The words hung heavy in the air. Several Wardens exchanged glances, uncertain looks passing between men who'd always trusted their commander's judgment. Marcus spoke up carefully, voice measured and respectful.
"Commander, all of them? The apostates are identified. We've eliminated the threat. These are just—"
Valdric turned and looked at him. Eyes flat and cold as winter stone, empty of anything human. "Did I stutter?"
Marcus swallowed visibly, throat working. "No, Commander."
"Then proceed."
Garren's stomach lurched. All of them? But they'd killed the mages, done what they came for, eliminated the threat. These were just villagers who'd been harbouring apostates. People who probably hadn't even known what their neighbours were capable of. That wasn't a death sentence, was it?
But Valdric had given an order. Wardens followed orders without question. That was what made them different from lawless militias and mercenary bands. Discipline, order, obedience. That was the foundation everything else was built on.
The brothers moved without further hesitation, whatever doubts buried beneath years of conditioning. They'd been drilled since childhood to obey without question, trust that commanders knew best, that orders came from wisdom they didn't yet possess. To question was chaos. To hesitate was to let corruption spread.
The men were separated first. Maybe a dozen, ranging from grey-beards who could barely stand to young fathers with lives still ahead. Wardens forced them into a line, made them kneel in dirt already muddy with blood.
Some begged, voices breaking with desperation. Some prayed to Vorrath, invoking the Iron Judge's mercy in words that tumbled over each other. Some just stared ahead with hollow, accepting eyes, like they'd known this was coming the moment Wardens rode in.
The executions began. One by one, methodical and efficient. Sword to the back of the neck, quick and clean. Bodies left where they fell.
Garren watched from the edge, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He told himself this was justice, had to be justice because Valdric ordered it.
These people had harboured mages, hidden them, protected them instead of reporting to the nearest garrison as law required. The penalty for harbouring apostates was death. Always had been. That was how you stopped corruption from spreading.
But watching unarmed men executed while kneeling in mud didn't feel like justice. It felt like something else, something his mind didn't want to name.
The women came next, separated with rough efficiency. Some went quietly, too numb to resist, minds gone somewhere else where this wasn't happening. Others screamed and fought until dragged away, fingernails leaving scratches on captors' faces.
Several women were pulled into nearby buildings. Doors closed behind them with sounds that echoed across the square. Garren stood outside, heard things he didn't want to hear. Saw brothers going in and coming out with different expressions.
Some looked satisfied, dark pleasure in their eyes. Some looked disturbed but said nothing. One was laughing, sharing a joke with another Warden.
When the women were brought back out, some were too broken to stand, clothes torn and faces vacant. They had to be carried or dragged to where executions were taking place, leaving trails in dirt. They were killed anyway, efficiently, without ceremony.
Garren's hands shook so hard he could barely hold his sword. He gripped tighter to make them stop, knuckles white.
This wasn't what he'd imagined. Not the righteous work Valdric had described on the ride here, not the protection of innocent lives he'd been promised. This was something else entirely, something he didn't have words for.
Then the children were separated from what remained.
Maybe thirty of them, ranging from teenagers to toddlers barely able to walk. They clung to each other, small hands gripping smaller hands with desperate strength. Some cried, tears streaming as they called for parents already dead.
Some called for parents standing right there in the condemned line, unable to help. Some were too young to understand, faces confused rather than afraid.
Valdric gestured toward them and said something to Marcus that Garren couldn't hear over rushing in his ears, over his heartbeat hammering against his skull.
He couldn't watch this. Couldn't stand here and watch, couldn't be part of it even as witness.
"Commander." His voice came out hoarse, strained. "Permission to sweep the buildings. Make sure no one's hiding."
Valdric turned and looked at him, really looked at him. For just a moment, something flickered across the Commander's face. Recognition, maybe, or understanding, or just acknowledgment that Garren was about to break. Then it was gone, replaced by cold flatness.
"Granted. Take the north side."
Garren turned and walked away. Not quite running but faster than walking, boots hitting ground hard. Each step carried him farther from the square, farther from what was about to happen, though distance wouldn't matter. He'd still hear it. Still know.
Behind him, a child cried out. Young, maybe six or seven, calling for their mother in a voice that cracked with terror.
Then silence.
Then another cry, cut short in the middle.
He walked faster, breath coming in sharp gasps that burned his throat. He reached the first building and pushed through the door.
Inside, the house was empty and quiet. Family belongings scattered in chaos of their flight. A table with half-eaten breakfast, porridge gone cold in wooden bowls. Garren stood in the middle, listening to his own breathing, trying not to hear sounds from the square.
Building by building, he checked them all. Thorough, methodical, taking his time, making sure to look in every corner. Empty. All empty. Everyone had been gathered.
In one house, he found a toy near the hearth. A wooden horse, carved with obvious care, edges smooth from hours of small hands holding it.
Someone's child had played with this, loved it, probably cried for it right before being dragged to the square.
Garren left it where it was and moved on, steps mechanical.
In another house, he found a child's bed in the corner. Small, sized for someone maybe five or six. Straw mattress with a thin blanket embroidered with flowers.
A name had been scratched into the wooden frame, carved carefully with a knife. Garren didn't let himself read it. He looked away and kept moving.
The sounds from the square had stopped. No more crying, no more voices, no more brief screams cut short. Just the crackle of fire from burning buildings, sending smoke into clear morning sky.
Garren stood in an empty bedroom, staring at nothing, hands still shaking despite how tightly he gripped his sword. The blade felt wrong now. Heavy in a way it hadn't been during the fight.
When he'd been killing militiamen and mages, it had felt righteous, necessary. Now it just felt like a weight he couldn't put down.
He'd killed three people today. Two villagers and a mage. He'd felt pride in that moment, real satisfaction that his skills worked, that he'd proven himself capable.
What did that make him now? What did that say about who he was, that he could feel pride and horror in the same day?
He forced himself to keep moving. One more building and then he could go back, could pretend he'd done his duty, could avoid thinking about what waited in the square.
The last house was small, barely more than a cottage at the village edge. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.