“So, how’s the life of a soldier treating you?” Avis asked, eyes twinkling with mischief as he swiped his muddy boots against a rock.

During their travels across the expanse of Balatia, visiting one village after another over the last two moon cycles, Gabriel had given his all to his training. His earlier reservations about wielding a blade, the internal debates about its morality and weight, now seemed like distant echoes from a former life.

Gabriel looked at Avis, Atlas, and Olaf, a trio whose camaraderie had grown as hard as their battle-worn armor. “If only the company were better,” Gabriel answered, laughter tingling at the back of his throat.

Yet that laughter was a heavy thing. Each chuckle was a barb in his soul, reminding him that the departed could laugh no more. That he should laugh when they were dead felt wrong. He felt guilty for having the small moments of joy. The solemnity returned, and his face became a blank slate, almost as if an unseen hand had wiped away his happiness. What would they think of me now, wearing another kingdom's colors?

As if sensing the shift in Gabriel's mood, Avis intentionally bumped into his shoulder, making him trip over his feet.

“All that training, and his balance is still off,” Atlas quipped.

Olaf, as usual, said nothing but offered a deep, grumbling harrumph that somehow conveyed both annoyance and amusement.

In truth, being part of this entourage offered Gabriel a sense of belonging he hadn't anticipated. While his initial goal had been to sharpen his skills, to evolve into a warrior capable of fending off any threat, he found something equally prized—the value of camaraderie.

He had grown fond of the company he kept. Avis and Atlas, with their crude jokes and harsh orders, had inexplicably become figures of reassurance and guidance. Even Olaf, a man of few words and even fewer expressions, had a presence that offered a unique comfort. It was as though they had collectively taken him under their wing, acknowledging him as one of their own.

Positioned near the front of the marching formation, Gabriel instantly noticed when a horse galloped back toward them—its rider’s face stamped with urgency. The surrounding men looked like stone, revealing nothing but adding to the palpable tension.

Without a word from the rider, the commander began barking orders. The blast of a trumpet resounded, signaling a shift in pace; the troops marched faster, their steps heavy and deliberate.

"What's happening?" he asked, looking from one comrade to another.

"Death," Olaf replied. It was the first time the man had ever spoken directly to Gabriel, and his single word sent an icy shiver coursing through his veins.

"The scout must've seen something worrisome. We'll know the details soon enough. For now, we march with purpose," Atlas said.

Gabriel couldn't help but feel a mounting dread as they quickened their steps. Did they spot Paresh?

Atlas swiveled toward Gabriel, and the soldiers clustered around them. His words were sharp with urgency: “A village ahead is aflame.”

"It must be the Paresh," a nearby soldier speculated.

Above, columns of smoke unfurled against the azure sky, their tendrils visible even from this distance. The acrid scent of burning ash invaded Gabriel's nostrils as they approached.

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When they crested a hill, the devastation sprawled before them, a shocking scene of loss and destruction. Nestled between two verdant hills was a smoldering stretch of rubble that appeared as if it had once been a tranquil village. Plumes of fire still darted skyward angrily, defiling the serene backdrop. The pace of the march intensified.

Soon, a trumpet call summoned the leaders, and Atlas strode forward to join them in an impromptu council.

"They've razed an entire village," Avis muttered, his words almost lost to the wind.

"Easterners," another soldier growled, making no attempt to disguise his contempt.

Silently, Olaf crouched and sifted through the grass, his rough fingers grazing a handful of dirt as if it might whisper secrets to him. He rose again, wordless but somehow more burdened.

"Why would they strike a village like this?" Gabriel asked in disbelief.

Avis’s eyes narrowed, transformed by a fury Gabriel had never seen before. His typically nonchalant demeanor vanished, replaced by a visage of barely suppressed rage. "They pillage what they consider valuable and kill everything else. Including the lives of our people."

Atlas rejoined the group, his face etched with a sorrow that darkened his features. "We need to examine what's left of the village. See if we can uncover any clues. Everyone, form up."

Atlas raised an arm, blocking Gabriel's path. "Not you, lad."

At that moment, Gabriel wanted nothing more than to obey Atlas’s command. Yet, something gnawed at him, compelling him to discover what lay beyond the smoky veil that shrouded the village.

"I have to see it," Gabriel insisted.

"You're too young for this."

"Being too young didn't stop bandits from killing my family."

Olaf reached out and laid a heavy hand on Atlas’s shoulder, shaking his head gently but firmly. He then looked at Gabriel as if bestowing a quiet endorsement.

"I'm coming with you," Gabriel said.

Atlas sighed, eyes closing momentarily in quiet resignation before finally lowering his obstructing arm. "Very well."

Freed to move, Gabriel followed the soldiers into what remained of the village, bracing himself for the devastating truths he was about to confront.

Gabriel took in the nightmarish tableau of devastation. Charred human remains, men and women cut down without mercy.

Olof knelt beside a young boy about Gabriel's age, who lay beside a makeshift spear crafted from wood. The boy had fought bravely but to no avail.

"Axe," Olaf muttered, assessing the boy's injuries.

"Paresh," the men around him replied as they spat in contempt. Gabriel joined them, his hatred no longer a reflection of the group's sentiment but a vehement reaction of his own. It wasn't just about avenging his family now. It was about exacting justice for these slaughtered innocents.

Next to the fallen bodies, Avis vomited. Gabriel surveyed the gruesome scene. The suffering he and his family had endured now seemed minor compared to the massacre before his eyes.

Among the dead, he spotted a Paresh man riddled with wounds. He was the sole casualty among the invaders; fifty villagers had died to bring down just one of them. They all need to die, Gabriel thought, his heart hardening.

Atlas started walking back to the rest of the army, and the men followed. Gabriel’s head was dizzy from the horrors he had seen. Atlas approached the commander. “The villagers were killed only a few hours ago. We found a single Paresh body,” Atlas reported.

"Prepare the men. We're going to hunt them down," the commander ordered, his voice steel-edged. "Scouts, follow their trails but stay vigilant for ambushes. Cavalry, mount up and flank the battalion. Infantry, prepare to march as though your lives depend on it."

A resounding "Yes, sir" erupted from the soldiers.

Atlas hesitated. "What about the dead? We need to bury them."

"We don't have the time; otherwise, we'll be burying more villagers," the commander said. Noticing Atlas's expression, he added, a bit softer, "We'll return to give them a proper burial, but only after we've dealt with this threat."

They marched relentlessly, even though the evening, stopping only when deep twilight had surrounded them. Gabriel did his part, assisting wherever he could. No tents were pitched; the men lay on their bedrolls, wearing their armor and ready for combat at a moment's notice. Sleep eluded Gabriel as he replayed the horror he'd witnessed—the savagery, the brutality, the extinguishing of innocent lives, and the haunting faces of the dead.

When he finally fell asleep, it felt like he had barely closed his eyes when a soldier shook him awake. "Get ready. We've found the Paresh."