The ravens flew high above the ruins of Balladburrogh. Dust clouded the air - an unnatural fog of dirt smelled of death. It was 1274–Two years since the war began; two long years since I eagerly signed up the Elanar troops, in need to be the hero–and the Rani finally took Balladburrogh.

Their death machines howled like wolves lusting for blood. The cracking noise of bones and stones rattled under their metallic feet as they moved slowly across the land painted with sorrow. They had the figure of a metallic soldier and crimson glowed from the core.

My squad got cornered, and butchered. Buildings collapsed and chaos surrounded me as soldiers and machines closed in. I tore my Sergeant uniform stripes and escaped into an old bookstore.

From the dust and ruins, a small figure approached the Rani squad, one foot at a time. The man looked fragile, with bloodshot eyes as he held his daughter, bleeding and breathing. He continued shifting his gaze from the soldiers to the machines.

Stolen novel; please report.

I remember watching the squad leader–brown uniform with straps of red, gun at his side–as he methodically fiddled with the trigger.

I remember how he approached the figure’s daughter and put a bullet in her brain. I remember as the father’s red and tired eyes tried to cry, as his mouth attempted to curse but let out a sigh. I remember how his blood painted the squad leader’s uniform.

It will all be kept in my memory. Time might rust those away, but I’ll never forget the vicious smile of satisfaction and triumph upon the squad leader’s face.

There was a time when two sides went to war, and dust didn’t cloud the air. There was a time when Balladburrogh didn’t smell of death.