The air was thick with the smell of smoke and death. The village was nothing more than charred remains, its homes burned to the ground, and the bodies of the fallen scattered across the blood-soaked earth. Crows circled overhead, their harsh cries cutting through the silence.
Kael stood in the center of it all, his small frame shaking as he gripped a piece of torn cloth. His clothes were tattered, and his face was streaked with dirt and soot. He was numb, too shocked to cry, too exhausted to move. The only sound he heard was the crackle of dying flames, and the only thing he felt was the hollow ache of hunger gnawing at his stomach.
He didn't know how long he had been standing there—hours, maybe days. The faces of the dead blurred together, their lifeless eyes staring up at him from the ground. His mother, his father, his siblings... all gone. The fire had taken everything. The war had taken everything.
A shadow fell over him.
Kael looked up, his eyes wide as a man towered over him. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a rough, weathered face. His armor was dented, his clothes smeared with blood and mud. A mercenary, Kael guessed, though he barely knew what that meant.
"You're alive." The man's voice was rough, but there was no surprise in it. He knelt down, his eyes scanning the wreckage before settling on Kael. "You have a name, boy?"
Kael swallowed, his throat dry. He didn't answer.
The man sighed, rising to his feet. "Doesn't matter. You can stand, can't you?"
Kael didn't move.
The man's gaze hardened. "If you want to survive, you'll move. Get up."
The command in his voice made Kael's legs tremble, but he forced himself to take a step. His feet were bare, and each movement felt like walking on shattered glass, but he did as the man said. He moved.
The man, Kerric, as Kael would later learn, watched him with cold eyes. He wasn't here to comfort or protect. He was here for something else.
"You're a survivor," Kerric said, his voice flat. "Not many can stand after something like this."
Kael's lips trembled, but he bit down, keeping silent.
Kerric gestured to the path ahead, where a few other men stood waiting, mercenaries like him, armed and weary. "I don't take in strays. But you'll learn, or you'll die. It's that simple."
Kael stared at the path, his body weak, but his mind slowly grasping at the man's words. Survival. That's all that mattered now. His family was gone, his village was gone, but if he wanted to keep living, he had to move forward.
Kerric turned, not bothering to wait for a reply. He walked toward his men, leaving Kael standing in the ruins of his past. For a moment, Kael hesitated, glancing back at the devastation, the bodies. But there was nothing left for him here.
He followed Kerric.
The journey with Kerric and his band of mercenaries was not easy. For days, they traveled through forests and across plains, moving quickly to avoid conflict. Kael barely spoke, and when he did, it was to ask for water or food, both of which were given sparingly. Kerric's men barely acknowledged him, and when they did, it was with indifference.
Kerric didn't show much kindness either. He treated Kael like another burden, one more mouth to feed in a group that already struggled to make ends meet. But despite his cold exterior, Kerric kept Kael alive. He never spoke of why, but it was because he saw potential. A boy who had survived a massacre could be trained, could be useful.
But survival came with a price.
One night, as they camped near a river, Kerric pulled Kael aside. "You'll fight," he said, his voice gruff. "You'll learn to defend yourself, or you'll die. I don't have time for weakness."
Kael, his hands trembling, nodded. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to do any of this. But he was too afraid to disobey. The memory of the village still burned in his mind, the bodies of his family haunting him. If fighting was the only way to stay alive, he would do it.