thrash, thrash, thrash.

That was the sound of the soil being uplifted by a young villager. The villager struck his hoe into the ground with vigor, each strike with tremendous force. His name is Marcus. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, looking up at the sun looking to set soon. Located in the Kingdom of Lacarta, one of the six nations of the Western continent, lies the village of Meru, Marcus's home.

He breathed in the air, alive with the scent of the rich soil. Marcus continued his routine, his experienced hands moving with ease.

After a grueling morning in the fields, surveyed the modest house he had just finished repairing for Old Man Titus, the village craftsman. Marcus stood back, with his hands on his hips, and admired his craft.

The house rested between two other houses. Its timeworn wooden walls had weakened with age, and the thatched roof had been in dire need of repair. Marcus had spent the past week meticulously replacing rotting beams and weaving new thatch from the sturdy reeds.

"Marcus!"

A woman in the distance called. It was Marcus's adoptive mother, Aunt Helena, as he called her. She was a close friend of his deceased mother.

"I must've got too caught up to remember the time," Marcus thought.

He ran towards Helena, excitement bubbling within him. Reaching her, he picked her up and spun her around, his laughter ringing across the fields.

"Marcus!" Helena exclaimed, her stern tone undercut by the laughter in her eyes.

"The next time you pick me up and swing me around like a toy, I swear to the gods, you won't eat that night," she declared, trying to maintain a serious demeanor.

Marcus chuckled, failing to contain his amusement.

"Alright, I'll put you down," he said, gently lowering her to the ground. Helena half-heartedly slapped his arm in faux reprimand, her laughter soon joining his. They both cracked jokes as they hurried along home.

While walking, the villagers greeted the two. The women stared at Helena with a mix of jealousy and admiration. She had a foreign beauty that was yearned for, due to her origin in the northern part of the continent. You could tell by her almost clean fingernails, blondish-brown hair, hazel eyes, and fair skin that heavily contrasted the brownish tones of the villagers.

Marcus was surprised by the women of the village, who gave him woven baskets and ornaments. He occasionally helped them with errands. It was expected, except for Helena and him, as most of the villagers were elderly.

As the two conversed with the villagers, Elder Aelius interrupted and ushered them over. He hands Marcus a gift covered in cloth. Upon removing the covering, Marcus found a new farming hoe. It was better than what he had been using before. His old tool was raggedy and worn.

Marcus thanked Aelius greatly, excited to work harder in the fields.

They walked back towards their humble home, nestled on the outskirts of the village. Marcus gently laid his new farming hoe on the walls of their house.

"I'll get you something to eat," Helena stated while looking for the pot.

"Yes, thank you, I'm too tired," Marcus replied, sinking into a chair and watching her with appreciation. Helena went outside, started a fire, and brought her pot. They didn't have chimneys to let fire exit, so this was how they made do. Helena grabbed the grains she had soaked overnight and added them to her pot of boiling water.

"Hey, don't forget, you're going to Sarnia with Elder Aelius to trade," Helena reminded him as she stirred the pot.

"Okay," Marcus responded. It wasn't his first time leaving the village. He had become accustomed to trade and traveling to other villages. He liked it, venturing out and talking with different people. He often imagined the grandeur of Avalon with its tall, towering walls and the famed Ivory Throne, edged in ivory and draped with the finest silks. Elder Aelius had told him many stories about the capital, fueling his dreams.

"Here," Helena said as she brought her cookery. Marcus buried his head in the grain porridge.

He nodded gratefully, eagerly digging into the hearty meal. The grainy warmth filled him, chasing away the lingering weariness of the day's labor. Across the table, Helena watched him with a fondness that spoke volumes—her maternal instincts guiding her actions and words.

"Poor kid, I wish his mother could see how hardworking he is," Helena thought.

Marcus finished his meal quickly, his excitement for the trip to Sarnia noticeable. "I'm heading off to bed first," he said, rising from his seat.

"Alright, get some rest," Helena replied, nodding. "You've got lots to do tomorrow."

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Marcus rested on the cushioned ground, shutting his eyes. His rest would be interrupted by the pounding of the ground. It sounded like thunder striking the ground with great force.

"What the hell?" Marcus breathed as he pushed himself up.

The pounds quickly turned into screams. Marcus rushed to the window, pushing aside the curtain to peer into the darkness beyond. What he saw turned his blood to ice. Marcus, now fully awakened, sprawled up to wake Helena. She squinted her eyes, trying to make sense of the situation. After a scream, Helena's gaze softened, and her eyes raised.

The village of Meru was ablaze. The flames ran across the roofs and started consuming the homes of his friends and neighbors. The Warriors moved with ruthless precision, their weapons glowing in the flames.

"Ten," Marcus had counted with his eyes.

All wore bronze plates and leather. Some holstered shortswords at their waist, others bows, or spears. They were all scattered, murdering villagers. These men were looking for something or someone.

Fear gripped Marcus's chest as he realized the gravity of the situation. Marcus's mind raced thoughts of Helena's safety foremost in his mind.

Helena's voice pierced through the noise, her eyes wide with terror as she grasped Marcus's arm. "We have to go, Marcus," she urged, her voice trembling. "We can't stay here."

But Marcus's pride and determination surged within him. He could not stand idly. With a defiant resolve, he seized a nearby farming tool, a sturdy hoe used for tilling the fields. Marcus then set his sights to the nearest assailant, shouting to lure him over.

The man, mounted on a steed, bore down on Helena with menacing intent. The rest of his comrades were focused on trying to set fire to houses and kill villagers.

In a split-second decision, Marcus swung the hoe with all his strength, aiming for the horse's legs. The blade bit deep, slicing through muscle and sinew. The horse reared in pain, throwing its rider off balance as it stumbled and fell.

The assailant hit the ground hard but recovered quickly, his gaze locking onto Marcus with murderous intent. He threw away his spear and drew his sword in a quick metallic rasp. He advanced with deadly grace, his armor gleaming in the firelight.

Marcus felt a surge of adrenaline as he met the man's gaze. It was no mere skirmish. It was a fight for survival, a test of courage and strength to determine their fate. With a primal roar, Marcus lunged forward, his muscles tensed for the clash to come.

The assailant struck first, his blade slashing horizontally at Marcus's chest. Marcus twisted aside at the last moment, the blade grazing his side with a searing pain. Ignoring the discomfort, he countered with a desperate swing of his own, aiming for the assailant's midsection.

The blow connected, but the assailant's armor absorbed most of the impact, leaving him unharmed.

With a growl of frustration, Marcus dodged another strike, the force of it nearly knocking him off balance. Marcus parried the next blow with the hoe, the clash of metal ringing in his ears.

The assailant commended Marcus's strength, speaking with a notable foreign accent. "You're strong, even without a proper weapon, you must have warrior blood running through your blood."

But fate intervened in a cruel twist—the assailant, seizing a moment of distraction, lunged forward and grabbed Helena by the arm. She cried out in fear, her struggles futile against his iron grip. Marcus's heart leaped into his throat as he watched her dragging across the soil, her face twisted in agony.

"No!" Marcus roared, his vision blurred by rage. With a surge of strength born of desperation, he hurled the hoe at the assailant, the blade striking true. The man grunted in pain, releasing Helena momentarily as he stumbled back.

Without hesitation, Marcus lunged forward, seizing the assailant by the wrist and throat in a vise-like grip. His hands trembled with effort as he sought to overpower the assailant, his muscles straining against the weight of their struggle.

The assailant fought back ferociously, his free hand flailing as he gasped for breath. Marcus felt the blows rain down on his ribs, each strike a reminder of the peril they faced. But fueled by adrenaline and desperation, he held on with grim determination, choking the life from his adversary. The assailant seemingly tried calling out for his comrades, yielding as the sound failed to exit his mouth.

Now freed from the assailant's grasp, Helena rushed to Marcus's side. "Marcus, we have to go," she pleaded, her voice thick with tears. "We can't stay here."

Marcus's gaze became fixed on the assailant, his grip unyielding. With a final surge of strength, he choked the life from the man, his fingers tightening around his throat until the struggle ceased, and he was blue.

Marcus was too tired. He had almost accepted his fate. Marcus struggled to kill one man. He couldn't kill the rest of the nine men. Helena labored to drag the injured Marcus away, but it was too late. Five of the armed men charged at him.

Helena begged him to run. She hugged him one last time. Then, She ran towards the men, swiftly being impaled. Marcus turned his head swiftly peaking to see what remained of Helena. He retched and writhed in disgust, realizing the truth. he was living a real nightmare. His only course of action was to flee. Marcus expected to be chased down and killed, yet surprisingly, they stopped when they killed Helena as if they had been satisfied or finished their job.

Marcus dug his tool into the soil and ran long and tirelessly until he collapsed in the almost never-ending forest surrounding Meru.

Marcus cried. He thought about all the women, the children, and the elders who were in the raid. Marcus could not fathom why anyone would raid a small, innocent village. Marcus groveled to his knees.

"I'll kill them! I'll kill them all!"

His screams of grief soon turned into tears. He sobbed while clutching at his shirt.

"I'll kill them," he said faintly.

Marcus shut his eyes, in exhaustion.

Upon, Awakening, he marched west. He felt horrible, but he didn't stop.

He staggered through the forest until he reached a clearing. The trek was arduous, filled with mindless walking and tears. Yet it was hopeless, he found no one. He finally threw himself to the ground, unable to repeat the cycle.

However, in the morning, actual mounted bandits appeared. He didn't even hear the horde of men.

"Aren't you one pretty bastard," the bandit leader remarked.

His grin widened and further accentuated his aquiline nose. He raised his bushy brows in excitement, clasping his hands together.

He wasted no haste, ordering one of the bandits in the crowd to grab and tie Marcus. He didn't even struggle. They took him to their camp and tied him to a post alongside other captured men, a myriad of young men, each runaways or vagabonds. The bandits prepare to ride to Iria, a trade city.

After a night of sleeping with his face to the wooden log, he had been tied to. The journey to Iria had begun. Marcus had gone there many times on routes with Aelius. Now, he goes there not as a free man but as a slave.

Marcus's mind churned with grief and rage. He vowed silently to himself: "This is not the end; this is just the beginning."