The village had burned through the night.
Beams still smoldered, smoke drifting up from collapsed roofs, while charred planks and blackened fragments of furniture lay scattered across the ground. The fire had swept through the streets quickly and indiscriminately — nearly every house had been touched by the flames. The walls still stood, but inside there was nothing left.
The square was littered with abandoned belongings: overturned baskets, spilled sacks, broken benches. Bodies lay there as well — some had fallen while trying to flee, others had simply burned where they stood.
It looked as though those responsible had not lingered a moment longer than necessary.
The barn that had stored the grain and the entire harvest was nearly burned down, yet inside it was empty. The doors had been torn from their hinges. Deep wagon tracks scarred the ground, and beside them were heavy paw prints. The grain had been taken before the flames could reach it.
The tracks led to the road that disappeared deep into the forest. Judging by their number, the column had consisted of no fewer than a hundred men.
And only on the outskirts, in the farthest house — the one the fire had somehow spared — several people were hiding.
.
.
.
The village had burned to the ground overnight.
A young man ran down the main street, stumbling and gasping for breath, shouting about an approaching threat. His voice trembled, but there was no doubt in it — the attackers were close.
The villagers reacted quickly. Those still selling goods outside their homes or at small stalls hastily gathered fruits, vegetables, and anything left outdoors, carrying everything inside. Doors slammed shut. Shutters were bolted.
But not everyone hid.
Men and a few women gathered at the entrance to the village, forming a line across the road. Small, but tight — more an act of desperation than a true defense.
The elder stepped forward.
A gray-haired old man in slightly worn yet tidy clothes stood before the people, leaning on his cane. His face carried the exhaustion of someone who had faced such moments before.
He knew how to speak. He knew how to negotiate. More than once, he had saved the village with words alone.
Rumor had it he had paid bandits before for "peace" — what exactly he had given, no one truly knew. But as long as the houses remained standing and the people alive, no one asked questions.
Today, he intended to speak again.
But not all who approached the village came for negotiations.
From the direction of the entrance came voices and the heavy tread of beasts. Moments later, a group of riders emerged from the darkness — fifty men, perhaps more. No one counted. There was no time.
They rode Siverns — massive magical wolves nearly two and a half meters at the shoulder. Broad-shouldered, thick dark fur, long claws scraping the ground with every step. They moved as one, like a single pack rather than dozens of separate beasts.
The column advanced slowly toward the villagers standing across the road.
At its head rode a man in fine gear, seated atop a Sivern. When he halted, the rest of the group stopped just behind him.
The man swept his gaze over the villagers and asked calmly, "Who is your elder?"
A hoarse but steady voice answered from the crowd.
— I am.
The rider shifted his gaze to the gray-haired man standing slightly ahead of the others. Slightly hunched, worn clothes, cane in hand — he seemed especially small when viewed from atop the enormous wolf.
The rider smirked at the sight of the old man.
— Allow me to ask… — the elder began, but he was cut off.
— Silence. We did not come here for conversation.
The leader's voice was calm — and that made it worse.
The elder froze mid-sentence. The people behind him tensed visibly. Someone tightened their grip on a knife. Someone else stepped back.
He had negotiated before. With other mercenaries, he had found common ground — concessions, deadlines, compromises. But these men did not even attempt to listen.
And that was a bad sign.
— Are you familiar with the word 'Reapers'?
After those words, what little confidence remained in the villagers quickly drained away.
Everyone knew that word.
Unlike ordinary bandits who looted and vanished, the Reapers acted differently. They did not come for random spoils. They were organized. Unified.
They came with purpose.
No one bargained with them. No one argued. And certainly no one set terms.
They set the terms.
They were not called Reapers without reason.
The Reapers came to villages and small settlements and took the entire harvest — grain, cereals, vegetables, fruit. They left only the bare minimum required to keep people from starving.
And if anyone resisted or refused to give what was demanded, the punishment was swift and demonstrative.
They cut people down as coldly as wheat in a field.
— We require your entire harvest, — the leader began calmly. — That is first. Second — from this day forward, you live under our rule.
He spoke evenly, loud enough for all to hear.
— You will continue working your fields. Sowing. Harvesting. Storing. But everything you grow belongs to us.
The crowd stiffened. It sounded like slavery.
— You will be left enough not to starve. The rest we take. Every season. Without exception.
He leaned slightly forward.
— In return, you receive protection. No other band will dare approach. The roads will be under our control. Your caravans will be untouched.
He smirked.
— But any resistance will be treated as refusal of the agreement.
The Sivern beneath him slowly dragged a claw across the ground.
— And refusal means the village will cease to exist.
Whispers spread through the crowd. The elder, who had already seemed small, now appeared even smaller.
— And one more thing, — the leader added almost casually. — Several of our men will remain here. To maintain order.
Now it no longer sounded like an offer. It was an announcement.
The villagers did not know what to say. Someone opened their mouth, only to close it again without speaking.
This meant the end of their former lives. From this moment on, they would work not to live — but simply to avoid dying.
The elder spoke first.
— We… — His voice trembled, but he continued. — We are willing to pay. But leaving the people only scraps… that condemns the village to death.
The crowd murmured louder.
— And what exactly is 'enough not to starve'?
— Why should we even listen to you?
The Reapers exchanged glances and smiled. They outnumbered the villagers. They were better armed. Such defiance would be easy to crush.
But someone refused to remain silent.
A stone flew from the crowd and struck the leader in the shoulder.
— Get out of here, you bastards! We don't need your rule!
The leader did not flinch. Outwardly calm — but his gaze grew colder.
— Step forward.
His voice remained level.
— Last chance. Otherwise it will not only be the one who threw the stone who suffers. Step forward.
The crowd tightened. Some stepped ahead to shield the others. No one came forward.
The silence stretched.
The leader exhaled slowly and gestured to the men behind him.
— You have made your choice.
The gesture marked the beginning of the Harvest.
— Wai… — the elder did not finish.
The Sivern lunged forward.
A swipe of its paw — and a dense blade of wind sliced through the air.
The elder fell first.
The Siverns burst into motion.
The riders did not dismount. They simply drove their beasts into the crowd.
The first line was crushed instantly — two people knocked aside by a massive chest, a third struck down by a claw. Sickles flashed from the saddles. Short, efficient swings — and those who ran fell after only a few steps.
The leader's scythe swept in a wide arc, and those it touched collapsed.
The Siverns tore through the formation, slamming into backs, dragging people down. Claws raked across shoulders and necks while the riders finished off anyone who tried to rise.
Screams dissolved into chaos.
Those still alive on the ground were killed without hesitation.
Part of the Reapers spread through the village and began setting fires. Torches were hurled onto roofs and into homes. The flames spread quickly from building to building.
Within minutes, the screams faded. Only the crackle of burning wood remained.
Another group headed for the barn. The doors were torn away, grain shoveled into sacks and loaded onto wagons before the fire could reach it.
They entered houses, took what they needed, and set them ablaze before leaving.
Soon the entire village was engulfed in flames.
The Reapers' leader, whose name was Torsul, looked around. He was satisfied.
When the riders regrouped at the edge of the village, they quickly counted their number to ensure no one was missing.
Then the column turned and rode into the forest.
They did not bother checking for survivors. Anyone hiding would burn anyway.
But one house the fire never touched.
And inside it were those who would survive the night.