Two days had passed since General Rothgar and his detachment of Frostbane warriors set out for this region. They were making steady progress along the winding road when plumes of black smoke appeared on the horizon. At first, it was just a vague smudge in the distance, but as they drew nearer, the sight became unmistakable: a small town engulfed in roaring flames. Even from this distance, they could see villagers running in panic, their desperate shouts carrying faintly on the wind.

Rothgar reined in his horse, narrowing his eyes at the inferno before him. “Hold,” he commanded, lifting a gauntleted hand. The Frostbane column slowed, and tension crackled through the ranks like static. Soldiers eyed the distant blaze warily. This was the third razed settlement they had encountered in mere days.

On the path ahead, a ragged group of people stumbled toward them, their clothing scorched and tattered. One woman clutched a crying child; another man was limping, his face streaked with soot and tears.

“General, what should we do?” asked Zack, Rothgar’s aide, his tone betraying both concern and a desire for direction.

Rothgar’s voice was steady, though a grim note darkened his words. “Send riders to intercept them. I want to know exactly what happened here.”

Zack nodded and signaled to a small squad of cavalry. Within moments, they galloped forward, hooves pounding against the dirt road as they raced to meet the fleeing villagers.

Adjusting the fur-lined collar of his cloak, Zack ventured another question. “You don’t think this was the Windstriders, do you? This is the third settlement we’ve seen razed to the ground.”

Rothgar exhaled slowly, recalling the charred remains of the previous villages. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the tongues of flame licking the sky. “But at least there are survivors this time. Whatever happened here, we may finally get some answers.”

Some time later, after the fleeing villagers had been brought under guard, General Rothgar approached them. They clung to one another, their faces pale and drawn, as if they expected the worst. When Rothgar stood before them, they fell to their knees, their voices rising in desperate pleas.

“Please, you have to help us!” they begged, voices trembling with a terror that still clung to them like a wet cloak.

“What happened here?” one of the Frostbane soldiers asked, scanning the soot-stained faces. His stance was guarded but not hostile.

“They came in the dark,” a man murmured, his voice ragged from grief and weariness. “There’s no mistaking it— they were from the Blackbear Clan. Please, I know you’re Frostbanes, but…save us.”

Rothgar’s expression remained unreadable. He knew his clan had fought tooth and nail against these very people—had spilled more than enough of their blood. Still, he pressed them. “You do realize my clan has killed thousands of your own. Soon enough, we might conquer your entire nation. Why plead with us?”

The villagers shuddered at the reminder, but their fear of the Blackbears outweighed all else. “Anyone is better than those monsters,” one woman insisted, tears streaking her ash-covered cheeks. “They took most of the children and the women. We can’t fight them alone. Please…help us.”

Zack, Rothgar’s aide, shifted uncomfortably. “General, this isn’t our problem,” he said, keeping his voice low but firm. “We have a war to win and a city to take. Lord James expects us to carry out our mission, not chase after marauders.”

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Rothgar’s gaze lingered on the villagers, taking in their hollow expressions. He said nothing at first, weighing his options. Finally, in a voice softer than usual, he spoke. “No…we fight these barbarians.”

“But sir,” Zack protested, brow creasing in concern.

Rothgar fixed him with a steady look. “No child deserves to be treated like this,” he declared, anger flickering in his eyes. “Besides,” he added, voice taking on a more pragmatic edge, “if we leave them alone, they’ll raid our supply lines soon enough.”

Zack recognized the excuse for what it was—he knew the general too well. Rothgar had always harbored a soft spot for children, a trait that earned him unwavering respect among his men. Despite the ongoing war, there were lines he refused to cross, and taking a stand for these villagers would be just another example of his unspoken code of honor.

A hush fell over the small group. Beyond the circle of survivors, Frostbane soldiers exchanged cautious glances. They, too, understood the weight of their commander’s decision. War raged all around them, but for this moment, at least, compassion would guide their blades.

A few hours later, the forty-thousand-strong Frostbane force arrived at the small village of Rabar. The acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air as they worked to extinguish the last of the flames devouring several buildings. In the process, they discovered more survivors than they had initially feared. Some villagers emerged from makeshift hiding places, barns, and root cellars—eyes wide with cautious relief upon seeing the fires brought under control.

“Set up camp here for the night,” General Rothgar commanded, his deep voice echoing through the soot-blackened streets. The battlemasters relayed his order swiftly, and soon, Frostbane soldiers were erecting walls of ice around the perimeter, fortifying the remains of the village. Despite their imposing appearance, these makeshift defenses offered a sense of security to both the troops and the weary townsfolk.

For a time, the villagers regarded the armored newcomers with apprehension. They whispered fears that the Frostbane warriors might be no better than the raiders who had torn through their homes days before. But when fresh food and clean water were distributed among them, gratitude began to overtake suspicion. Families who had lost nearly everything huddled in small clusters around campfires, sharing what little space they could find within the walls.

General Rothgur sat in his tent, gingerly sipping a cup of hot tea in an effort to soothe his tired eyes, worn from many days of travel. The heavy canvas flap rustled, admitting his aide, Zack, who quickly stepped inside and offered a slight bow.

“Apologies for the intrusion, General, but I have that report,” Zack said, his voice hushed out of respect.

Rothgur set his cup aside, regarding his aide with a measured gaze. “No need to apologize. Speak.”

Zack nodded and consulted the notes in his hand. “Well, the village had around one hundred and twenty-three residents. So far, we’ve found and buried seventy-three, and we have thirty survivors here. That leaves twenty still missing.”

Rothgur’s expression darkened, a grim set to his jaw. Zack swallowed before continuing. “Of those missing, twelve are women—children, really—none older than fifteen. It appears the raiders only took women.”

At those words, the temperature in the tent plummeted. Frost crept across the wooden tabletop Zack hesitated, then pushed on.

“There’s only one surviving guard, and he’s critically injured. It’s unlikely he’ll make it through the night, but before losing consciousness, he managed to tell us the raiders came from the east. He recalled a group of about fifty attackers in total, though we suspect it could be a Blackbear raiding horde likely two thousand strong at the minimum.”

Zack fell silent, watching as his commander’s knuckles turned white against the armrest of his chair. The fluttering tent flap and the distant crackle of campfires were the only sounds that broke the tense stillness.

“Thank you for the report,” Rothgur finally said, voice tight with controlled anger. He glanced at the frosted table, then raised his gaze to Zack’s. “We won’t let this atrocity stand. Get a group of riders to leave at first light to find this horde and we kill every last one.”