Rain tapped against the stained-glass windows of The Brazen Mare, soft at first, then harder, like fingers drumming against a coffin lid. The hearth crackled, casting long shadows over tired faces and rusted steel. Soldiers hunched over their mugs, speaking in murmurs. Talk of home. Of blood. Of the war.
Calen Merrow leaned on the bar's warped oak table, swirling what little ale remained in his tankard. His armor rested beside him, worn thin from years of patchwork repairs. Across from him, Thom Garven stretched his legs out, his scout's cloak draped over one shoulder, mug in hand.
"She was standing in the barley," Calen said suddenly, eyes fixed on the fire. "Rina. She wore the same dress she wore the day we buried her. She just looked at me… like she was waiting."
Thom looked up from his drink. "The dreams again?"
Calen nodded slowly.
"Gods, man. I told you, if you drink like a priest, you'll sleep like one. Badly."
A half-smile tugged at Calen's mouth. "She didn't say anything. Just stood there. The fields looked alive again. Like before, the Volgrin torched them. I could almost smell the rain on the dirt."
Thom leaned forward. "You know that wasn't real, right?"
"I know," Calen replied. "But it felt more real than this place."
Thom glanced around at the smoke-stained walls, the hunched backs, the stale bread and watery ale. "Can't argue with that."
Calen ran a hand through his thick hair. "If we survive this push, I'm done. I'll head north. Find work on my cousin's farm. Maybe raise sheep."
"Sheep?" Thom snorted. "You barely kept a dog alive growing up."
"I was thirteen and it bit me!"
"It bit everyone," Thom chuckled. "We called it Fangs."
Calen chuckled too, but it faded fast.
"I don't want to die in a ditch," Calen murmured. "I want to fall asleep under a roof I built. I want to wake up and not hear the word war before breakfast."
Thom went quiet, his smile gone.
"You think it'll end?" he asked.
Calen hesitated. "No."
Thom set his mug down, eyes darkening. "Then what's the point? Why keep swinging the sword if the fire never goes out?"
Calen looked at him. "Because one day it might. Not for us, maybe not even for our children. But someone's got to be the last man who fought so others don't have to."
Thom scoffed. "You sound like a general. You sure you're not aiming for a statue after all this?"
Calen smirked. "No statues. Just peace."
The tavern door creaked open. A gust of wind scattered ashes from the hearth.
Then—the bell.
Not the time bell. Not the market bell.The warning bell.
It rang once, then again—urgent, metallic, final.
The tavern froze. Mugs were set down. Cloaks grabbed. Men reached for swords they hadn't cleaned in days.
"Dareth wall patrol?" Thom muttered.
"No. That's Volgrin steel," Calen said, already standing, strapping on his chestplate. "They're moving fast."
Thom grabbed his bow but hesitated near the doorway. "We were supposed to get a signal. A rider. This is—"
"An ambush," Calen said.
Outside, horns blared over the hills. The mist was thick, but shapes were moving in it—shadows with swords.
"Go," Calen barked.
Thom didn't move.
"Thom!"
"I'm not going," Thom said.
"What?"
"I'm not fighting today, Calen."
Calen stared. "We're all that's between them and the village. The kids. The elders. You can't—"
Thom looked away. "I can't do it anymore. I see their faces after I shoot. I hear the gurgling in my sleep."
"I see them too," Calen said, voice sharp now. "But we chose this. We fight because someone has to."
Thom stepped back. "And what if they're saying the same thing on the other side?"
Calen had no answer.
So he turned and ran into the storm.
Mud flew underfoot as Calen charged into the fray. The clash of blades echoed through the village square. Volgrin troops surged from the treeline, black chainmail glinting under the misty sky.
A young soldier came at him, trembling, barely older than Rina would've been.
"Back off!" Calen shouted, spear in hand.
The boy lunged—clumsily. Calen sidestepped and slammed the butt of the spear into the side of his helmet. The boy dropped his sword and fell to his knees.
"Stay down," Calen warned.
But the boy didn't listen—he reached for a dagger.
Calen struck forward—and the tip of his spear pierced cloth, then flesh.
The boy gasped and fell forward, eyes wide, red blooming under his tunic.
Calen staggered back, chest heaving. "Gods…"
And then pain.
A roar behind him. The swing of an axe.
It buried into his side—deep, merciless.
Calen cried out and dropped his spear. He twisted, coughing blood.
Before him stood a Volgrin soldier—grizzled, older, scarred down the neck.
They locked eyes.
Calen choked. "Do you… have a daughter?"
The man blinked.
"I did," the soldier replied.
Then Calen fell.
And Calen Merrow—the dreamer, the father, the man who wanted to stop—died in the mud of a village whose name no one would remember.
His killer stood over him, breathing heavy.
Auren Varik.
He wiped his axe with a cloth he kept in his belt—once part of his daughter's dress.
Auren looked down at the man he'd slain.
"You weren't ready to die, were you?" he murmured.
He knelt and closed Calen's eyes.
He didn't know his name. But something in his face haunted him.
He'd seen enough death to know when a man wanted to live.
That night, Auren sat in a Volgrin camp, writing in a small leather book. The only thing he carried that wasn't made of metal or soaked in blood.
He wrote:
Name unknown. Dareth Spearman. Brown hair. Haunted eyes. Didn't beg. Fought well.
I killed a man today who didn't hate me.
Then he closed the book and stared at the flames.
And for the first time in months, Auren wondered if maybe—just maybe—they were all the villains in someone else's story.