The din of galloping horses and guttural roars that filled the air gradually faded as the battlefield settled into a grim silence. A tall soldier clad in steel armour and a blue cape stained red approached with military precision. The stench of death clung to him, a byproduct of the violence that had just transpired. "Your command?" His voice cut through the plains with an authority that was both piercing and commanding.
"Good work." The man he spoke to was mounted on a war horse and wore a cape of deep, stained black, his armor patterned with the grime of battle. His voice, though firm, carried an edge of exhaustion. "Set up a perimeter around this place and ready a camp. Tonight, we will rest before moving forward." His command resonated with finality, capturing the attention of every soldier.
"SIR, YES SIR!" The response thundered across the field as soldiers scrambled into action.
"Patterson."
"Yes, sir!" A soldier snapped to attention with a sharp salute.
"Gather the captives and the steel pipes."
"Sir, yes sir!" Patterson darted off, leaving the commanding officer alone with his thoughts.
The field bore the mark of another victory for the Kingdom, but to its commander, the triumph was tainted. His breathing was labored, his vision tinted with the crimson remnants of battle. The scene before him—a tableau of smoldering ruins and scattered screams—was met with a detached calm. His dark eyes, void of remorse, surveyed the destruction as if it were merely another report to be filed.
Leaping from his horse, he made his way to a house reduced to near rubble. Flames still licked at its charred remains, but they had mellowed from the previous roar. "Victory to the Kingdom." His words were a hollow salute, spoken with a trace of irony.
A soft whimper drew his gaze. Beside the ruin, a child barely reaching his hips stood sobbing.
"Why are you crying, kid?" The commander's tone remained unsettlingly calm. "Does this sight hurt you?"
The boy, consumed by grief, continued to weep, his cries lost to the wind.
"Do you hate what we have done?" The question hung in the air unanswered as the child's tears flowed unabated.
With a resigned sigh, the commander reached out, ruffling the boy's hair in a gesture devoid of warmth. He turned back toward his horse, his mind burdened with thoughts of the so-called victory.
Patterson reappeared, saluting crisply. "The captives have been gathered and secured."
"Lead the way." The commander mounted his horse, following Patterson through the remnants of the battlefield.
"Captain Urul," Soldiers snapped to attention as he passed, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, unflinching.
Patterson glanced at his captain, a hint of concern in his voice. "Sir, the captives include children who were coerced into the war. They're bound as well, but what are your orders...?"
"Patterson, you know the law." Urul's voice was a cold decree.
"Yes, sir." Patterson nodded, leading the way with a resigned breath. "We are here."
"Have all soldiers keep their masks on until I give the command. No one is to remove their masks," Urul ordered, dismounting and giving Patterson a pat on the shoulder.
"As you command." Patterson rallied the soldiers, ensuring they adhered to the directive.
"Soldiers, get the camp set up within minutes!" Patterson's roar cut through the air, his voice driving the soldiers to work with renewed urgency.
Urul paid little heed to the commotion, his focus drawn to the captives. Steel rods stood ominously in the ground, chains linking them to several bound figures—men, women and children alike.
A sudden cry broke the silence. "All of you will die a terrible death!" The voice belonged to one of the captives, his defiant eyes sharp against the backdrop of ruin.
Unfazed, Urul approached, his expression impassive. He bypassed the man's challenge, directing his attention to a child whose body bore the brutal marks of war—cuts, burns, and scars marred his tender skin.
"You will die terribly," the boy spat, his anger barely concealed amidst the pain.
"One day, but today it will be you." Urul's response was chillingly devoid of empathy as he reached for a small bottle beside the rods. With deliberate slowness, he uncapped it and held it above the child's head, the dark liquid within casting a foreboding shadow.
"This is inhuman!" the first captive shouted, straining against his chains in futile resistance. His eyes darted between Urul and the chains binding him, wide with terror. The steel links cut into his wrists, blood seeping through the coarse fibers of his makeshift bindings.
He thrashed violently, his body jerking and pulling against the restraints. The metal rods creaked as he struggled, his movements frantic and uncontrolled. His shoulders twisted in a futile attempt to break free, the chains clinking and rattling as he struggled. His feet kicked against the dirt, sending small clouds of dust into the air, his kicks becoming more erratic and desperate with each passing second.
Despite his efforts, the chains held fast, the steel biting deeper into his flesh with every movement. His sweat mixed with blood, creating a slick, grimy mess that made his struggle even more futile. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale punctuated by a choked sob. His face, contorted in a mix of rage and despair, glistened with tears as he let out a guttural cry.
Urul watched impassively, his gaze unblinking as the captive's attempts to escape grew weaker and more pitiful. The man's movements gradually slowed, the once-violent struggles now reduced to feeble, exhausted jerks, as the reality of his situation sank in.
"Maniac!" The first captive continued to shout, his voice weakening as he strained against his bonds.
Without acknowledging the man's words, Urul turned his head back and looked at Patterson, who was watching from afar. "Grab rope and bind their heads to the rods. Ensure their mouths are covered."
"Yes, sir." Patterson assembled a group of soldiers, who quickly went about their grim task. The air filled with the harsh cries of the captives and the sounds of struggling as soldiers bound and gagged them.
"All done." Patterson returned, his voice strained but efficient.
Urul nodded and struck a match. His eyes locked onto the child's, whose body was now drenched in the dark yellow liquid. "Victory to the Kingdom." With those chilling words, Urul ignited the match and let it fall toward the child's head.
The child's scream pierced the night, a haunting testament to the cruelty that marked the victory.