Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The forest swallowed their footsteps.
The trees stood tall and silent, like witnesses who refused to speak. Branches intertwined above them, cutting the sky into pieces. The group moved forward, quietly and heavily, weapons at the ready and eyes that never lingered anywhere for long.
Among them walked Lorian.
He was not bound.
But he was not free either.
Behind him walked the wolf.
Not like an animal.
Not like a man.
Like a shadow that belonged only to him.
Even though they were in a group, Lorian felt alone. As if no one else existed except him and the creature that followed him without words.
After a long walk, the forest began to thin.
Daylight opened before them.
A settlement appeared ahead.
Fallen Pine.
A small village, with wooden houses and narrow paths. A life that still did not know what was coming.
When the villagers saw them, fear spread like fire.
People stopped.
Some stepped back.
Others only stared — with eyes full of suspicion and horror.
This time, the leader had no plan to attack the village. They wanted shelter. Rest.
But the looks changed everything.
"Who leads this village?" he asked, his voice filled with irritation.
A man stepped out of the crowd.
"I do," he said. "Please… what do you need?"
The leader dismounted his horse.
The man extended his hand.
The leader took it.
With his other hand, he pulled out a knife.
The blade flashed.
Blood sprayed.
The leader threw the severed hand aside and roughly grabbed the man, pushing him into the mud.
"What are those looks?" he shouted. "Hostile!"
The villagers remained silent.
An older man stepped forward.
His voice was calm. Without fear.
"Your arrival brought fear," he said. "In times like these, armed strangers do not bring peace. And now you cut hands in front of women, children, and elders — even though we did nothing to you."
The leader laughed nervously.
"I hate this," he hissed.
Swords were drawn.
"Take them all," he ordered. "Don't kill them. I'll decide later what I'll do with them."
Then he added:
"Him… and him," he pointed at the man who spoke and the village leader. "In the middle of the village. Everyone will watch."
They took them.
They tied them.
Their arms and legs were spread.
The leader enjoyed it.
Slowly.
With intent.
Skin tore. Flesh was cut. Screams echoed through the village.
Then he cut off the man's sexual organ, and shortly after, the man died.
No one dared to move.
When the man died, the leader continued with a smile.
Then he walked toward the village leader.
He beat him.
With fists.
With kicks.
With a piece of wood.
Wherever he could reach.
The villagers watched, bound, helpless.
From the crowd, a woman rushed forward and fell before the leader.
The village leader's wife.
She begged him.
He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her from the ground.
The bound man began to scream. To curse. To damn him.
Lorian stood aside.
He did not participate.
He did not speak.
His stomach twisted. Bitterness gathered in his throat, something he could not swallow.
His hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists until his nails dug into his palms.
He watched the leader — and something inside him began to break.
The wolf beside him stood still, but its fur rose. A low growl escaped its chest, quiet, warning.
The animal felt the same.
This was not a battle.
This was slaughter.
Lorian turned his head away, but the screams followed him. They crawled under his skin.
In that moment, hatred began to grow.
Not like a flame.
But like poison.
Silent.
Lethal.
The leader struck the woman and threw her among the criminals.
"Do whatever you want," he said.
They surrounded her.
They began to undress her, tearing her clothes.
They raped her.
Without words.
Without mercy.
The man watched. Inside, he was breaking apart.
In the chaos, a girl ran forward with a knife.
Around fourteen years old.
His daughter.
She stabbed the leader in the back.
But the armor absorbed the blow, and the knife only slightly wounded him.
The leader turned.
He grabbed her.
Beat her brutally.
Threw her among the others.
The same fate awaited her.
The leader returned to the village leader.
He grabbed his head.
"Look," he said.
The man closed his eyes.
The leader snapped.
He struck him with his hands, shattering his teeth.
The man gathered his last strength and spat in the leader's face.
The leader wiped it away.
He smiled.
Then he beat him with the piece of wood until life left his body.
The woman and the girl lay on the ground. Without strength.
Then the leader said:
"The women will stay alive."
The villagers rejoiced too early.
"We will stay here."
But the words that followed were worse than death.
"The men," the leader continued, his voice almost indifferent, "will not die quickly."
The villagers felt their blood turn cold.
"You will gather them all," he ordered. "You will bind them. You will torture them until their voices fade."
People were dragged away one by one.
Some were beaten to death.
Others had parts of their bodies cut off, slowly, so it would last.
Some were buried alive, left to suffocate beneath the earth while screaming.
Others were burned before the village — flames devouring their bodies, the smell of burned flesh spreading through the air.
There were those whose skin was flayed, left to die in pain beyond description.
When there were no screams left —
the bodies were hanged on the houses.
To hang.
For everyone to see.
Fallen Pine stopped being a village.
It became a warning.
By evening, the men were dead.
Hanging from the houses.
The women remained.
The village was broken.
For weeks.
When the criminals finally left, the village no longer existed.
Only ash. Silence.
One girl — thirteen years old — was left alive in the village.
To tell the story.
To be proof.
When they finally departed —
Fallen Pine no longer screamed.
There were no voices.
No crying.
Only the wind passing through the hanging bodies, swaying them like twisted shadows.
No bird sang.
No dog barked.
Even the forest was silent.
The village that once lived —
was now quiet.
Like a grave.
Far away from there…
Serpentis.
The king had just purchased ships.
In the castle, soldiers trained without pause.
Archers practiced in the forests, seeking perfect precision.
Groups were sent to guard the ships at the harbor.
They waited for orders.
They waited for war.
End of Chapter 13