The sky was on fire.
Corwin didn't understand, at first, why the wind stung his face or why the air tasted like iron and salt. He only knew that something terrible was happening, and that the world he knew—the world of warm bread and wool blankets and the smell of his mother's hair—was being torn apart.
He stood barefoot in the mud outside the hut, the thatch roof of his home crackling behind him like dry leaves in a hearth. The flames danced high above, feeding on the wood and memories inside. Screams scattered through the village like frightened birds. He didn't remember running out. He didn't remember who had pushed him or if he'd leapt through the window himself.
But he was alone.
The firelight played across the small shapes lying on the ground. He knew them all. His uncle's pipe lay split in the grass. Beside it, the doll his sister had stitched from straw, still clutched in a hand that no longer moved. He wanted to close his eyes, but it felt wrong. Like he had to look. Like if he turned away now, he'd forget, and forgetting felt like betrayal.
A man galloped past on horseback, not noticing the boy. His armor was smeared with ash and blood, and something dark hung from his saddle—something that used to be a man. Corwin fell to his knees, not in prayer, but because his legs simply gave up beneath him.
The sky, still on fire, cracked with thunder—not from clouds, but from the great siege engines pounding the distant keep.
Velmora had always been at war. His father used to say, "We're born into blood, boy. We breathe it before we breathe milk." But Corwin had never believed it, not really. His world had been small. A village called Brell, a river that ran like silver through the woods, and his mother's hands, always baking, sewing, touching his hair when he was sick.
That world was gone now. It hadn't faded. It had exploded.
A hand grabbed his arm. Rough, desperate.
"Boy, move!"
A soldier—not a knight, not noble, just a man in rusted armor and wild eyes—dragged him to his feet. Corwin was yanked so hard he nearly fell again.
"You wanna die in the fire, is that it?" the soldier hissed, glancing around. "Come on!"
He didn't know why he followed. Maybe because it was a voice, any voice. Or because part of him hoped it would lead to safety. Or answers. Or his mother.
But the only thing he found was more fire.
---
They ran through the village outskirts. Past huts already blackened, past animals slaughtered not for food but cruelty. The woods beyond beckoned with shadows, but the soldier didn't head for the trees. Instead, he dragged Corwin toward a wagon where others had gathered—two women crying, a man with one arm, and three other children. None looked older than twelve.
"More orphans," someone muttered. "Every mile, more."
"Where are we going?" Corwin asked. His voice cracked like dry bark.
No one answered.
---
By dusk, they had traveled past the ridge and looked back. Brell was no longer a village. It was a scar on the land. Smoke twisted upward like fingers clutching the sky. Some of the refugees murmured prayers. Others simply stared.
"Why did they burn it?" one of the girls whispered.
"Because someone told them to," the one-armed man said flatly. "Someone with a title."
Corwin clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms until they drew blood, but he didn't feel it. He couldn't cry. Something inside had snapped when he saw his sister's hand in the grass. There were no tears left. Only the coldness.
That night, they made camp under broken trees. The soldier who'd grabbed Corwin—he never gave a name—took first watch. Not out of kindness. Just habit, maybe. The others huddled in blankets or curled beside stones for warmth.
Corwin sat alone, staring into the dying embers of a small fire.
Why am I alive?
The question looped in his head.
Not how. Why.
Why had he lived when everyone else had not? Why was he here, in the dark, while his sister's laugh would never be heard again?
He remembered her giggling when he chased her through the fields. The way she stuck her tongue out when she stitched her doll. The way she whispered goodnight to the stars.
And now… nothing.
Gone in minutes. Ash and cinders.
---
He didn't sleep that night. Not really.
When dawn came, pale and cold, the group continued moving. No one asked where to. There was no destination—just "away."
The roads were filled with others like them. Caravans of the broken. People who had lost towns, families, names. Each pair of eyes they passed was duller than the last.
Soldiers—real ones—rode by without a glance. They were headed west, toward the next battle. Corwin wondered if the same flames would devour another town tomorrow.
By midday, the man with one arm collapsed. No one tried to help him up. His eyes didn't blink. He was left on the side of the road like an old sack.
Corwin sat with his back against a tree that night and whispered his mother's name.
"Lira."
The word made no echo. It just disappeared into the cold wind.
---
Days passed.
He didn't remember them clearly. Hunger blurred things. So did grief. Sometimes he walked. Sometimes he was carried. Sometimes he was kicked awake when he wouldn't rise.
The soldier who'd saved him died in his sleep on the fifth night. A wound Corwin hadn't seen before had festered. He woke to find flies already covering the man's open mouth.
No one cried.
No one dug a grave.
Corwin stood a long time, staring down. Then, without speaking, he took the soldier's old knife.
He didn't want a weapon. He hated weapons.
But something told him he'd need it.
---
One afternoon, they reached a burned-out fortress. Charred bones littered the gates. The refugees tried to scavenge, but there was little left.
That night, Corwin wandered into a crumbled chapel. The roof was gone. The altar, cracked. Statues of saints lay broken at the knees.
He stood in front of one—half a face still intact, looking skyward.
"Do you hate us?" he asked it. "Is that why you let this happen?"
The stone did not answer.
Of course it didn't.
He picked up a piece of it anyway and put it in his pocket.
---
On the ninth day, it rained.
Cold, biting rain that stung his skin and turned the road to sludge. The youngest child, barely six, slipped and broke her ankle. She cried until her mother carried her into the woods. They never came back out.
Corwin did not speak for three days after that.
---
On the twelfth day, he dreamed of fire again.
But this time, the flames whispered.
They whispered his name.
"Corwin…"
They whispered his father's voice.
"You survive. That's what men do."
He woke screaming.
---
And then, silence.
The road ended at a broken bridge.
On the other side, a small outpost flew a red banner—the colors of the same lords who'd destroyed his home.
One of the older refugees stepped forward, hands raised.
"We're just looking for food!" she cried.
The reply came swift—a crossbow bolt through her chest.
She fell backward. The red on her dress bloomed like a rose.
The rest ran.
Corwin didn't.
He stood still.
He stared at the men across the broken bridge and whispered, "I will never be one of you."
Then he turned, and walked back into the woods.
Alone.