L sat on top of the wooden platform, watching the world fall apart before him. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. He looked up towards the heavy clouds, letting the rain smash into his eyelids in force. “It’s all yours, Braj, all yours,” he said, in a voice he had not heard in a long time.

After giving the order to Braj, who still required a considerable amount of convincing and prodding, reluctantly relaid it to one of his minions, which in turn announced it to the rest of the raiding parties, all hell had descended. His purpose was complete, then. There was nothing else to do but witness the flimsy order Luke has established rot away. Their kids, their injured, the few elderly, and their pregnant women were being slaughtered with each moment they hesitated within their circle. Some wanted to go back and protect their kin and some wanted to hold their ground and fight their way together. But who would they help first? If they went as a group they would only be able to protect a few. Who would decide what family to save? What part of village to first liberate? Who would decide? Why your sister, over my son?

Luke tried to tell them, tried to convince them not to break away from the group. Give me a few moments and we’ll split into platoons. There is not enough time for that, someone called back. The goblins have retreated, going off to hunt their family. The goblins are weak. They needed to act now, to give chase. Our own are dying as we idled about, someone bellowed. They’re only out of sight. They’re waiting for us to become rash, and then to kill us off one by one. We either save a few, or we all die, Luke yelled, but by then it was too late. One by one, two by two, the men and women began to dwindle and break off, chasing after the monsters, chasing them down to their homes. The rest, now not even half their number, stood by their lonesome, demoralized and confused.

In truth, only a Bugbears were hammering down the doors. The rest were waiting in between corners, above roofs, behind houses, bidding their claws and swords for the wandering humans.

There were only a limited amount of light staffs, and most of those stayed behind. They were brave people, those who went headfirst into the darkness. Sadly, as it goes, those were the first to die. The rest bled out slowly, picked off and outnumbered. Some reached their houses, first relieved, and then confused as to why there was no one there. Then, as to protect their families, as some of them said, they entered their houses and barred the door. Morning would come. Reinforcement would come. Help will come, they prayed within the safety of their homes.

They always pray, in the end. L shook his head. This too, no longer brought him joy. It always filled him with ecstasy, to see things crumble and fall away. To see the superficial and the arrogant, to see the act falter and shed its skin. But the surprise was gone. He knew what hid inside, what people tried to hide. Pandora’s box was open, and in truth, that which resided inside became a bore. The mystery, the adventure of poking around, to prod someone this way or the other, and to see how they would react; it was all gone with the years.

L stood up, throwing Thrawl’s bow over his shoulder, letting it push aside the quiver. He held his blade, sheathed and clean. He hadn’t needed to use it, yet, but his hands were bruised and dirty. The strings were cutting into his flesh. Maybe this will be the last time he sees this scene, this play. He needed a different stage, a different story. All of this was becoming too familiar. The same ending with just different colors. L turned his back towards the village. Even with all the rain, the smell of blood clung to the air. He jumped, his feet sinking feet into the mud as he landed. He plucked them out and began to walk away. It was hopeless. The village lost the battle once they chose to protect everyone instead of themselves. How ironic. It’s usually the other way, when people become selfish and seek to only protect themselves that they perish in doing so, but this time was different. A different type of selfishness, maybe, but selfish desire to protect everyone, to protect your loved ones over your neighbors that divided them.

L thought Luke, of what he said upon their first meeting. In sacrificing the few to save more lives, you corrupt all of those which you save, yet L heard him clearly tell everyone to abandon their kids, to sacrifice their family in order to save everyone else. Morality always has its price, and Luke could not afford it this time. Yet only he realized this. What about the others, that stayed. Did they admit to this, too? Or did they simply seek to protect their own hides, out of cowardice and ignorance? Does it even matter? Does it ever matter?

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Something felt off. An ache behind his neck, a twitch of a muscle, L didn’t know what. He glanced behind him to see a huge lump of burning iron descend towards him. With a yelp L hurled himself to the side as it landed, the mud and water throwing L a couple feet more across the ground. Flames stuck to it, hungrily consuming it as danced in the harsh winds and heavy rain.

The metal stood up, screaming blood and teeth out, and inside the melting iron, L saw eyes. Livid, burning eyes that dug needles into his skin. The same eyes that peered into him, long ago, as he stepped in the village. It was the first guard. Luke.

He stood up with screams, the unbearable pain of flesh melting tearing away at his mind.

“BETRAYER! AFT-”

A black arrow went into the flames, the molten iron giving away as the arrow pierced his chest. A second followed promptly.

“-ER WEL-”

The third, infused with such power that it was pitch dark, pierced the guard’s heart.

He staggered, paused, and then limped towards L, each succeeding arrow barely interrupting his stride. He, placed his knees under him, and pushed himself up as the arrows rained down on him. He stood up, took two grunting steps toward L, and fell again as an arrow burst his left kneecap.

At an arm's length way, L continued to impale the man with arrows, panting in pain as the skin of his fingers bruised away. He refused to step away, to turn tail.

For a moment, the guard stopped moving as the arrows fell into his back.

L reached for his quiver, finding nothing.

Panic made him jump back, pulling his sword free of its scabbard as Luke lunged with a single arrow-riddled leg.

He brought his entire size upon the pointy end of L’s sword, the tip piercing the gap between the chest armor and the helm, straight into the area of the neck where the two collar bones connected, right below his Adam's apple. The blade bounced off the spine, lodging itself into the dying man’s neck.

Luke stood tall, arching over L, his face mere inches away. He was fully aflame, from toe to helm tip. He was the mage. He was the mage of the village. That was why he was able to see the mana pulsing within his blood. A fire mage. A fire mage who used too much mana, messed up an order, punctured a mana vein, and was now being beaten by the rebound.  The fire attempted to lash itself onto L, but the dark of the night whisked it from consuming him. Skin and tissue melted off the guard’s face, dripping down his nose, and onto L’s face as Luke pushed further. The iron scorched L’s face in slight droplets as it slid down.

Insane eyes. Or what was left of them. Hurt, crazed, dying eyes. Fear gripped L’s hands, shaking his arms as he dug with his sword. The pressure did not cease.

Then the eyes relaxed, their fire smoldered. It closed, and Lukes body went still.

L swallowed, his breath coming back to him, and then promptly leaving him as two claws clutched around his neck.

Luke’s face contorted into a wrath’s howl, releasing an eardrum-rupturing roar. A broken, high-pitched scream man of despair. A mouthful of boiling blood scalded L’s face, as his two iron gauntlets attempted to squish L’s neck under the flames.

With a screech of his own, L put everything behind the sword, attempting to grind away at the undying guard's neck. Instead of grinding, however, the melting spine just shifted away like heavy mud.

It was far too late to turn now. L had his chance to turn away, to simply step back and let the man die from a safe distance away. But in pride, he stayed. And in pride, his burning head was melting off.

The guard’s grunts and roars were reduced to an empty whisper, moments after, but the gauntlets remained their firm hold on L’s throat, cutting off any effort to breath. The world flipped and stormed as L began to fall unconscious.

Then, the guard died. The burning gauntlets fell limp, allowing the darkness to eat away at the flames, doing its level best to cease the consumption of L’s face.

Yet the force weighing down on L did not go limp. It bore on him, even in death, attempting to crush him under its weight.

And he, once again, had the choice of stepping back, and let the man fall to his death. Yet L’s sword reminded to mold itself through the spine. Either unaware or uncaring of Luke’s demise, L gambled his inconsequential life in the simple inconsequential act of beheading a simple guard’s corpse. He pulled and pushed, grunted and broke his muscles.

The spine snapped as abruptly as Luke’s death. His contorted lump of flesh and iron fell forward, slid and leaned against L. With a curse, he pushed the burning body to the side. It crashed, the head snapping off the little muscle and skin that held it, and rolled off. It rolled and rolled, rolled and rolled, and even in death the helmed head of the guard faced L with empty sockets, spitefully staring at L’s wretched figure as he huffed and puffed his own blood.