied the map, seeing not ink and parchment but the thousand bodies they'd stack to hold that ground. Young bodies. Boys who still believed songs about glory.
"Remember when we thought war had rules?" Theron laughed—sound like breaking glass. "Before the Blood Summer?"
*The Blood Summer.*
Even thinking it brought the taste—copper and ash, shit and fear. When the Southern Kingdoms had tried to take the crystal mines. When they'd learned elves could be just as monstrous as any human, just prettier while doing it.
"I remember you saving my life," Marcus said quietly.
"Which time?"
"All of them."
Theron turned from the map, and Marcus saw him clearly for the first time in weeks. His friend had aged—not just years but centuries of seeing too much. The scar across his throat where an elven blade had nearly ended him. The way his left hand trembled—nerve damage from poison that shouldn't exist.
"This isn't like before," Theron said. "The Ghul'rok... they're wrong. Corrupted. Like something's possessing them."
"Everything's corrupted these days."
"No, this is different." Theron pulled out a leather pouch, spilled its contents on the map. Black coins that hurt to perceive. "Found these on their scouts."
Marcus picked one up, immediately wished he hadn't. The coin was cold—not winter cold but the cold of things that had never known warmth. And inside it, something screamed. Silently. Eternally.
"Distiller coins."
"Distillers are gone. We made sure—"
"We made sure of nothing. We were eighteen, following orders, burning what they told us to burn." Marcus set the coin down carefully. "Maybe some survived. Maybe they want revenge for what we did."
Silence stretched between them, filled with shared memory:
A village that had harbored Distillers. Orders to leave no witnesses. Theron trying to shield children while Marcus followed commands. The way loyalty and morality had torn them both in half, leaving pieces they'd never recovered.
"If Distillers have returned..." Theron started.
"Then may the gods help us all. Because we know what they're capable of."
A knock interrupted. Young soldier, maybe seventeen, fear barely controlled. "Sir, they're requesting parley."
"Who?"
"The Ghul'rok commander. Says he knew you. In the Time Before."
Marcus and Theron exchanged glances. The Time Before—before the wars, before the corruption, before they'd learned that honor was just a pretty word for selective blindness.
They walked to the parley ground, banners snapping in wind that smelled like approaching storm. The Ghul'rok delegation waited—three figures, wrong in ways that made Marcus's sword hand itch.
The center figure removed his helmet.
Marcus's world tilted.
"Hello, Marcus. Theron." Gavril smiled with too many teeth. "Been a while."
Gavril. Who'd died at Thornbrook. Marcus had held him as his guts spilled out, promising to tell his wife, his children. Had burned his body himself to prevent necromancy.
"You're dead."
"Was. Got better. Amazing what Distiller gold can buy these days." Gavril's voice was wrong—like multiple people speaking through one throat. "Including resurrections."
"Abomination," Theron whispered.
"Practical application of resources," Gavril corrected. "Just like you taught us, Marcus. Remember? 'Use every advantage. Honor is for peacetime.'"
"I never said—"
"You said it with every order. Every village burned. Every 'necessary evil' for the greater good." Gavril stepped closer, and Marcus saw the truth—black veins under skin, eyes that reflected nothing, movements just slightly out of sync with intent. "Well, someone's been listening. Learning. Preparing."
"Who?"
"Vorgoth sends his regards."
The name hit like physical force. Vorgoth—the child they'd spared during the Distiller purge. Theron's moment of mercy that had haunted them both.
"We should have killed him," Marcus said.
"Yes," Gavril agreed. "You should have. But Theron's conscience got in the way. One child, what harm could he do?" He laughed, sound like bones grinding. "Turns out, quite a lot. Especially when that child grows up remembering everything. Planning everything. Becoming everything you feared Distillers could be."
"What does he want?"
"What any son wants—to surpass his fathers. You taught him war, Marcus. Theron taught him mercy's weakness. The Distillers' journals taught him the rest." Gavril pulled out a scroll. "His terms."
Marcus read, blood cooling with each word. Not demands for gold or land. Something worse.
"He wants us to choose."
"Ten thousand civilians in the valley below," Gavril said conversationally. "Your army of three thousand here. You can fight us—probably win, we're only five thousand strong. But while you fight, his other force burns the valley. Or..." He smiled. "You surrender. Your army is disbanded, sent home in shame. You and Theron come with us. And the valley lives."
"That's not a choice," Theron said. "That's—"
"Exactly the kind of choice you gave us. Remember the Fork of Kellior? 'Save the bridge or save the village.' You chose the bridge. Tactical advantage over lives." Gavril's borrowed face showed nothing. "Vorgoth remembers every choice you made. Every lesson you taught. He's just a better student than you expected."
Marcus looked at Theron. Nine years of war between them. Hundreds of battles. Thousands of choices that had carved away pieces of their souls.
"Give us an hour," Marcus said.
"You have until sunset. Then we march. One direction or the other."
The Ghul'rok delegation left.
Marcus and Theron stood alone in the space between armies.
"We could fight," Theron said. "Maybe reach the valley in time—"
"With how many men left? Enough to matter?" Marcus knew the mathematics of massacre. "He's played this perfectly. Used everything we taught him."
"We were trying to protect—"
"We were trying to win. Don't pretty it up now." Marcus pulled out his flask, drank deep, passed it over. "Every choice we made, every 'greater good' we served, every child we orphaned in the name of peace—it all led here."
Theron drank, coughed. "Philosophy was easier when we were young."
"Everything was easier when we were young. We thought war was about good versus evil. Turns out it's about choices versus consequences." Marcus looked at the sun. Three hours until sunset. "What would you choose?"
"You know what I'd choose. Same as always. Try to save everyone. Fail at saving anyone."
"And I'd choose the tactical advantage. Let the valley burn to win the war." Marcus laughed bitterly. "No wonder Vorgoth learned so well. He had perfect teachers."
They stood in silence, watching the sun descend. In the distance, smoke pillars rose—the valley settlements, not yet burning but ready to. Vorgoth's message clear: choose quickly.
"Together?" Theron asked.
"Always was. Even when we hated each other for it."
Marcus turned to his lieutenant. "Disperse the army. Full retreat. Anyone who stays will be court-martialed."
"Sir—"
"That's an order."
The man ran to comply. Within an hour, their forces were scattering, confused but obedient. Marcus and Theron changed into simple clothes, set aside their rank insignias. Two middle-aged soldiers walking toward whatever Vorgoth had planned.
"Think he'll keep his word?" Theron asked.
"He's kept it so far. Every promise, every threat. He's more honorable than we ever were."
"That's what makes him dangerous."
They reached the Ghul'rok lines as sunset painted everything the color of old blood. Gavril waited with chains—not iron but that same soul-metal the coins were made from.
"Vorgoth will be pleased," he said, locking the chains. "He has such plans for you. Wants you to see what your lessons built."
"Just keep your word about the valley," Marcus said.
"Oh, we will. They'll live long, full lives. Right up until Vorgoth doesn't need them anymore." Gavril's smile was a wound. "But that's years away. Maybe decades. You'll be long dead by then. Probably."
As they were led away, Marcus looked back once. Their abandoned camp, their dispersed army, their surrendered honor. The valley below, lights beginning to flicker as night fell. Ten thousand lives bought with their surrender.
"Worth it?" Theron asked.
"Ask me when we see what Vorgoth's become."
"Think we'll recognize him?"
Marcus remembered the child—seven years old, watching his parents burn, eyes too old for his face. Theron pulling him from the fire, insisting one child couldn't matter.
"I think he'll be exactly what we made him."
They marched through the night, toward whatever hell their mercy and cruelty had created. Behind them, the valley slept peaceful, unaware their lives had been bartered by broken soldiers who'd run out of good choices long ago.
The war that made them brothers had ended.
The consequences were just beginning.
---
*Years later, in chains*
Marcus would remember this moment when he met Ora—another child shaped by others' choices, carrying corruption she hadn't chosen. Would see the same look in her eyes he'd seen in Vorgoth's.
Would wonder if they ever learned, or if they just kept making weapons and calling them children.
Would know the answer.
Would fight anyway.
Because that's what brothers did—fought battles they couldn't win for people they'd already failed.
The philosophy of war was simple in the end: everyone loses, just at different speeds.
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