The fortress was burning.
Flames licked the high stone walls, smoke billowed black against the night sky, and the last screams of the conquered bled into the roar of fire.
Soldiers surged through the halls like a tide of steel, their boots crunching over shattered glass and charred tapestries, their voices raised in savage triumph.
And at their head walked General Caelen Veynar.
The Butcher.
He moved through the ruin with the calm precision of a man on parade, not a drop of blood on the polished plates of his dark armor.
His cloak, crimson with the sigil of the Empire, trailed over corpses as if it had never known dirt.
The soldiers who caught sight of him did not cheer—no, their voices trembled with a different kind of devotion, a fear-tinged chant that carried down the corridors:
"Vey-nar. Vey-nar. The Butcher leads!"
He ignored them.
His gray eyes were steady, cold, untroubled by the slaughter.
He had risen to command faster than any man in living memory, no older than twenty-two yet already a legend whispered across battlefields.
Some said he was blessed by the war god.
Others said he was cursed.
Caelen himself knew the truth: victory was not granted, it was carved, piece by piece, from the flesh of those who opposed him.
Tonight was no different.
The noble House Ardyn had rebelled against the Empire, daring to defy the crown.
They had sealed their fate the moment their banners rose. And Caelen—Caelen would be the one to erase them from history.
A soldier jogged to his side, armor dented, face smeared with soot. "General! The eastern wing is secure. No survivors."
Caelen's lips curved in the barest flicker of approval. "And the western?"
"Still pockets of resistance. But they won't last the hour."
"Good." Caelen's tone was quiet, but it carried, cutting through the chaos like the edge of a blade.
"Then it's time to finish this. Take me to the last room."
The soldier swallowed, nodding quickly. "Yes, General."
They moved deeper, past toppled pillars and fallen guards, until they reached a tall oak door banded with iron.
The air on the other side was unnaturally still, though muffled sobs carried faintly through the wood.
His soldiers stood waiting, weapons ready, eyes flicking nervously between the door and their commander.
Caelen paused before it.
He let his gaze rest on each of his men—young conscripts, hardened veterans, mercenaries bought with coin. Their fear was palpable, but so was their devotion. They would follow him anywhere.
Into hell itself.
He laid a gloved hand on the door, feeling the trembling wood beneath his palm. "Inside," he said softly. "End it."
The soldiers shoved the door open.
The chamber within was lit by firelight and fear.
A dozen children huddled together in the center, ranging from babes barely able to walk to youths on the cusp of adulthood.
A few gray-haired attendants tried to shield them, arms spread wide, faces streaked with tears.
The stench of smoke clung to everything, but here, at the heart of the estate, it was the terror that suffocated most.
The children gasped as Caelen stepped in.
He looked like something carved from steel and shadow, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression unflinching.
His dark hair was tied back, his eyes devoid of pity. The Butcher of the North had come for them.
"General?" one soldier asked, uncertain.
Caelen's gaze swept the room once.
He let the silence draw, taut and unbearable.
Then he spoke, his voice calm, almost gentle—like a teacher correcting pupils.
"No one lives. Not one. History remembers only what we leave standing. Leave nothing."
The attendants wailed.
The children began to cry, clutching at one another. One boy screamed, "No, please!" as the soldiers moved forward, blades raised.
And Caelen—he watched.
His heartbeat did not quicken.
His hands did not shake.
This was how you ended wars: not by leaving roots to sprout again, but by ripping them out, burning the soil until nothing grew.
Mercy was weakness.
Mercy seeded rebellion.
He had learned that lesson young, and he never forgot it.
Yet as the first soldier seized a child, dragging him by the hair, a sound pierced the chamber.
A voice.
Almost familiar.
High, furious, trembling with rage.
"Monster!"
Caelen's head turned sharply.
It was a girl.
Sixteen, perhaps, her hair tangled, her face streaked with ash and tears. She stood in front of the younger children, arms out as though she could shield them, though her entire body shook.
Her eyes burned—not with terror, but with hatred so fierce it was almost blinding.
"Monster," she spat again, her voice cracking. "Butcher! You'll choke on the blood you spill!"
Something inside Caelen shifted.
For the first time that night, his composure faltered.
His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword.
The soldiers hesitated, glancing between their general and the defiant girl.
"General?" one prompted nervously.
Caelen stared at her.
The chamber seemed to narrow, the noise of his men dimming.
The girl's voice echoed in his skull, louder and louder, until it was no longer just her voice.
Others bled into it—men screaming, women crying, the thunder of collapsing walls, the roar of something vast and terrible.
Suddenly his vision fractured.
Flames rose higher, but these were not the fires of tonight.
Cities burned beneath black skies.
Towers crumbled.
Beasts unlike anything he had ever seen prowled through fields of corpses. And amid the ruin he saw himself, older, blood-soaked, impaled on a blade of light.
He staggered, clutching his temple.
The world snapped back.
He was in the chamber again, soldiers staring.
The girl still glared at him, eyes blazing.
"General?" the lieutenant demanded, voice sharp. "Your orders!"
Caelen looked down at his hand.
It trembled on his sword.
His mouth was dry.
The girl's words still rang in his ears, heavy as a curse.
And for the first time in his short, merciless career, General Caelen Veynar did not know what to say.