The scent of blood lingered in the air as the villagers carried their wounded back to Ashen. The battle had ended in victory, but it didn't feel like a celebration. The people walked in silence, their faces drawn, their steps heavy.
Ethan helped support an injured villager—a man named Joren—his arm draped over Ethan's shoulder. Blood seeped through Joren's tunic, staining the fabric dark red.
"You fought well," Ethan said, adjusting his grip to keep Joren steady.
Joren gave a weak smile. "Didn't think I had it in me… but you showed us that we're not as powerless as we thought."
Ethan nodded but said nothing. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the battle, the faces of the fallen, the realization that they had crossed a line.
Lord Varkos wouldn't ignore this.
The village square became an impromptu medical station. Women and children rushed to tend to the injured, using whatever herbs and cloth they could find. An elderly healer named Marella took charge, her wrinkled hands moving quickly as she cleaned and bandaged wounds.
Lyra worked alongside her, pressing a cloth against a young boy's wound. Ethan saw how steady her hands were, how she kept her emotions in check, even as she whispered words of comfort to the boy.
He envied her composure.
Ethan helped where he could, fetching water and tearing strips of cloth for bandages. But the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on him. He had led them into battle—and though they had won, the cost was clear.
Three villagers had died. Their bodies were laid in the center of the square, wrapped in simple cloth. Families gathered around them, whispering prayers, some weeping silently.
Ethan clenched his fists. He barely knew these people, but their deaths felt personal. They had trusted him. They had fought because of him.
A hand touched his arm. He turned to see Lyra, her expression unreadable.
"This is war," she said quietly. "People will die."
"I know," Ethan replied. His voice was steady, but inside, he felt a storm brewing. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."
Lyra exhaled. "We didn't choose this. Varkos did."
She was right. They had simply chosen to fight back.
But Ethan knew Varkos wouldn't let this go unpunished.
Night had fallen when the first sign of retaliation came.
A lone rider approached the village, his black horse cutting through the darkness like a shadow. The villagers tensed, gripping weapons, preparing for another fight. But the rider did not attack.
He rode straight to the village square, stopping just short of the mourning families. He wore dark armor, the sigil of Lord Varkos emblazoned on his chest—a coiled serpent.
Ethan stepped forward, sword at his side. "What do you want?"
The soldier dismounted, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes swept over the villagers, lingering on the wounded. He smirked.
"You made a mistake," the soldier said, his voice cold. "Lord Varkos does not tolerate rebellion."
Ethan felt the air grow heavy. The villagers behind him shifted uneasily.
The soldier pulled a scroll from his belt and unrolled it. "By decree of Lord Varkos, Ashen is now an enemy of the crown. Taxes are doubled, and every able-bodied man and woman is ordered to report to the capital for questioning. Those who refuse will be hunted down and executed."
A ripple of horror passed through the crowd.
Ethan's jaw tightened. "And if we refuse?"
The soldier chuckled, shaking his head. "Then Ashen will burn."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken threats.
Ethan's grip tightened on his sword. He could kill this messenger—send a message of his own—but he knew it wouldn't change anything. Varkos already saw them as enemies.
The soldier smirked at Ethan's silence, then turned and mounted his horse. "You have three days to comply."
With that, he rode off, disappearing into the night.
The moment the soldier was gone, whispers erupted among the villagers. Fear was thick in the air. Some wanted to surrender, believing that compliance was the only way to survive. Others were furious, ready to take up arms and fight to the last breath.
Ethan stood in the middle of it all, feeling the weight of their expectations. They looked to him for guidance, for leadership.
"We have to fight," Lyra said beside him, her voice firm.
Ethan nodded. "But not recklessly. If we try to face them head-on, we'll be slaughtered."
A man stepped forward. It was Joren, still pale from blood loss but standing strong. "Then what do we do?"
Ethan took a deep breath. "We make them regret underestimating us."
The villagers quieted, listening intently.
"We can't outmatch them in numbers or weapons," Ethan continued, "but we don't have to. We know these lands. We can use the terrain, set traps, hit them where it hurts."
Lyra's eyes lit up with understanding. "Guerrilla warfare."
Ethan nodded. "Exactly. We don't fight them in the open. We strike from the shadows. We make Varkos's soldiers afraid to step foot in these lands."
The villagers exchanged glances. It was dangerous, but it was their best chance.
Joren grinned despite his injuries. "Then let's make them pay."
Murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd. The fear was still there, but now, something else burned in their eyes-determination.
They would fight.
And Ethan would make sure they won.
The next morning, preparations began. Ethan and Lyra worked with the villagers, setting up traps along the roads, preparing ambush points. They trained, refining their combat skills, learning how to move unseen.
They would not face Varkos's army as farmers.
They would face them as warriors.
As Ethan sharpened his blade that night, staring into the flickering fire, he knew one thing for certain:
This war was just beginning.