The wind was sharp as a blade, cutting through the valley with an icy breath that sent shivers down the spines of those who marched against it. It carried with it the distant scent of damp earth and the brittle crackle of grain, blending with the rhythmic clatter of rusted metal scraps rattling against the carriage. To Lucius, the sound was strangely soothing—a distraction from the cold that had long since settled into his bones.
He pulled his tattered cloak tighter around his shoulders, though it did little to stave off the biting chill. The march had stretched on for days, a seemingly endless journey through frost-laden fields and dense, skeletal forests. Lucius's legs ached, his bundschuhe (shoes) worn from the unrelenting terrain. Yet the orders had been clear: make for 'Amt Ahaus' and reinforce the Imperial troops in dismantling an enemy stronghold. But something about their order felt wrong.
There had been no war—not recently, at least. No rebellion, no open conflict, and certainly no cause for alarm in a region as unwaveringly loyal to the Holy Roman Empire, and the Emperor as 'Amt Ahaus' had always been. The officers claimed that a raid of some kind had occurred in the region and that an enemy had burrowed itself deep within the province. But among the lower ranks, whispers told a different story.
Rumours flitted like ghosts between the soldiers—half-heard murmurs in the dead of night, quiet conversations exchanged over dwindling fires. Word had spread that another army had already arrived before them, that the enemy had long since been vanquished. If that was true, then what was the purpose of their march? If the battle had already been won, why were they being sent as reinforcements?
Lucius had no answers, only the unyielding march of his feet against the frozen dirt.
By the time they reached their destination, the sun was nothing more than a pale smudge in the overcast sky. The biting wind had not relented, and neither had the creeping sense of unease that settled in Lucius's chest. The army they were meant to support was nowhere to be seen. There were no banners, no sentries, no distant sound of boots upon the ground or voices echoing through the trees. Only an icy breeze.
His commander rode ahead, surveying the desolate landscape before barking orders. Lucius barely registered the words—the man's name was already fading from memory—but his comrades responded with mechanical obedience. Some began gathering wood, others digging trenches or stacking crude barriers of stone and timber. They were building something, though whether it was a fortification or a grave, Lucius could not tell.
As he watched, the unease gnawed deeper, an unspoken warning scratching at the edge of his thoughts. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong from the moment they set out. And yet, as the wind howled through the valley and his comrades laboured in the growing dusk, there was nothing to do but follow orders.
The order came swiftly, and Lucius found himself among a group of eight men dispatched to scout a village just ahead. The wind had not relented, and as they moved forward, their chainmail rattled like dry leaves in a winter storm, an ominous sound against the otherwise empty landscape.
Lucius could feel the unease settling deep in his chest, a weight heavier than the armour on his back. He was not alone in this feeling. To his left, one of the men muttered something under his breath, his voice barely audible against the howling wind. Lucius didn't catch the words, but he didn't need to—he already knew what was being said. The same creeping sense of dread had taken hold of them all.
When they finally arrived, they found the village abandoned.
The sight before them was not one of war-torn devastation, nor the chaotic ruin left by a raiding army. It was something worse—something unnatural. The village had simply... rotted. Empty homes stood with crumbling wooden beams, their cobblestone walls dusted in frost and decay. The streets were barren, devoid of footprints, as if no soul had walked them in years. And yet, it hadn't been years. This place should have been thriving.
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, confusion tightening their expressions. One of them turned, casting his gaze back toward the main force of the Imperial Reserve Army in the distance. From where they stood, it was clear that little progress had been made on their fortifications—only a skeletal fence-like structure marked the beginnings of a defensive line. It made sense, given how little time had passed since their departure. And yet... here, in this village, time felt stretched, distorted.
They pressed on, sweeping through the empty huts, stepping over discarded tools and abandoned carts. There was no sign of a struggle. No blood. No bodies. No indication of where the inhabitants had gone. It was as if the settlement had been peacefully pillaged, stripped of everything of value while leaving the hollow shell of its existence intact.
Lucius's eyes trailed over the livestock pens and the cobblestone huts. They'd remained standing, untouched by whatever had taken the life from this place. It was strange—no, impossible. His comrades seemed to feel the same; their expressions had shifted from confusion to something closer to horror.
A chill ran down his spine.
Before his thoughts could fully form, his memory blurred—hazy, as though he had stepped into a dream he was no longer awake for.
And then, as if driven by instinct, he muttered under his breath, "What…?"
The question drifted into the silence, swallowed by the empty air.
But as Lucius kept moving through the empty livestock fences, something caught his eye. A glint of silver, faint yet distinct, nestled in the crack of a wooden door in a nearby hut. He stepped forward, his breath slow and measured, and carefully reached for it.
Lucius then realized what it was. Between the cracks of the wooden door, was a single strand of silver-like hair.