The village burned under an amber sky, its destruction less a consequence of war and more a demonstration of the Blooded unchecked power. Smoke rose in thick, bitter columns, clawing at my throat and stinging my eyes. My boots sank into the blood-slick mud as I stood at the edge of the chaos, surveying the grim spectacle.
This wasn't a battle. It was theater—a calculated message to those who dared question the dominion of the Ignis Republic. The fire, the screams, the death—all of it was meant to silence rumors before they could spread. Yet, I could feel the cracks forming even here, under the weight of the flames. This wasn't strength. It was fear.
"Secure the northern perimeter!" I called, my voice cutting through the din of collapsing timber and distant wails. "No one gets in—or out."
The soldiers moved with precision, their actions sharp and practiced. Fire magic flared in their hands, casting streaks of molten light across the smoke-filled air as homes were reduced to ash. The villagers scattered like leaves in a storm, their buckets of water hissing uselessly against the inferno.
Among them, I caught glimpses of faces that refused to leave me: a mother clutching her child as they fled, an old man kneeling in the mud, his hands raised in a futile plea for mercy. My jaw tightened. My stomach churned.
The orders came easily enough—they always did—but each word felt heavier than the last, dragging me deeper into the mire of this war—a war against our own people.
"Captain Voryn!" a voice called, eager and sharp. One of my soldiers—a boy barely past twenty, his face still bearing traces of youthful pride—ran toward me, saluting with fervor. "We've cornered a rebel leader near the granary!"
"Alive?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.
"Barely," he replied, his lips twitching with a grim smile. "She's slippery, but she won't get far."
For a moment, I said nothing. My father's orders were clear: rebels were to be exterminated, no exceptions. Yet something twisted in my chest. "Show me," I said finally.
The soldier led me through the wreckage, past burning homes and the lifeless bodies of those who had resisted—or simply been too slow to run. The granary loomed ahead, blackened and sagging but still standing. A ring of soldiers had already surrounded it, their palms alive with fire as they waited for the order to burn it to the ground.
"Hold your fire," I commanded, my voice low but firm. The flames in their hands extinguished reluctantly as I stepped forward, pushing open the granary door.
Inside, the air was stifling, thick with the scent of scorched grain. Shadows danced across the beams as I searched the dim space. Movement caught my eye, and I turned, spotting her darting between the pillars.
She wasn't what I'd expected—not the hardened warrior of my father's propaganda or the zealot we'd been told to fear. She was young, barely older than me, her auburn hair streaked with soot and her eyes fierce, burning brighter than the fires outside.
"You shouldn't have come here," she said, her voice steady despite the ragged edge to her breathing.
I tilted my head, studying her. "And yet, here I am."
Her blade flashed in the dim light as she lunged, her movements wild but deliberate. I sidestepped, her strike slicing through the air where I'd stood. She attacked again, faster this time, but I deflected her blow, the clash of steel ringing in the dark.
"Brave," I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it. "But bravery won't save you."
Her lips curled into a bitter smile. "Neither will obedience."
The fight was brief but fierce. She moved like a storm, unrelenting, but I'd been trained for this. With a sharp twist of my wrist, I disarmed her, her blade clattering to the floor.
I expected her to surrender. Instead, she raised her fists, refusing to yield.
"Enough," I said, stepping closer. "It's over."
"For you, maybe," she spat, her defiance unbroken.
Before I could respond, her hand darted to her belt, pulling free a small glass vial. My stomach dropped as I recognized it.
"Don't—"
She hurled the vial to the ground, and the room exploded in a flash of blinding light. I staggered back, cursing as I shielded my eyes. By the time my vision cleared, she was gone.
Outside, the soldiers were in chaos. "Captain!" one of them shouted. "The rebel escaped! Shall we pursue?"
I stared at the empty doorway, her face still burned into my mind. She was supposed to be an enemy, an obstacle to be eliminated. Yet all I could see was her defiance, her refusal to break.
"No," I said finally, sheathing my sword. "Let her go."
The soldier hesitated, confusion flickering across his face, but he obeyed. "Yes, sir."
As I stepped back into the burning village, the weight of what we'd done pressed down on me, heavier than the smoke. The Blooded had won this battle, but the cost was carved into the faces of the dead and the screams of the living.
I tried to tell myself I had followed orders, done my duty. But her face lingered in my mind, a defiant reminder of everything this war had become.
This village had been a means to an end for the Blooded, its only purpose to serve as an example to the rest of the world of their unwavering power. The Blooded authority had come into question, and they needed to quell the rumor mill before it gained momentum. The burning of this village, however, was ultimately pointless—only serving to rile up the peaceful nations to the north, south, west, and east.
Even the soldiers of this godforsaken republic had begun to resent such brutality against their own countrymen. Relations with surrounding nations were strained due to the mistreatment of the "Unblooded."
"Against an organized military force, civilians had no chance," I whispered to myself with a sigh of regret.
My subordinate was a young man with crimson hair and deep cardinal eyes, reflecting the refined elegance of a noble raised in a military house. However, he was still green. The romance of "protecting one's country against the hideous rebels" had yet to wear off. He was a rookie through and through.
"Captain Voryn, the preparations have been completed. All rebel scum have been lined up and are awaiting transport," he said, saluting with a crisp 45-degree angle—the universally accepted gesture across the entire continent, no matter the country.
It was ironic, really. This shared tradition of salutation was one of the few things that gave this fractured continent any semblance of unity. The thought, though pleasant, was fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the weight of my duty as a soldier of "the great Ignis Republic, the nation of fire and dominion."
Walking over to the rebels, who were lined up like cattle awaiting slaughter, I began my speech. "This is where your lives as criminals end! You will no longer be part of the malice that plagues this great country. Let this village serve as an example to you all: the Blooded will always prevail. This truth is etched in the flames consuming this village—flames ignited in the name of Ignis, our motherland, which governs the fire that burns all who dare oppose it!"
My speech, which might have once been met with cheers of passion and applause of admiration within the halls of command, fell on deaf ears here, drowned out by the relentless roar of the fire still consuming the rebels' old homes.
"You will be transported to workhouses, where you will spend the rest of your lives serving to repay the debt you owe this nation and its people," I announced, my voice hollow.
The world was cruel, and there was little a single soldier could do to change that. No matter how much I tried to sugarcoat it, the reality remained: these rebels—most of them children—would be sent to labor as slaves for wealthy Blooded families, either in the capital or on sprawling estates in the countryside.
It was no place any parent would willingly send their child. It wasn't a fate you'd wish upon your worst enemy, no matter the atrocities they had committed. These workhouses offered the bare minimum in healthcare, their sole purpose to keep laborers functional—nothing more, nothing less.
If someone were injured while operating heavy machinery, they'd be discarded like broken tools. If they were lucky, they might be granted a swift death. For the women, the reality was often far worse; they were frequently sent to serve in the personal quarters of nobles—a fate as harrowing as it was inescapable.
This was no life. And yet, it was the life I was sentencing them to with every word I spoke.
How would my family react if they found out they were destined for a workhouse? How would I react? Would my sister be sent to some random noble's quarters, where a rotten bastard would have his way with her? Would my younger brother, barely ten years old, be forced to operate heavy machinery, his small hands navigating the dangerous gears and levers?
These were fates I couldn't bear to consider. And yet, I did. I stood here, knowing full well what awaited these people, and I gave the orders anyway.