As the sun descended towards the horizon, its golden light spilled over the fields, casting long shadows that stretched across the acres of wheat. My hands ached as I pushed and pulled the heavy scythe through the tall stalks, sweat dripping down my face. Beside me, my father's calloused hands worked with practiced precision, his strength belying his age. Despite the physical toll, he never complained, always focused on providing for our family.
We worked in silence, the rhythmic swishing of the scythe drowned out any other thoughts in my mind. This was our daily life on this farm, and I couldn't imagine it any other way. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and heard a faint noise in the distance - a steady, thumping sound like heavy boots hitting the dirt road. I stopped working in the fields to look up and saw them approaching. A group of soldiers marching along the road, but they were unlike any trained and orderly royal guards I had ever seen before.
This group was ragged, their armor flimsy and mismatched, barely held together with rusted plates and straps. Some of them looked far too young—there were even children among them, struggling to keep up with the older men and women. The sight of their hollow eyes, worn faces, and thin, malnourished bodies made something tighten in my chest.
Curiosity got the better of me though.
"Father," I said, turning to Orin. "Who are those soldiers?"
He paused in his work, straightening up with a weary sigh. His eyes followed my gaze to the marching group of soldiers, and for a moment, he was silent, as if weighing his words.
"They're not soldiers," he said finally, his voice low, almost bitter. "At least, not in the way you think."
I frowned, watching as the ragged group trailed behind the better-equipped soldiers of the royal army. It was clear who held the power here—the royal soldiers marched with their heads high, armor gleaming, while this second group barely dragged their feet.
"They're called the Forsaken Legion," my father said, his voice tinged with sadness and anger. "Cannon fodder, really. They're mercenaries… but not by choice. Most of them are slaves. Others, children whose families fell into debt and had no choice but to sell them off to pay it."
I turned back to the group, my eyes focusing on the children—some as young as Rylan or Lyra, maybe even younger. Their eyes were distant, void of any hope, and it made my stomach turn.
"Children…" I muttered, unable to hide the disbelief in my voice. "How could they…?"
My father's face hardened. "It's the way of this land, Lucan. The lords and nobles don't care who they send to die, as long as it's not their own. The Forsaken Legion exists so the real soldiers can stay safe on the front lines. They throw these poor souls at the enemy first—let them soak up the arrows and spears."
My blood ran cold as I listened, the reality of it sinking in. These people were nothing more than expendable shields, sent to die so the kingdom's real army wouldn't have to. And the fact that some of them were children… It was unforgivable.
"How can they live with themselves?" I muttered, my fists clenching at my sides.
"They don't care, Lucan," my father said quietly. "They never have. The lords have their power, their wealth. The rest of us? We're just tools to them—tools they use and discard when they're done."
As the group passed us, I couldn't tear my eyes away. One of the younger boys, barely older than ten, looked up from the road and met my gaze. His eyes were dark, haunted, as if he had already seen more death than anyone should. For a moment, I felt something stir deep within me—a fire, a burning rage that was hard to suppress.
"These people don't deserve this," I muttered under my breath. "None of them do."
My father glanced at me, his brow furrowed in concern. "There's nothing we commoners can do about it, Lucan."
I said nothing, letting the weight of his words sink into the quiet between us. But my gaze stayed on the boy—his hollow eyes, the way he barely dragged his feet forward as if he had no will left to resist. My chest tightened, heat rising in my throat. The sky above, normally vast and open, felt stifling now, like the world was closing in, trapping us in this endless cycle of suffering.
As I worked in the fields, I couldn't shake the thoughts swirling in my mind. Around us, the land was rough and unkind, not a hint of wealth or beauty. Eldoria, my home, was a kingdom of rugged mountains and barren fields, where the earth gave up its riches only to the greedy hands of the lords. The crops we grew barely sustained us, and any surplus was taken before we could even taste the fruits of our labor.
In the distance, beyond the trees and hills, smoke rose from the east, a grim reminder of what lay beyond our borders. For years now, Eldoria had been locked in a bitter war with its neighboring kingdom—Varyn, the blood-stained realm ruled by the Iron King. Varyn was everything Eldoria wasn't: wealthy, fertile, and feared. Their soldiers were well-fed, well-armed, and relentless. It was no secret that Eldoria was losing, slowly being picked apart while its people starved under the weight of both war and corruption.
But standing in the fields, watching the Forsaken Legion march by, I could feel the undercurrent of something else—something burning deep within me. My hand tightened around the handle of the scythe, my knuckles whitening. There was no mistaking it now.
A spark of rebellion flickered in my chest, and with each passing day, it grew.
The lords may think we're powerless, trapped by our status, our birthright. But they were wrong. One day, I would tear it all down—the war, the suffering, the chains that bound us.
One day, I would be strong enough to make it all change.