"Mary! Hurry! They're coming! We need to go, now!" Michael’s voice trembled as gunfire echoed in the distance. Explosions rattled the air, and the heavy stomp of marching soldiers grew closer.

In a small church amidst the chaos of war, two children clung to each other. Villages were burning, men slaughtered, women and children taken. Survival was all that mattered.

"Where can we go, Michael? Where can we hide?" Mary’s voice was shaky as she followed her older brother’s lead. His eyes darted around until he spotted a barrel nearby. Without hesitation, he helped her climb inside.

"Stay quiet and don’t move, Mary. No matter what you hear or see, just stay hidden. Do you understand?" he said firmly, his hands trembling as he closed the lid.

"But... where are you going?" she whispered, fear gripping her.

"Shh!" Michael hushed her, his head snapping toward the sound of soldiers closing in. After securing the barrel, he darted away, determined to lead the danger elsewhere.

Mary huddled inside, her small frame trembling. She peered through a tiny crack, heart pounding as the soldiers ransacked the church, drawing closer to her hiding place. Suddenly, a sharp sound distracted them—a stone striking one of the soldiers.

"There he is! Get him!" barked the commander.

Mary’s heart sank as she saw Michael sprinting away, drawing the soldiers after him. She stayed motionless until the footsteps faded, then cautiously climbed out of the barrel.

But just as she stepped into the open, a hand clamped down on her shoulder. A soldier, left behind in the chaos, had captured her.

"No! Let go of me!" Mary screamed, struggling against the soldier's iron grip. Her small hands clawed at his arm, but his strength was overwhelming.

"You're coming with me, girl!" the soldier growled, dragging her toward the village square where prisoners were being corralled like cattle.

Meanwhile, Michael darted through a narrow alley, his heart pounding like a drum. Turning a corner, he stumbled into a horrific sight—a pile of lifeless bodies, men from the village stacked like broken dolls. His breath hitched, and his stomach churned, but the distant shouts of soldiers snapped him back to the moment.

Thinking quickly, he crouched down, smearing the blood of the fallen onto his clothes, face, and arms. The stench made his eyes water, but he ignored it, forcing himself to slide into the base of the pile. The cold weight of the bodies above pressed down on him, threatening to crush his resolve.

The soldiers arrived, their boots stomping nearby as they searched relentlessly. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, and stayed perfectly still, each heartbeat a thunderclap in his ears. Inside, he prayed silently:

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“Oh, heavens above, I beseech you with all my soul,

Have mercy on this cruel fate that takes its toll.

Shield and safeguard my sister, my light, my grace,

For she is my heart, my one safe place.”

The soldiers combed through every corner, overturning rubble and peering into shadows, but there was no sign of the boy.

"It seems only the dead remain here, Commander," one soldier reported hesitantly.

The commander raised a hand, silencing him. Like a predator, his sharp gaze swept across the carnage—fires crackling in the distance, rivers of blood staining the earth, lifeless bodies scattered and piled high. Something about the heap of corpses caught his attention, an unshakable instinct stirring within him.

"Stick your swords into those bodies," he commanded with cold authority.

The soldiers hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. One finally stepped forward, his voice tinged with dread. "But, Commander... these men are already dead. Shouldn’t we at least grant them some dignity? What more can we take from them?"

The commander turned sharply, his eyes narrowing in irritation. "Are you questioning my orders, soldier?" His tone was a blade, cutting through the air. "Or perhaps you wish to join their fate?"

"No, sir!" The soldier snapped to attention, his voice trembling.

"Then do as you’re told," the commander ordered, his threat heavy with finality.

Reluctantly, the soldiers began their grim task, their blades plunging into the pile of bodies, cutting through flesh with sickening sounds. Some struck twice, others more, their faces grim and hollow as if their souls recoiled from their actions.

Beneath the crushing weight of the bodies, Michael remained utterly still, his body trembling with the effort to stay quiet. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, mixing with the acrid smoke from the fires consuming his village. His heart pounded in his chest like a drumbeat, each thud echoing the same single thought: I must survive. I have to return to Mary.

Suddenly, the weight above him shifted, and a body was shoved aside. Michael’s blood ran cold as a soldier loomed over him, the very same one who had dared question the commander earlier. Their eyes locked for a fleeting moment—Michael’s filled with terror, the soldier’s with something unspoken.

The soldier’s hand tightened around his sword. He raised it high, the blade poised to strike. His sword glinted in the eerie light of the flames. Time slowed, every second stretching unbearably as the blade began its descent.

But just before the strike landed, the commander’s voice rang out. "Halt!" he ordered, raising a hand.

The soldier froze mid-strike, his weapon trembling in his grip. Around them, the other soldiers began to lower their swords, many sheathing their blades with visible relief. Though the air was thick with heat from the fires and the choking stench of death, the soldiers’ weariness was palpable.

The commander’s cold gaze surveyed the scene one last time, unyielding and unaffected. His resolve remained ironclad; orders were orders, and nothing—neither mercy nor grief—would alter his focus.

The soldier standing over Michael hesitated, he didn’t speak, didn’t move—only stared at the boy for a moment longer. His chest rose and fell with a shaky breath. Without a word, he lowered his blade and stepped back, silently choosing mercy. Whatever turmoil lay in his heart, he let it pass quietly, choosing this moment to defy the brutality around him.

Michael lay frozen, his body tense and his mind racing.

The soldier didn’t speak, didn’t reveal his act of insubordination to the others. He simply turned and rejoined his comrades, blending into the group as they marched away.

As the last echoes of their footsteps faded, silence descended. Only the crackling of the fires and the distant cries of the wounded broke the oppressive quiet.

Michael opened his eyes, his vision blurred by tears he hadn’t realized he was holding back. His body trembled as he slowly emerged from the pile, his breaths shallow and labored. He had survived, though he felt no relief—only the burning resolve to keep moving.

I have to go back to Mary, he thought, his legs weak but his determination unbroken. She’s waiting for me.

Michael darted through the shadows, skillfully weaving between rubble and fire, avoiding the patrolling soldiers. His heart pounded as he neared the church, desperate to reach the barrel where he had hidden Mary.

When he finally opened the lid, dread gripped him—Mary was gone. The barrel was empty, and there was no sign of her. Panic clawed at his chest, but the sound of approaching voices forced him to duck into the shadows and remain hidden.

"I think we've rounded up all the women," one soldier said, his voice low but clear. "They’ve been gathered in the village square."

"What about the men?" asked another soldier.

"We killed most of them," the first replied indifferently. "That should be enough to scatter whoever’s left."

The two soldiers moved off, heading toward the square to report.

Michael clenched his fists, anger and fear swelling inside him. Mary. The thought of her being among the captured women lit a fire in his chest. He couldn’t lose her—not like this.