Chapter 1: There Lies the Dead Man
Year 0001, Between the VII-IX Month: The Imperium
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The Boy from the Village of Maya
The early morning dew fell upon the face of August, a farm boy who had once lived quietly with his kin deep in the Lonelywoods Forest, a vast woodland spanning thousands of kilometers across the continent of Arkanus. The cool droplets touched his bruised skin like the gentle fingers of a ghost, rousing him from the precipice of death.
For two whole days and nights, August had lain there—battered, bruised, and soaked in his own blood. His breath was shallow, his body broken, and his spirit shattered beyond recognition. Each inhale brought the acrid scent of smoke and decay into his lungs, a bitter reminder of what had transpired.
The village of Maya had burned to a crisp, lingering only as charred remnants and the pungent smell of ash from materials consumed by the merciless fire. The destruction was most severe near the gates, where the wooden palisades had collapsed into blackened, twisted husks. What once stood as humble dwellings and communal spaces had been reduced to smoldering ruins, unrecognizable even to those who had called them home for generations.
The once-living bodies of his friends and family—those who had shared their laughter and dreams with him—now lay sprawled on the ground, dead and unmoving. They had become nothing more than rotting corpses, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and agony. Children who had played in the hillside meadows just days before, elders who had shared wisdom by the communal hearth, mothers who had tended gardens with loving care—all reduced to lifeless husks under the indifferent sky.
As to why he was still alive, he did not know. Perhaps it was the mercy of gods whose names he had never learned to properly pronounce, or maybe just sheer luck—a cruel twist of fate that spared him alone to bear witness to the annihilation of everything he had ever known and loved.
The main army of the Imperium had passed through a hidden road they had meticulously constructed to evade the watchful eyes of their enemies. This strategic pathway was located hundreds of kilometers away from the village, cutting through the outer realm of the Great Forests, a territory long thought impassable by men. The Emperor's engineers had worked tirelessly for years to create this route, felling ancient trees and moving earthworks with quiet efficiency.
It was only the vanguard that scouted the forest, moving like shadows through the dense undergrowth, when they stumbled upon the unknown hidden village that no one in the empire's vast bureaucracy had known existed. The mere discovery of such a settlement within the forbidden forest was enough to seal its fate without question or hesitation. An imperial decree, written in blood and sealed with royal insignia long ago, had forbidden any man from dwelling in the great forests of Arkanus—lands deemed sacred by ancient tradition and reserved by the Emperor as an exclusive area of untouched pristine forests.
After the brutal massacre was over, the soldiers hadn't even bothered to send bloodhounds to check for survivors, as if convinced that none could have lived through their systematic slaughter. Their confidence bordered on arrogance; they had never failed in such missions before. The commander had simply raised his blood-stained gauntlet, signaling his men to move on to their next target, leaving the village of Maya to fade from existence like countless others before it.
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Two Months Before the Massacre: The Lost Merchant
Before the massacre that befell our village, whispers had been spreading eerily across the village grounds like a creeping fog, intangible yet undeniably present.
Maya was a tiny village composed of twenty-one families, nestled neatly between two unknown mountain cliffs that rose like protective sentinels on either side. In its middle was a flattened hill that sat between them, gently rolling onto the forest floor that sprawled below. The layout seemed almost deliberate, as if the land itself had conspired to hide this community from the outside world.
Few people had stumbled upon this village before, as it was truly a hidden place with no roads leading to it, no markers pointing the way, no indication on any imperial map that human habitation existed here. The forest itself seemed to shift and change around travelers, leading them astray unless fate decreed they should find this secluded haven.
As the faces of those rare visitors suggested when they first gazed upon our homes, they wore expressions of unbridled surprise, finding such an isolated village deep in the famed forest. Their eyes would widen, their jaws would slacken, and for a moment, disbelief would render them speechless. Maya was part of the great woodlands surrounding the Great Caldera of Arkanus, located at the continent's center, thousands of kilometers away from the nearest Empire recognized settlement and hundreds of kilometers for its Central sub-continent Allies . The isolation was both our salvation and our vulnerability.
They wondered aloud how this village even came to be but did not ask further, as the villagers were not ones to share information with outsiders willingly. Our history remained our own, guarded jealously from the prying ears of strangers who might carry our secrets back to the world we had fled.
A couple of months ago, a traveling merchant arrived in our village. He had also stumbled upon it by accident when he was on the run from bandits and was already too deep and lost in the forest to find his way back to familiar paths.
His state was worse for wear—his body weak from days without proper food, his wounds fresh and poorly bandaged, his clothing torn by brambles and branches. Desperation had driven him deeper into the forest than any merchant would normally venture, and fate had led him to our doorstep when his strength had nearly failed him completely.
At first, we paid him no mind, as visitors like him were not uncommon, though infrequent. Many reacted the same way upon discovering our village: first with relief at finding civilization, then with curiosity about our isolation.
He rested here only for a day, recuperating his strength and tending to his wounds under the careful attention of our village healer, who applied poultices of herbs gathered from the forest floor.
According to this man, he and his caravan had encountered an unfortunate situation on the main road, located hundreds of kilometers away. Bandits had attacked without warning, slaughtering most of his companions and stealing their goods. He alone had escaped by plunging into the thick underbrush of the forest, running blindly until exhaustion claimed him. Forced to flee deeper into the forest as his pursuers gave chase, he had followed game trails and hidden paths until, by some miracle, he ended up here.
He was, of course, very grateful for our hospitality and the kindness of the villagers who treated him well, sharing our bread and sheltering him beneath our roofs without expectation of payment or recompense.
And this was when he told us of the stories and events occurring in the outside world—tales and information we were blind to due to our self-imposed isolation. His words painted pictures of a world rapidly changing, of powers rising and falling, of borders redrawn in blood.
This merchant must have felt the kindness of strangers deeply, those who showed him pity and helped treat his wounds when he had nothing to offer in return. To him, that was enough, and he treated us as his saviors, his dark eyes glistening with genuine gratitude as he spoke.
Seeing us live peacefully, leisurely, unburdened by the chaos outside, he was compelled to tell us of the ongoing events that threatened to engulf even our hidden sanctuary. His conscience would not allow him to leave without warning those who had shown him such generosity.
Our village was special—it wasn't under any governance, faction, or affiliation. We paid tribute to no lord, knelt before no king, raised no banners but our own. I do not know why, but that is what our first generation had decided: complete isolation from the outside world and its endless cycles of power and oppression.
That was why we had no news of the wars and conflicts embroiling the lands beyond our forest haven. We lived as if in a different world altogether, one where the seasons changed, crops grew, children were born, and elders passed peacefully—all without the interference of empires and their machinations.
But the merchant's words shattered this illusion of separateness. This wasn't just a story he told to entertain his hosts around the evening fire—it was a warning of the danger to come, a premonition of blood and fire that would soon arrive at our doorstep despite all our efforts to remain apart from the world's conflicts.
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The Tidings of an Ill Omen
He first told us of his tale and how he stumbled upon our village, his voice low and urgent as we gathered around him. He and his caravan were running away from the war that was spreading across the land like wildfire in dry brush, especially down the south of the Western subcontinent of Arkanus, where they came from to trade their wares.
After they heard the whispers and rumors that had spread amongst the merchants in marketplaces and caravanserais (inn), they felt fear grip their hearts and were compelled to return to the northernmost central subcontinent where they were originally from. The rumors spoke of armies assembling, of ancient grudges rekindled, of diplomatic relations frayed to breaking point.
It seemed like the current Empire of Elms-Arkanus had made their final preparations for one final great push towards the last bastion of the Fresco League of Kingdoms. The Emperor himself, a man whose name was spoken with reverence and terror in equal measure, had emerged from his golden palace for the first time in decades to personally oversee the preparations.
As the soldiers of the Empire and its allies could be seen busily preparing in the northernmost part of the western subcontinent, the Imperium's new regional capital was located in a fortress city spanning 41 million kilometers² carved from the living rock of a mountainside, a tiered metropolis, beauty like no other. Troops from a dozen subjugated kingdoms were assembling there, swearing allegiance to the imperial banner and preparing for the campaign that would finally unify the western and central subcontinent under one rule.
It seemed like a two-pronged assault was being planned with meticulous care; the main force would be in the west, where the Emperor would lead the strike personally, his dark dragon scale armor gleaming in the sun as he rode at the head of his most elite royal guardsmen.
The other prong would split off and rally their allies in the central subcontinent after they had crossed the great river that served as a natural boundary between territories. These forces would be led by the Emperor's most trusted general, a man known only as the Bloodhawk, Grand Duke of one of the twenty Great Houses that stood as the pillars of the Empire. houses of his comarades and friends thousands of years ago who stood by him as they forged this mighty Empire. And the current Grand Duke Bloodhawk in this generation had never lost a campaign in his thirty years of service.
And they would make a surprising cross towards the southernmost area, launching their surprise attack there using the great river in the southernmost north, then crossing towards the western south where they would conduct a pincer attack on the enemy, catching them between hammer and anvil with nowhere to retreat.
Hence, when the merchant group reached the port on the southern end of the central subcontinent, they decided to take the hidden Imperial road to return to the north of the central subcontinent, where their Rimm Mercantile was from, before the army would cross it and they would get stranded there, unable to return home for months or even years as the conflict raged.
And that is when they encountered bandits who had roamed the outskirts of the forest, perhaps deserters from one army or another, seeking easy prey among travelers fleeing the coming storm. The bandits had fallen upon the caravan suddenly, emerging from hiding places along the roadside with cruel efficiency. In the chaos that followed, the merchant had fled into the forest, running until his lungs burned and his legs gave way beneath him. And that is how he reached our village, led by desperation and blind chance.
Further, he had told us of the decrees of the Emperor: to spare no man, woman, child, or elder, at least those who were not an ally of the Imperium or its direct vassals. The Emperor's words had been recorded on scrolls and read aloud in every market square across his domains: "Let no enemy of our glorious Imperium draw breath after our passing. The merciful shall be counted among the traitors."
And we knew deep within our hearts that we weren't affiliated with any dominion. We were neither friends nor declared enemies—we simply existed outside the knowledge of these great powers. But in times of war, neutrality was seldom respected, and ignorance of our existence would not protect us forever.
I have heard stories from my parents of the reason why this village was so far away from other civilizations, tales told in hushed voices around the hearth on winter nights.
It was due to our ancestors escaping the very same war that was about to embroil the entirety of the continent once again. A century ago, the current Immortal Emperor had launched a similar campaign of conquest, and our forebearers had fled rather than choose sides in a conflict that was not their own.
And our grandparents were refugees who had banded together and were brave enough to enter this forest, deemed haunted and cursed by superstitious townsfolk. They had found this spot after months of searching for a place to settle, guided perhaps by providence to this hidden valley where they might live in peace.
The following day, that merchant hastily left; of course, one of our villagers accompanied him to the road that was built by the Empire a few years ago, ensuring he would not become lost again and fall prey to the forest's many dangers. They parted at the edge of the great woods, the merchant promising to speak no word of our village to any soul he encountered.
When he had left, a great trepidation gripped the village with fear. The air itself seemed to thicken with dread, making it difficult to breathe or think clearly.
From daybreak to sunset, gasps of woe and whispers of unease filled the air, passing from home to home, workshop to field. Mothers clutched their children closer, fathers examined their hunting bows with new purpose, and elders gazed into the distance with expressions of grim recognition.
The murmurs of war and death that they had tried to escape centuries ago have once again crept into our doorsteps, unwelcome visitors that could not be turned away with polite words or offerings of bread and salt.
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The Assembly of The Twenty-One Families
Every time something major occurred in this village, an assembly had to be called; there all of the adults would convene and vote for the actions that the village should take, and the majority of the votes would be implemented without argument or dissent. This was our way—democratic in spirit if not in name—inherited from ancestors who had witnessed the tyranny of kings.
The following day after the merchant had left, the village chief called for an assembly. Runners were sent to every household, and the great horn carved from an ancient tree trunk was sounded for the first time in decades.
The chief was among the last of our remaining grandparents—the first generation who had found and built this tiny village enclave. His face was a map of wrinkles, his hands gnarled like tree roots, but his eyes remained sharp and his mind sharper still. He had led us through floods and droughts, through harsh winters and disease—but never through war.
It was a very hectic few days for all of us, especially the children, who sensed the adults' fear without fully understanding its cause. But what could we do? We were no more than little runts in the eyes of the adults, our opinions valued in matters of play but not of survival.
Within an hour's notice, all the adults had gathered outside the chief's village hut, a circular structure larger than other dwellings, its thatched roof rising to a point crowned with carved wooden figures of protection.
A decision had to be made: stay and fight for our freedom that for long we had sought to keep and now to protect, or to flee and leave what we had built here and the ideals that we stood for. The debate was fierce, voices rising and falling like waves against a shore as each family head spoke their piece.
Some argued for immediate flight, dispersing into the forest in small groups to make tracking more difficult. Others insisted on standing our ground, pointing out that we had nowhere else to go that wouldn't eventually fall under imperial control. A few suggested reaching out to the Fresco League, offering our allegiance in exchange for protection.
The night came; after what felt like an eternity of deliberation that stretched from midday until the stars emerged, the assembly was finally disbanded with a solemn beating of drums.
People hurried back to their homes—some of us had to prepare for the war that now seemed inevitable, though deep inside we hoped it wouldn't find us here in our hidden valley, protected by ancient trees and long forgotten paths.
But that is only wishful thinking on our part; we have to be prepared for the worst, while a few other families took their chance and had to flee, gathering what possessions they could carry and saying tearful goodbyes to neighbors who had chosen differently.
When my sister and I asked our parents what had been discussed as they returned home, their faces drawn and weary, our father told us that the majority had decided to stay and defend this hidden enclave we called home. There would be no retreat this time, no further running from the conflicts of the world outside.
Of course, our family patriarch was one of those who voted to stay and fight. My father was a proud man, with hands calloused from years of working our small farm and hunting in the surrounding woods. He had often told us that a man who abandons his home abandons a piece of his soul with it.
Only those who chose to flee were allowed to do so without judgment or recrimination, and they left the village for good, hoping to find their relatives in distant towns, where their families were originally from, hoping for salvation away from this war. They carried with them seeds from our gardens, tokens from those remaining, and maps sketched from memory of safer paths through the forest.
Three families who had chosen to do so, who apparently still had clans outside the enclave, departed without hesitation as the sun rose the following day. We watched them go from the village gates, uncertain if we would ever see their faces again in this life. The children wept openly; the adults maintained stoic expressions that did not quite mask their fear.
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The Brutality of War Monggers
Almost a month had passed in the first week of the eighth month; the army of the Imperium had slowly begun their fateful march down south towards the remaining domains of the Fresco League of Kingdoms, moving like an unstoppable tide of steel and flesh across the land.
And with them, soldiers that were recruited as reinforcements or padding for the main army had come to march with the Empire soldiers, mercenaries and conscripts from a dozen subjugated territories, and slowly they had crept on the countryside, their advance marked by columns of smoke rising from homesteads and villages in their path.
All those who were still in dubious alliances and not under the sphere of the Imperium were slaughtered without ceremony or question. There was no tribunal, no opportunity to swear fealty—only the sharp edge of imperial justice.
They burned homes, pillaged livestock, stole valuables both precious and mundane, raped women with impunity, and killed every man, woman, child, and elder in their path; at least that is what those undisciplined soldiers from the alliance who have gathered under the banner of the Empire to support their cause did. The camp followers were often worse than the soldiers themselves, vultures picking at the remains of communities already devastated.
Although the Imperium's core legions had indeed enforced the will of the Emperor, they didn't join in the acts of pillaging, looting, raping, and burning of homes; they only killed efficiently and dispassionately, without doubt, hesitation, or mercy as the order of their Emperor dictated. They were professional killers, not brutes—a distinction that meant little to those who fell beneath their blades.
While those soldiers who came across the differing vanguard units and armies from the allies of the empire, who didn't have the same discipline as the imperial soldiers, took pleasure in twisting the words of the Emperor, and they partook in the brutal scenes that you can find in villages like the Village of Maya was about to experience. These men saw the campaign as an opportunity to indulge their basest instincts, protected by the imperial decree and the chaos of war.
As per the emperor's decree, they were to lay waste to any living soul not under their sphere of influence or allied to their cause. The words were precise, leaving no room for interpretation or mercy—but they were also an invitation to cruelty for those already inclined toward it.
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The Village Preparation
Meanwhile, our tiny enclave was busy strengthening the village defenses, although it all looked haphazard and hastily put together to even the most untrained eye. Men and women worked side by side, digging ditches, sharpening stakes, and reinforcing the gates with whatever materials could be spared.
As this village was neither an ally nor a vassal of any realm or dominion under any of the empires and kingdoms that ruled the lands, we had no professional soldiers among us, no veterans of past campaigns to guide our efforts. Our knowledge of warfare came from hunting and the occasional tales told by rare visitors.
As this village had only been founded a century prior by those who had escaped from the drums of war and death, we had deliberately avoided the martial traditions that dominated the outside world. Our ancestors had chosen plowshares over swords, and now we were paying the price for their pacifism.
And we, the children, were now the third generation that has lived here and the second generation, at least for those who were born and raised here in the village of Maya. We had never known anything but peace, and the concept of men killing other men for land or power was as alien to us as the stars overhead.
The chief was among the first to live and build this place—or what remained of them. His hands, though gnarled with age, still worked tirelessly alongside those half his age, setting an example for all to follow.
We all had helped in the preparation as best we could, building makeshift barricades throughout the village, dragging fallen logs into position, filling sacks with earth to create barriers, and gathering stones that might serve as crude missiles.
If a veteran soldier had witnessed such machinations that we have devised to erect as a form of defense, they would have lost all hope and would have surrendered already at the sight of the enemies; it was indeed a bunch of haphazard fortifications, but what else could mere farmers and hunters do? Our efforts, though sincere, would barely slow a trained military force for more than moments.
We had no access to brilliant minds that were built for war and strategy and knew of such great fortifications that would have been implemented here. Our most educated villager was a former scribe who had fled the imperial capital decades ago, and even his knowledge of siegecraft came from books rather than experience.
And we also have no formal training or experience in battles—especially not the kind that required taking another man's life. We could track moosedaer through the densest parts of the forest, bring down boarats with spears, and trap rabbiets in their dens—but men were not animals, and war was not hunting.
But what this village has is the experience of hunting the beasts that roamed in this great forest, and we all took pride in that, especially the adults, although I was still not allowed to join due to my age, only when I would reach the ripe age of 13, which was only three years from now. I watched with envy as the older boys were taught to notch arrows and thrust spears, preparing for a fight they could not possibly win.
After we had done all that we could, transforming our peaceful village into a crude fortress in the span of weeks, we could now only hope and pray that the soldiers from the empire would only pass us by, that our tiny settlement would remain hidden in the vastness of the forest as it had for a century.
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The Night of the Raid and The Screams of Death
In the dead of night, a group of soldiers of an unknown unit or army that they belonged to came like the death reaper itself, silent until the moment they struck, then terrible in their fury. The moon was hidden behind clouds, casting the forest in deep shadow that concealed their approach until it was too late.
The thundering of hooves as the horses marched, the clash of armored steel echoing from the soldiers that ran through the forest floor, and the eerie sounds of the howling of wolves echoing through the valley finally alerted us to their presence—but by then, they were already upon us.
The village was already deep asleep with only a few men who volunteered to take the night's watch, with their sleepy eyes hoping that what they feared wouldn't come. These men, farmers by day and sentries by night, were no match for trained killers who moved through darkness like it was their natural element.
A few moments later, arrows rained down on our patrols, whistling softly through the night air before finding their marks with deadly precision. When they hit their targets, our men stumbled and fell without even a cry of warning, and now they lie lifeless at their posts, their blood seeping into the earth they had sworn to protect.
It was a swift death, and no alarm has rung or sounded to alert the villagers. The first victims of the night passed from this world to the next without even knowing what had killed them, a small mercy in a night that would offer few others.
It was the vanguard unit of the main army that was composed of soldiers from a different kingdom who had sworn its allegiance to the Emperor and the Imperium. Their armor bore unfamiliar insignia, their faces hidden behind helms shaped like snarling beasts.
Currently, they had split off and had been ordered to scout their surroundings, as the main army had stopped near the main road and all the way to the forest floor, as their numbers were hundreds of thousands, and now they had to rest their weary feet for the night, occupying both inside and outside of the forest near the roads. The vast encampment stretched for miles, its campfires visible even from distant hills like stars fallen to earth.
Does this vanguard have other orders? Were they merely scouts who had stumbled upon our village, or had they been searching for us all along?
Simple: conserve the main army's strength from any battle and clear out the forest from any threat before their march continues on the morrow, and this is what they did with methodical brutality. The different vanguard units were the Emperor's scythe, cutting down anything that might slow the main force's advance.
A little while later, the screams from the women and children had begun, piercing the night like daggers of sound that would haunt August for years to come.
The valley echoed with cries of agony and whimpering for mercy from their invaders. Mothers begged for their children's lives, offering their own instead. Fathers fought desperately with farm tools against trained soldiers, falling one by one beneath superior weapons and training.
They were the villagers, who had nowhere left to run and had decided to fight back against overwhelming odds, knowing they would likely fail but unable to surrender without resistance. Men who had never raised a hand in violence now fought like cornered wolves to protect their families.
Now, they lie cold and lifeless on the ground, their bodies contorted in positions that spoke of their final moments of agony. The earth beneath them grew dark with blood, absorbing the life essence of those who had tended it for generations.
As any mustering of the men's strength was outnumbered by professional soldiers who killed for a living, who had been trained since childhood in the art of warfare, who viewed death not as a tragedy but as a trade.
We, who were born and raised here, were nothing but a bunch of farmers and hunters, and we had no choice in the matter but to take up arms and fight against them with whatever weapons we could find—scythes, woodcutting axes, hunting bows meant for game rather than men.
Alas, it was a futile struggle, like children throwing pebbles against an advancing storm. Our crude barricades were smashed aside, our makeshift weapons breaking against steel armor, our courage insufficient against trained killers.
The men who had tried to fight back the invaders were bitterly murdered, slain, and cut down like livestock. They fell by the dozen, their blood mixing together in the dirt of the village square where just days before children had played and danced.
Even though I tried to resist, my young heart filled with a courage I had not known I possessed, I took up my small hands and swung at a soldier who came near our house, connecting with his armored leg to no effect. The man laughed, the sound hollow and inhuman inside his helmet.
But the soldiers around me were strong, hardened by years of campaign and killing, and they beat me up until I was half dead and was left comatose outside our farmhouse, my small body broken but somehow still clinging to life through some cruel twist of fate.
I watched as my brave father's throat was slit before my eyes, his final gaze meeting mine in a moment of sorrow and love before the light faded from them forever. My mother and sister fared no better than us as they suffered a worse fate than me and my father, their final moments marked by violations that no human should endure.
The soldiers who had found them hiding inside our house dragged them out from the farmhouse, and they were violated as the soldiers unleashed their lust upon them like beasts in heat, taking turns with mechanical cruelty while their comrades watched and waited.
I have witnessed it all as hot, searing tears fell from my eyes from the anger that I felt from within, helpless rage burning through me like fire through dry grass. I wanted to scream until my throat bled, to curse these men and their Emperor with every breath remaining to me.
I wanted to move, shout, scream, bite, and use all my being to save them, yet my body did not listen. I remain unmoving, lifeless, and helpless as my body had given up, battered, bloody, and bruised beyond recognition. All I could do was watch as everything I loved was destroyed before my eyes.
This horror was only mirrored across the entire village—a barbaric testament to the very nightmares of our ancestors who had tried to escape such scenes for centuries. The peaceful sanctuary they had built with such care had been violated in a single night of unimaginable brutality.
But we had never truly escaped the world's cruelty. We had only been hidden for a while. Away from the gaze of the cruel world that inevitably found us in the end, as it finds all who dare to dream of peace in a time of war.
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The Aftermath
After the barbaric night had concluded and the sun's rays had shone with indifferent brightness over the scene of slaughter, you could see the soldiers dragging our dead into the open field while they ransacked our homes, taking any of the valuables and the livestock, leaving us as carrion for the beasts of the forest.
They worked with the efficiency of men who had performed such tasks many times before, piling bodies without ceremony or prayer, stripping homes of anything valuable with practiced eyes that missed nothing. What couldn't be carried was destroyed—grain stores set aflame, wells poisoned with carcasses, fruit trees hacked down at their trunks.
And after they had done what they had wanted to do, they all left, without a sign; only an eerie silence befell as the birds chirped and the crows perched on the trees, looking down below at the numerous bodies that lay. The soldiers vanished into the forest as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving behind only death and silence.
The predators began to enter and feast amongst the bodies that were sprawled on the village ground, nature reclaiming what man had destroyed. Wolves emerged cautiously from the tree line, drawn by the scent of blood. Ravens descended in black clouds, their harsh calls the only eulogy the dead would receive.
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The Remaining Survivor: The Boy Named August Finn
Two days and nights have passed as the morning mist settled over the remnants of our charred village, wrought with death by its inhabitants. The air was still heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the sweeter, more terrible odor of decaying flesh.
A single droplet of dew, too heavy to cling to the leaves that held it, fell upon my face like a tear from the heavens themselves, startling me back to consciousness.
I lay beneath the shade of an old oak tree that had stood witness to the village's birth and now its death, waking up from my deathly long slumber. The rough bark against my back was the only sensation that did not bring pain.
I drifted in and out of consciousness, my mind struggling against the pull of oblivion that promised an end to suffering. My vision blurred, the world around me swimming in and out of focus like images seen through moving water. Insects had begun to feast upon my wounds, tiny scavengers taking advantage of my helplessness.
The bitter earth met my lips, tinged with the metallic taste of my own blood. I spat weakly, trying to clear my mouth of the foul mixture. A pool of it had gathered in my mouth, mixing with the dirt beneath me into a paste that spoke of mortality and decay.
My head ached as I tried to comprehend my surroundings, but it was hopeless. The village I had known was gone, replaced by a charnel house of broken bodies and burned buildings. Nothing was left of what was once here; only a few village houses had remained standing, mocking survivors with their partial intactness.
Even our farmhouse seems to have not been spared from damage, but it wasn't major, as it still stood proudly as a testament to the genius and the materials that were used to construct it. The sturdy beams my father had cut and placed with his own hands had withstood the flames, outlasting their builder.
As I searched my surroundings for any signs of life, any movement that might indicate another survivor, it dawned on me with terrible finality that my life had lost all meaning. The community that had defined me, the family that had loved me, the future that had awaited me—all had been erased in a single night of imperial fury.
None had been spared from the death and destruction that came a few nights ago. Not the elders with their wisdom, not the children with their laughter, not the strong men and women who had tried to protect us all. I alone remained, a solitary witness to the end of everything I had known.
Only my anger remained, a burning coal in my chest that refused to be extinguished by pain or despair. The vengeance that boiled deep within had kept me breathing when my body wished to surrender. Each painful breath was fueled by the promise I made to myself as I watched my family die: that someday, somehow, I would make those scums responsible for this catastrophe whether it be the Empire or those who followed its rules will pay for what they had done.
Hoping that one day I would have come to avenge the deaths of everyone here, I clung to consciousness, refusing the sweet release of death that beckoned with promises of reunion with my loved ones.
Or so I thought...until a sound reached my ears—the faintest rustle of movement from beyond the village perimeter. Hope and fear warred within me as I strained to identify its source. Friend or foe? Salvation or final destruction?
Perhaps I was not the last survivor of Maya after all. Perhaps the village itself, though broken and bloodied, might yet rise again from its ashes like the fiery phoenix of ancient legend. But that would be a story for another day, if I lived long enough to tell it.
Or perhaps it is all but a figment of my imagination, a place whichever it is that holds me after my death, the last play of my final moments, a rewind of my bitter end.
Whatever it is, doesn't matter anymore, for I know I am alive, breathing and full of vengeance.
But for now, I was simply August Finn, the sole survivor from the village of Maya, keeper of its memory and bearer of its pain—the last witness to a massacre the Empire would never record and the world would never mourn.