Pain.
It wasn't a dull ache, nor was it the kind of pain that lingered at the edge of consciousness. No, this pain was sharp and immediate, ripping through his body like fire in his veins. He gasped, his breath coming in ragged gulps, and the scent of blood filled his nose.
The sky above him was a dull gray, choked by clouds of smoke. His ears rang with distant screams, the clash of steel, and the eerie crackle of something burning.
Where am I?
The thought barely formed before a wave of nausea hit him. His limbs felt heavy, foreign, as if they didn't belong to him. When he forced himself to move, his fingers dug into the wet dirt beneath him—no, not just dirt. It was warm, sticky.
Blood.
His own? Someone else's? He didn't know.
Groaning, he pushed himself onto his elbows. The motion sent a fresh jolt of pain through his ribs. His vision swam, but the first thing he saw was the corpse sprawled beside him, its eyes empty, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
He swallowed hard.
Alright. Deep breaths. Don't panic.
Then he noticed his hands—rough, calloused, and smeared with blood. Not his hands. His heart pounded. He raised them, flexed his fingers. His chest heaved, panic creeping in.
This wasn't his body.
His thoughts spun wildly, but he had no time to make sense of them. A sudden shout echoed through the battlefield, followed by the thundering of hooves.
Someone was still fighting.
He turned his head. Bodies lay scattered across the ruined village—some armored, others in simple tunics, all equally lifeless. Wooden houses had been reduced to smoldering husks, their frames still burning. And between the destruction, figures moved.
Armed riders. They were hunting survivors.
A new, more urgent thought pushed everything else aside.
Run.
He rolled onto his stomach, gritting his teeth against the pain. His legs barely obeyed as he staggered upright. His breathing was harsh, ragged, but he couldn't stop. His body—whoever it belonged to—was in no condition to fight.
The moment he moved, a rider's helmeted head snapped toward him.
"Over there!"
Shit.
The rider spurred his horse forward, a spear lowering in his grip. The ground trembled beneath the galloping beast, and for a split second, his mind blanked.
Then instinct took over.
He turned and ran.
His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but terror pushed him forward. The sound of hooves drew closer, too fast. He couldn't outrun a horse. He needed—
His foot caught on something, and he stumbled. He barely managed to twist his body before hitting the ground, rolling just as the spear thrust forward—
And missed his head by inches.
The rider yanked on the reins, trying to turn for another strike, but in that moment, something else moved in the corner of his vision.
A figure.
Small. Crouched between the corpses.
A child.
The realization struck just as the rider raised his spear again. The kid was frozen, staring up at the armored man, too scared to move.
The soldier didn't hesitate. The spear came down.
His body moved before his brain caught up.
He lunged, grabbing the nearest weapon he could find—a broken sword half-buried in the dirt. His arms screamed in protest, but he forced himself forward, swinging wildly. The jagged blade slammed into the horse's flank.
The beast reared back with a shrill cry, nearly throwing its rider. The spear's aim veered off course, stabbing the ground instead of the child.
The soldier cursed, yanking his weapon free, but the damage was done. The horse, panicked and in pain, bolted.
He didn't wait to see where it went. He turned to the kid—a girl, maybe ten years old, wide-eyed and shaking.
"Move," he rasped, his throat raw. "Now."
She flinched but didn't hesitate. Scrambling to her feet, she clung to his arm, and together, they ran.
Behind them, more riders were approaching.
Survive first. Figure everything else out later.
And with that, he threw himself into the chaos.