He turned sharply, like predator scenting prey. Eyes flashed hope—strange, painful hope for justification to heal old wounds.
— Good. —Voice trembled. — Why?
I closed eyes. Memory surfaced images: burning villages, peasant children in dead mothers' arms, smoke over fields where wheat should ripen. And order—iron, merciless.
— Because that day I got other order. —Words came as confession. — Save refugee caravan. Three hundred souls, Esten. Elders, women, children. Fleeing massacre in Vallendorf.
Esten paled but silent. Rain outside strengthened—now beat glass like heavens' tears.
— Had thirty men, —I continued. — Split unit meant doom refugees and your men. Chose those who couldn't protect themselves.
— You chose not us. —Voice empty as abandoned temple.
— Chose children not yet taken sword. —Pain slashed inside. — But every night hear your fallen's voices. Every night ask: what if otherwise?
We stood in silence divided by gulf of understanding. No justice—only choice between pains. Each choice leaves soul scars.
— Know worst? —Esten moved from window, sat in armchair by fire. — That I understand you.