The village was silent.
Where once there had been the sound of laughter, the clattering of pots, and the hum of everyday life, now there was only the crackle of fires burning the remnants of homes. The ground was littered with the bodies of the fallen—villagers and soldiers alike—bleeding into the soil, as if the land itself mourned the slaughter.
Liora stood in the village square, her eyes swollen from crying. She clutched her mother's hand tightly, feeling the roughness of Alena's palm, but it didn't comfort her. Nothing could comfort her now. Her father was dead. The birds were dead. Everything she loved had been taken from her in a single, brutal night.
Around them, Thassalor's soldiers moved like shadows, gathering the survivors and ordering them into lines. The once-proud men of the village were shackled in chains, forced to their knees before the tyrant's captains. Women and children were pushed into a separate group, their eyes hollow with fear.
One of the soldiers—a brute with a scarred face and a twisted sneer—approached Liora and Alena, his eyes gleaming with cruelty. "You two," he barked. "Move along with the others."
Alena held Liora closer, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Please… she's just a child."
The soldier laughed coldly. "She's old enough to work. Thassalor needs hands, and every one of you will serve."
Liora's heart pounded in her chest as the soldier grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away from her mother. "No! Mama!"
Alena screamed, lunging for her daughter, but the soldier shoved her back with a rough hand. "You'll be next. Do as you're told, and maybe you'll survive."
Liora struggled in the soldier's grip, her small hands clawing at his armor, but it was no use. He dragged her across the square, where the other children were being gathered.
As she stumbled, she glanced back at her mother, tears streaming down her face. "Mama!"
Alena tried to run after her, but another soldier held her back, forcing her into the line with the other women. "Liora!" she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. "Liora!"
But the soldier's grip on Liora was iron, and the distance between them grew with each passing second. Her mother's cries faded into the background as the soldier dragged her toward the outskirts of the village, where a large, black tent had been set up. The tent was draped in Thassalor's dark banners, and soldiers patrolled the perimeter like vultures circling their prey.
Inside the tent, it was darker still. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear. Liora was thrown to the ground, her knees scraping against the rough earth. She looked up and saw a throne at the far end of the tent, raised on a platform of black stone. Seated on it was Thassalor, his armor gleaming like a polished blade, his face still hidden behind his mask.
Thassalor's presence was overwhelming. He didn't move, but the air around him seemed to thrum with dark energy, as if the very air bowed before him. His voice, when he finally spoke, was deep and cold, like the sound of steel on stone.
"Bring the girl forward."
Liora's blood froze as the soldier pushed her closer to the throne. She stumbled, barely able to stand under the weight of the tyrant's gaze.
Thassalor leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. "You are young," he said softly, almost thoughtfully. "But even the young must learn to serve."
Liora said nothing, too terrified to speak. Her body shook, her hands trembling at her sides. She felt like a mouse in the shadow of a hawk, waiting for the inevitable strike.
Thassalor tilted his head, his mask gleaming in the dim light of the tent. "You will work for me now, girl. You and all the others. Your village belongs to me. Your life belongs to me."
Liora's breath came in short, ragged gasps. She wanted to scream, to run, but she couldn't. She was trapped, powerless before the might of the tyrant.
The next morning, Liora was sent to work alongside the other captured children. The fields that once belonged to her family were now occupied by Thassalor's soldiers, who forced the villagers to harvest crops and gather supplies for the army. Every day was a struggle for survival, and every night, the village grew quieter, more desolate.
But even in the midst of the horror, Liora still found herself drawn to the oak tree, where the bird's nest had once sat high in the branches. She visited it every day, hoping to find some sign of life, some small reminder of the world that had once been.
The nest lay in ruins, its fragile twigs scattered across the ground, trampled by soldiers' boots. The baby birds were gone—silent, lifeless. But Liora still knelt beside the fallen branch, her fingers gently tracing the broken pieces of the nest.
One of the soldiers, a young man named Erik, noticed her one day as he passed by. He was different from the others—his eyes kinder, his face less hardened by war. He approached her cautiously, his voice quiet.
"You come here every day," Erik said. "Why?"
Liora didn't look up, her fingers still tracing the nest. "They were my birds," she whispered. "I took care of them. I fed them. And now they're gone."
Erik was silent for a moment, watching her. Then he knelt down beside her, his voice low. "The world is full of loss, girl. You're not the only one who's lost something."
Liora turned to look at him, her eyes filled with tears. "But it wasn't supposed to be like this. They didn't do anything wrong. They were just… living. And now they're dead."
Erik sighed, glancing up at the sky. "That's the way of things, under Thassalor. Life is fragile, and sometimes it doesn't make sense. Sometimes, the innocent are the ones who suffer the most."
Liora wiped at her tears, her heart aching. "It's not fair."
"No," Erik agreed quietly. "It's not."
As the days passed, Liora continued her work under the watchful eyes of Thassalor's soldiers. But something was changing inside her. The fear that had once gripped her so tightly was beginning to loosen, replaced by something else—something stronger.
She wasn't sure when it started. Maybe it was the way Erik spoke to her, his voice gentle in a world full of cruelty. Maybe it was the memory of her father, lying broken in the dirt, or the sight of the baby birds crushed beneath the weight of the world. Maybe it was the look in her mother's eyes, the desperation, the will to survive.
Whatever it was, it was growing inside her, like a seed planted in the soil of her heart. A seed of resistance. A seed of rebellion.
She wasn't ready to act on it yet. But the seed was there, and it was only a matter of time before it began to bloom.
Meanwhile, Thassalor's empire continued to expand, consuming villages and towns, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. But there was more to Thassalor's conquest than just land and power. Behind the walls of his stronghold, hidden from the eyes of the world, he was preparing something darker—something far more dangerous.
In a secret chamber deep within his fortress, Thassalor stood before a massive, ancient map of the known world. His generals gathered around him, their eyes fixed on the places that had not yet fallen under his rule.
"We have conquered much," one of the generals said. "But there are still those who resist. The people of the southern kingdoms, the warriors of the northern wastes. They will not bend so easily."
Thassalor's voice was cold, emotionless. "They will bend. Or they will break. It is only a matter of time."
Another general, a tall man with a scarred face, stepped forward. "And what of the girl? The one from the village we conquered. She seems… different. She speaks to the other children. She has a spark in her."
Thassalor's eyes flickered behind his mask. "Watch her closely," he said quietly. "The smallest spark can grow into a wildfire if left unchecked. And we cannot afford any flames of rebellion."