The concept of actually dying is not something the young consider. Even the new warriors off to battle, barely adults at ages counted in less than two decades, think themselves immortal when they set off marching and singing with their comrades in arms. While young, we have often not seen how truly frail humanity is. Across myriad worlds human children grow up reading or engaging in the play of soldiers on battlefields and warriors conquering foes, so it is no surprise that such a romantic concept drives them to claim their own glory. Many states across reality have done a marvelous job showing that a warrior is a hero- an undying beacon of justice, or liberty, or patriotism, or morality, or whatever adjective these organizations use to entice their young to fight and die. Yet even when the reality of death is obvious, so very objectively close, many of these young adults determine to press forward as if they are unable to die. So forward they march, heads high- laughing and singing, cajoled by organizations that see benefit to be reaped upon a mountain of young corpses.
A boy, yet to experience his eighteenth summer, is one such pitiable creature. Growing up in his farming hamlet, he never saw the true horrors war could bring. When the Henosyrian Empire decided the Krazhnor Desert needed to experience the ways of civilization, the recruitment started in similar hamlets and villages. Being a third son, the boy was the perfect target for such recruitment attempts. Although the Henosyrian culture encouraged literacy even out into the countryside most of the young didn’t learn to read unless their family was of means. The boy wasn’t poor and could have left for a larger town for an apprenticeship where he could easily learn to read Low Henos, or potentially High Henos if he found a more scholarly adjacent master, but when the recruiters came he saw glory and honor. And so he marched and laughed. He smiled and cheered and uttered phrases to degrade and disparage the ones he would soon be fighting.
He, along with a few hundred recruits from the surrounding region, arrived at a camp closer to the theater of battle. They learned how to march correctly, how to wield a spear, how to throw a javelin and raise a shield, they learned how to dig a ditch and erect temporary encampments, they learned how to further the goals of their masters. But not once did they ever learn that they can die. After a four week cycle of training and learning, getting close to his fellow sacrifices to the desert sands, one thousand volunteers stood ready to march into the Krazhnor Desert. They were stronger, faster, and eager to please the Sergeants and Lieutenants of the Hynos Third Imperial Army. They set forth again with more confidence in themselves, emboldened by the praise and confidence of their trainers. They were not taught, not like a school or apprentice would teach, but trained like dogs to perform one trick: kill for the Emperor. Kill for the coffers of the nobility. They were trained to kill and die and they loved it.
Just two short months later, the boy sat almost alone in a red-stained desert battlefield. None of his village friends lived beyond the first skirmish with the trained Krazhnori Skirmishers. The thousand strong Fifteenth Battalion of the Hynos Third Imperial Army was barely fifty strong now. They received a stack of reinforcements after their second skirmish, they were reduced to about four hundred recruits then, but they received irregulars- conscripted prisoners. There were thousands of battalions like their own, thrown against the waves of defenders until the enemy was softened up enough for the real men-at-arms to come save the day. His survival was nothing short of dumb luck, he wasn't a great fighter, nor was he a tactical mind, he was no glorious combatant bringing honor to his home. He was just far enough back that each time he made contact with the enemy, the elites were already riding or marching up to complete the battle. He missed home. He missed his friends. He missed when he didn’t know just how easy it was to die or kill. He hated those he fought, just as he hated those who used honeyed words to entice him into a year of servitude. He hated them for killing all his friends, and he hated the Empire for enabling so much death. He simply hated, feared, and regretted.
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When the war was won, around fifteen years later, the Henosyrian Empire was filled with people like the boy. They were hailed as heroes, warriors unparalleled, and honored with enough wealth to support themselves for a decade and opportunities to find a place to settle. What wasn’t said was that the gold was coming from the coffers of the slain Krazhnori people. The trade between Hynos and the many nations beyond the Great Desert was facilitated by the Krazhnori for years, as ship routes through the sea lanes were often not fast enough for the more perishable and immediate goods. They were wealthy but content with their oases, they were content with their culture and religion, but the Hynosian Emperor had a dream. He dreamed of controlling not just the sea lanes on the Eastern side of the continent but also the many land routes through the center. He imagined the gold he would have, and so millions died for his half-considered daydreams.
When all was said and done the Krazhnori decided that they would die before they served, and the secrets of the land trade routes and oases died with them. Within a half of a decade after the desert was conquered, land trade between the nations bordering the desert was nearly non-existent. The Empire spent their war spoils appeasing the soldiers and family of the dead, and not enough went into stabilizing the region to rebuild and promote trade. Once a full decade passed, the desert was abandoned by the Empire completely. The shattered remains of the Krazhnori tribes feared what might happen if they picked up trade, so most of them left their homes. Orphans were bought by the empire to help replenish the dead, and workers were hired to ensure that their central economy wasn’t crippled by the trade. The Krazhnori dispersed into the various nations surrounding the desert, each too afraid to act against their enemy. The Krazhnori left their ruins in the desert, and with that an entire culture and way of life died for good.
Or so it is thought.