As usual our days pretty much ran like clockwork. Before the summer raids, you always knew what would happen: the men would be outside, sharpening their sword skills – clang, clang, clang – getting deadly precise. Inside, the women sat weaving, fingers flying, making those tough capes for the guys going off to fight. You could almost feel the effort from the men, mixed with the steady hum from the looms. That was just life.
And as usual I was always watching from the sidelines. Everything they did, every little move, I tried to memorize it. I just had to figure it out – how they fought, how they moved so smoothly, how everyone respected them. I knew exactly what I wanted: to be a warrior. To stand next to the king, you know? Be someone people remembered for being brave.
And as usual nights were tough. The house would be dead quiet, but my brain wouldn't shut off. I'd be reading books about war, about Caesar and Khalid ibn al-Walid – their names were hard to say back then, but their strategies felt powerful, like they could change the world. We didn't have much money, but Dad worked his tail off in the fields just to buy me those books. He really believed I could be more than just a farmer, that I'd make something of myself. That's probably why he never argued, just handed over the coins whenever I needed another one.
Mom taught me to read and write, even though she had tons to do. She'd point out the words, help me sound them out. Sometimes, when she had a break, she let me watch the men train. I was too little to actually do anything, but she saw how badly I wanted it, just like Dad did.
I loved my parents more than anything. They didn't have fancy things, but they gave me what counted: they believed in me. That belief was like a compass pointing me somewhere better.
So, one night, I was reading by candlelight, totally absorbed, and got up for another book. The air had gotten cold. Walking through the kitchen, I heard hushed voices, Mom and Dad. Serious. Couldn't hear the words, but I got this weird, uneasy feeling. I couldn't help it; I crept closer.
Right then, someone tapped my back, and I stumbled, falling right onto Daemon, my little brother.
"Ow! Get off!" he grumbled, pushing me.
My heart leaped into my throat. I jumped up and ran back to bed, pretending to be asleep. Fat chance with Daemon around. A few minutes later, Mom was standing there, hands on her hips, giving me that look.
"Azael, honestly. You need to sleep," she said. Gentle, but I knew she meant it.
I didn't say anything, just rolled over and hid under the blanket. Didn't matter. Daemon already tattled. I knew I was in for the 'why sleep is important' talk.
That lecture lasted until the sun started coming up. Dad was already moving around, getting ready for the fields like always. His hands, all rough and calloused, knew exactly what to do.
"Azael," he called out, his voice loud enough to hear over the birds starting to chirp. "Field day for you today, okay?"
I blinked the sleep from my eyes. Still tired, but yeah, I wanted to go.
"Okay!" I yelled back. "Tell Mom to pack extra food, though! I'll need the energy!"
The sun was really starting to cook us by the time we got deep into the rows. My arms were burning, and sweat kept stinging my eyes. Dad, well, he just kept going, his movements sure and strong, like he was part of the earth itself. He was quieter than usual, though. Usually, he'd point things out, or grunt instructions, but today… mostly just the scrape of tools on dirt and the buzz of insects.
He stopped after a long stretch, planting his hoe in the ground and leaning on it, breathing just a little harder than usual. He didn't look at me right away, just squinted out at the horizon where the heat shimmered. He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry more than just tiredness. It felt like he was wrestling with something inside.
Finally, he turned, and his eyes found mine. They looked… older, somehow. Tired. "Azael," he started, and his voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in a while. He cleared his throat. "Look. You know the raids are close."
I just nodded. My mouth felt like it was full of dust.
"This raiding business," he continued, kicking lightly at a clod of dirt, "it's not… it's not a game, son. It's necessary, maybe, but it's ugly work. Dangerous." He looked me square in the eye then, and I saw something flicker there – not fear, exactly, but something heavy, like a stone he carried. "There's a chance... a real chance... I might not make it back this time."
The words hit me like a physical blow. It felt like the buzzing insects stopped, the sun dimmed. Dad? Not come back? The thought just didn't compute. My mind flashed to him laughing at dinner, his strong hands fixing a fence, always just… there. A cold fist clenched tight in my gut. Suddenly, all those dreams of being a warrior felt hollow and stupid. This wasn't about glory; this was about Dad maybe disappearing.
"If..." He swallowed, finding the words again. "If that happens, Azael... you gotta step up. You hear me? Your Mom... Daemon... they'll need you. You'll be the man here." He waved a hand, not really looking at the land, but knowing it was there, all around us. "And this," he gestured vaguely at the fields stretching out, the ones he poured his life into, "this'll all fall to you. It's a big weight, I know. But you'll have to carry it. Provide for them. Keep things going."
Look after Mom? And Daemon? Me? The land… it suddenly felt less like a future promise and more like a terrifying, back-breaking burden I wasn't nearly strong enough for. All those nights reading about heroes... none of them mentioned this part, the gut-wrenching fear, the part where you might lose the people you leaned on.
I couldn't speak. I just stared at him, my vision blurring a little. I think I nodded again, a tiny jerky movement.
He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. It felt huge and calloused, but the grip wasn't harsh. It was just heavy. Like he was pouring all his worry, all his rough hope, right into me through that one point of contact. "You're a good lad, Azael," he murmured, his voice thick. "You got good bones."
Then he squeezed my shoulder once, hard, and let go. He picked up his hoe, his face settling back into familiar, determined lines, though maybe a little grimmer now. "Right then. Work won't do itself."
Picking up my own tool felt different. Heavier. We fell back into the rhythm of clearing the rows, but it wasn't the same. The steady beat was gone. It felt more like we were just pushing dirt around, side-by-side under the hot sun, while the world I knew felt like it had just cracked right down the middle.
The days after that talk in the field felt… different. Tense. Like the air itself was holding its breath. The men practiced with a grimmer edge now, their movements sharper, their faces set. Dad didn't bring up our conversation again, but sometimes I'd catch him looking at me, or at Mom, with that same heavy expression I saw between the rows. I tried to focus on my chores, on my books, but the weight of his words sat in my chest, a cold stone. I found myself watching Daemon more, this annoying little kid who suddenly felt fragile.
It happened maybe a week later. Evening. The sky was bruising purple, and the smell of cooking fires hung in the air. I was inside, trying to decipher a passage about shield walls, Daemon was pestering Mom for a story, and Dad was cleaning his sword by the hearth. Normal.
Then the screams started.
Not yells of play, but sharp, terrified screams from the edge of the village. Then shouting. The unmistakable, chilling clash of steel on steel. Dad was on his feet instantly, sword gleaming. "Azael! Bar the door! Stay with your mother and brother!" His face was hard, the face of a warrior now, not just my father. He burst outside before I could even react.
My hands fumbled with the heavy wooden bar across the door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Mom grabbed Daemon, pulling him close, her face pale. We could hear it all outside – shouts, crashes, the roar of flames catching thatch. The sounds got closer. Someone hammered on our door, screaming for help, but it was cut off with a wet, gurgling sound that made my stomach heave.
Then, the wood of our own door splintered inwards with a sickening crack. A man filled the doorway – huge, bearded, wearing unfamiliar leather armor, his axe dripping red. His eyes, wild and cruel, scanned the room. He wasn't one of the raiders Dad prepared for; he looked different, dirtier, meaner – a mercenary.
Mom shoved Daemon behind her, shielding him with her body. Time seemed to crawl. The man grinned, a horrible sight, and took a step forward. I was frozen, useless, just like I feared. But then I saw the look on Mom's face – pure terror, but also fierce defiance, protecting her youngest. And I remembered Dad's face as he ran out, his words in the field – You'll be the man of the house.
Something snapped inside me. It wasn't courage, not really. It was pure, blind panic mixed with a surge of rage. My eyes darted around – Dad's woodcutting axe leaned near the hearth. Before I even thought, I scrambled for it. It was heavier than I expected, awkward. The mercenary laughed, raising his own axe, dismissing me.
Maybe that's what saved me. He didn't take me seriously. I just screamed, a raw, wordless sound, and swung the axe with all my might, not aiming, just swinging. By sheer, dumb luck, the heavy blade caught him in the side of the knee. He roared, stumbling, his swing going wide. He swiped at me, but I scrambled back, tripping over a stool. He lunged again, but then – another figure crashed through the ruined doorway. Dad.
His face was grim, blood smeared on his cheek, but his sword moved like lightning. He engaged the mercenary, blades ringing loud in the small room. "Azael! Get them out! Now!" he yelled, parrying a vicious blow.
I grabbed Mom's arm, pulling her towards the back storeroom. "Daemon, come on!" Daemon was crying, clinging to Mom's leg. We stumbled into the small, dark space just as I heard a terrible, choked cry from the main room. I slammed the storeroom door shut, my whole body shaking. We could hear the fight continuing, grunts, the clash of steel, then... silence. A heavy thud.
"Dad?" I whispered, pressing my ear to the wood. Nothing. Mom was sobbing quietly, holding Daemon tight. Minutes stretched into an eternity, filled only by the sounds of chaos outside and our own ragged breathing.
Eventually, the sounds outside seemed to shift, move further away. Was it over? Slowly, trembling, I pushed the storeroom door open. The main room was a wreck. The mercenary lay sprawled near the hearth, his eyes wide and sightless. And near the doorway... lay my father. His sword was still clutched in his hand, but his chest… there was too much blood. His eyes were closed. He wasn't moving.
The world went gray. "No," I breathed. "Dad." Mom let out a wail, burying her face in Daemon's hair.
But there was no time for grief. Smoke was pouring in thicker now from outside. The roof was catching fire. "We have to go!" I yelled, my voice cracking. I grabbed Mom's hand again. She seemed frozen, just staring at Dad. "Mom! Please! We have to get Daemon out!"
That broke through her shock. She scooped up Daemon, who was eerily quiet now, just wide-eyed. I kicked open the back door – miraculously, it was clear for the moment. The village was hell. Flames everywhere, bodies on the ground, dark figures still moving in the distance. We needed to hide, get away.
I remembered the old root cellar behind the baker's, half-hidden by overgrown bushes. "This way!" I urged, pulling them along, staying low, darting between burning huts and shadows. As we ran, we stumbled upon others – Old Elara huddled behind a rain barrel, the baker's two terrified daughters, a few boys my age, frozen in fear. "Come on! Follow me!" I hissed, waving them frantically.
We crowded into the damp, earthy darkness of the cellar, pulling the heavy wooden cover mostly shut, leaving just a crack to breathe. Maybe ten, twelve people crammed in with us. Then, whimpering sounds from near the entrance – three more children, shoved towards us by someone in the smoke before disappearing back into the chaos. Fifteen people, plus us three. Huddled together, listening to the sounds of destruction above, praying the mercenaries wouldn't find us.
Hours seemed to pass in that darkness, smelling of damp earth, smoke, and fear. Eventually, the sounds of fighting faded, replaced by the crackle of fire and, later, an eerie silence broken only by weeping.
When dawn finally filtered grey light through the cracks, I cautiously pushed the cover open. The village was… gone. Smoking ruins, charred timbers, bodies lying still in the mud and ash. The mercenaries had taken what they wanted and left.
We stumbled out into the devastation. My home was a burnt-out shell. Dad… Mom… I knew, without needing to look again, that she hadn't made it either. I must have passed her in the smoke and chaos without even realizing it. The cold stone of dread in my chest became an aching void.
Daemon clung to my leg, his face buried in my trousers. He was all I had left. He, and these fifteen other survivors staring blankly at the ruin of their lives. Dad's words echoed in the silence. You'll be the man of the house... This land... it'll all fall to you.
I looked at the frightened faces around me, at my little brother shivering against my leg, at the smoking remains of everything I'd ever known. I was just a boy. I didn't know how to fix this. But looking at Daemon, I knew I had to try. The weight Dad spoke of had settled firmly on my shoulders, heavy and absolute.