The village was ablaze, fire consuming the thatched roofs and wooden walls of hos, turning them into collapsing infernos. Smoke billowed into the evening sky, thick and dark, choking the air with the scent of burning wood, grain, and flesh. The once peaceful fields that surrounded the settlent were either brutally emptied of their harvest or set afla, their crops now reduced to smoldering embers.
Villagers ran in all directions, screaming in terror. Mothers clutched their children as they stumbled toward the woods, old n fell to their knees pleading for rcy, and young n either joined on the running or fearlessly and yet vainly tried to defend their possessions with what they had, which always quickly ended in their death.
Riders on horseback surged through the chaos, jeering as they swung their scabbards and the flats of their swords at fleeing villagers. So struck n to the ground, and laughed as they witnessed them scrambling to their feet and running. Others rode down those too slow to escape, knocking them into the dirt before moving on to loot whatever could be taken.
For the most part, they did not kill. The goal was not slaughter but fear. They wanted these people to run, to abandon their hos, to leave the land barren and empty for their masters to claim. Yet, any who dared to resist—those who picked up a blade or refused to flee—were cut down without hesitation, their blood soaking into the scorched earth beneath them.
Within monts, the village was nothing more than a burning ruin, the last echoes of its people fading into the night as they disappeared into the forests, leaving behind their smoldering hos and the laughter of n who had taken all they had.
The fires raged high, smoke curling into the night sky as the riders of the White Army carried out their grim work with the sa ruthless efficiency they were known for.
This was not simple looting—it was purposeful devastation, designed to cripple the enemy’s lands, leaving them not just raided but gutted, ruined, and broken beyond quick recovery.
After all, if a village was rely raided and its people killed, that was the end of it—the village, for that year, would no longer harvest for its lord. But burn the fields, scatter the people, and suddenly, the enemy had a far greater problem on his hands: more mouths to feed and less food to do it with.
Now, repeat this process dozens and dozens of tis across the land, and within months, the very foundation of his power would crumble. His granaries would empty, his roads would be filled with starving, displaced peasants, and his once-loyal subjects would turn to desperation, either fleeing his rule or resenting him for failing to protect them.
This was the true art of destruction—not rely killing, but breaking the enemy’s ability to recover. The White Army did not simply seek to defeat their foes in the field. They sought to make them wither away, to bleed them dry until they collapsed under the weight of their own ruin.
The light riders under Egil mastered such tactics, as they tore through the village like wolves in a sheep pen, their laughter ringing through the air as they smashed down doors, rushing inside hos to ransack whatever they could find. They moved savagely and quickly, overturning furniture, tearing open chests, and dragging out whatever was worth taking—coin purses, bolts of cloth, even sacks of grain if they could be easily carried.
"Co now, don’t be shy!" one rider jeered as he rode past a group of fleeing villagers, his blade tapping playfully against his saddle. "We just want to have a little talk!" He barked out a laugh when the terrified peasants picked up their pace, vanishing into the woods.
Another man kicked open a door, stepping inside to find a family huddled in the corner. "Oh? You’re still here?" He grinned, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on a young woman clutching her mother. "Looks like I found my share of the spoils."
A chorus of laughs echoed as other riders dragged won from their hos, their cries swallowed by the crackling flas and the roars of celebration. So struggled, kicking and screaming, while others went silent, their faces pale with horror as rough hands took hold of them.
"Run, run, little rats!" another soldier shouted, waving his torch as a group of children sprinted past him. "You best pray to whatever gods you got, ’cause we ain’t done yet!"
Ratto sat atop his horse, his blonde hair falling ssily over his face, damp with sweat from the heat of the flas consuming the village. He barely blinked as he took in the sight—houses collapsing into blackened rubble, villagers screaming as they fled into the night, chased off like stray dogs. Soldiers of the White Army rode through the chaos, jeering and laughing, striking down those foolish enough to resist and letting the rest scatter into the fields.
A rider to his left, a grizzled man with a broken nose and a cruel smile, held a struggling woman by the wrist. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, her clothes torn where rough hands had already grabbed at her.
"Oi, Ratto!" the man called, his voice rough with amusent. "First turn’s yours if you want it."
Ratto t his gaze for a brief mont, then shook his head.
The man shrugged, uninterested in forcing the boy into anything he didn’t yet hunger for. "Suit yourself," he said, then dragged the woman toward one of the houses that had yet to catch fire, her screams muffled as the door slamd shut behind them.
Ratto exhaled through his nose, gripping the reins tighter. He was only thirteen, yet for the past year, he had ridden with Egil’s light cavalry, learning the ways of war as Alpheo had ordered. It was ti, the prince had said, for him to grow accustod to the sight of blood and guts, to understand what it truly ant to wage war.
He had seen death before. He had seen n cut down, seen corpses rotting in ditches. He knew this—this burning, this looting, this driving of villagers into the wilds—was another side of war.
Yet the taste it left in his mouth was bitter. These people weren’t just faceless enemies. They weren’t Oizen’s n, nor Herculia’s. They weren’t soldiers standing against them in battle. They were farrs, children, mothers and fathers.
And, no matter how necessary it was, no matter how many tis he told himself it was for the war effort, the thought lingered.
These were their people.
A voice ca from behind Ratto, smooth but edged with amusent.
"Are our gas not to your taste, boy?"
Ratto turned in his saddle, his grip tightening slightly on the reins as he t the gaze of Sir Rykio, Egil’s second-in-command. The knight was a hard-looking man, lean but wiry, with sharp eyes that never seed to miss a thing. He sat comfortably on his horse, watching Ratto with sothing between curiosity and condescension.
"It’s not that," Ratto answered, his voice steady. "But... aren’t these people still part of the princedom?Aren’t these subjects of the crown?"
Rykio snorted through his nose, shaking his head. "Their lords rebelled," he said flatly. "And when their lords rebel, they pay the price. It’s their young who march against us, their grain that feeds the n trying to kill us. You think they’re blaless?" He gestured toward the burning village with a casual flick of his fingers. "This is war, lad. We don’t just kill soldiers—we break the land that supports them. We starve them, we scatter them, we make sure they have nothing left to fight for."
Ratto said nothing, his eyes drifting back to the chaos. The villagers weren’t warriors. They weren’t marching in an army. So of them probably had no say at all in what their lords decided.
Rykio studied him with an even expression, then smirked slightly. "Maybe you just need to ease yourself into it. You’ve yet to taste a woman, haven’t you? Perhaps that is what you need to kill the tense"
Ratto stiffened. "I’m not in the mood."
Rykio sighed dramatically. "Pampered, then. I should’ve guessed. A child with a soft heart and a noble soul... but I suppose that’s to be expected, we all have been kids once." He paused for a mont, then added, "You must’ve noticed how the others act around you. How careful they are with you. Because everyone knows—you’re one of the prince’s favorites, so no one is willing to say a thing."
Ratto’s jaw clenched, but he kept his face blank. He had noticed. He wasn’t stupid. The n treated him differently, watched their words around him, never struck him as roughly as they did each other
Rykio leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to sound almost fatherly—though the edge of steel never left his tone.
"Since you’re one of the prince’s favorites, you must do everything to make sure you never sha him."
Ratto’s fingers twitched around his reins, but he said nothing.
"You ride well, you train hard," Rykio continued. "But if you keep yourself distant from the truth of war, if you refuse to embrace it, then when you’re finally in front of an enemy, you’ll falter. And when you falter, you’ll die."
"I won’t," Ratto said imdiately, his voice firr than he felt.
"You will," Rykio countered, just as certain. "The commander’s already taken notice. You never take part in the raiding, never join the looting. And now he’s considering moving you out. He has no place for soft hearts in his unit."
Ratto furrowed his brows. "I fight well enough."
"You’ve never killed." Rykio’s eyes glead, watching his reaction. "I can see it. And when the ti cos, it’ll go against you. The first kill always changes a man. If you hesitate, it’ll break you. And if it breaks you, you’ll die."
Ratto swallowed, but Rykio didn’t give him ti to respond. He simply nodded toward the village, his voice pressing down like a weight.
"If you don’t want to sha the prince with your soft spots, then prove that you can gut a man without batting an eye."
Ratto stiffened, but Rykio didn’t stop. "Unless you ride out and cut a man down in front of , you’ll prove that I was right about you."
Ratto opened his mouth, anger flaring in his chest. "This isn’t—"
But Rykio said nothing more. He simply pointed at the short-sword at Ratto’s hip. The aning was clear.
Prove it.
Ratto bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. His fingers tightened around the reins. His heart pounded, but he said nothing.
Then, with a sharp breath, he drove his heels into the horse’s sides.
The beast lurched forward, its hooves kicking up dirt and ash as it thundered through the burning village. Flas crackled, screams still rang in the air, and Ratto rode past his fellow raiders as they laughed and jeered, dragging their spoils behind them.
He rode fast, his eyes darting through the chaos, searching.
Then he saw him.
An old man, thin and bent, his tattered clothes whipping as he ran aimlessly through the village, his face twisted with terror. His steps were uneven, panicked. He looked lost, like a wounded animal that didn’t know where to flee.
Ratto swallowed, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.
"He is the enemy."
The words echoed in his mind, over and over, louder with each galloping beat of his horse’s hooves. His breaths ca short, his pulse hamring in his ears.
"He is the enemy."
His knuckles were white as he unsheathed his short sword. It felt heavier than it ever had before.
"He is the enemy."
The old man turned his head. His eyes t Ratto’s. There was no fight in them, only confusion. Fear. Pleading.
The sword was already coming down.
He cut through skin and muscle with ease. A wet, sucking sound filled the air as it bit deep into the old man’s collarbone, lodging against bone.
He didn’t scream. He only gasped—sharp and thin, like the whimper of a dying animal. His hands, veined and shaking, reached up reflexively, grasping at the blade buried in him, as though his frail fingers could sohow pull it free, undo it.
Ratto yanked the sword back, and the old man fell.
He landed hard on his back, his head bouncing off the dirt with a dull thud. Blood gushed from the open wound, pooling in the dry earth beneath him, soaking into the dust. His body twitched, his chest rising in short, sharp jerks as his lungs fought uselessly for air. His fingers flexed once, twice—then stopped.
His killer stared down at him.
The body still moved, slightly. A shudder in the fingers. A last, pathetic heave of the chest. The eyes were still open, locked onto nothing, glossy and unblinking.
Then a horse trampled over the corpse. The crunch of bone was loud, wet, final.
Ratto felt bile rise in his throat. His sword dripped, red staining his hands, his clothes, his face.
He was still gripping the reins, but his knuckles weren’t white anymore. They were red.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his mind blank except for one thought.
"He is the enemy."
But he knew deep down he was not.
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