William
Between the back gate of Thornholl, the soldiers of Ironfield entered beneath banners of victory—'The burning helmet.' Among them walked William, his iron cane striking the ground with each step—a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. His lame foot dragged slightly behind him, but his back was straight, his shoulders squared.
He stopped. His hand tightened on the cane's head. He turned to one of his men, his voice low but carrying.
"Halt them."
The soldier nodded and ran. The order passed from mouth to mouth, and the soldiers of Ironfield stopped. They stood in place, their boots sinking into the mud, their eyes scanning the darkness ahead. William moved through them, his cane tapping against the wet stone, until he stood in their center. He turned slowly, meeting their eyes one by one. His gaze was steady, unblinking.
"The kingdom is ours," he said. His voice was quiet, but it reached every ear. "Its men are not here to defend it. They abandoned it. They abandoned their people. They abandoned their honor." He paused, letting the words settle. "We will not. Hold on to your honor."
He raised his cane and pointed toward the great walls of Thornholl, dark against the darker sky.
"There, down in the town, there are still people in their homes. Women. Children. Old men." His voice hardened. "Do not harm them. Honor is what is left. If we lose it, we will be the enemies. We are not them. We are Ironfield men. We are better."
He lowered the cane. His knuckles were white around its head.
"And be careful. Our enemy has fled beyond these walls—not within them. Now, I want you to spread along the kingdom's wall. Each of you will take one position. One of you will climb the tallest tower on the wall and light a torch. That is the plan. Follow it, and I promise you a crushing victory."
He raised his voice, his chest expanding.
"Go!"
The soldiers shouted—a roar that echoed off the stone—and ran in every direction, their boots pounding the mud, their torches flickering. They streamed toward the lower city, toward the Black Mud Town, their shapes swallowed by the darkness.
William remained where he stood. Beside him was a handful of men and the old captain, who had been silent throughout. William turned to him, his head tilting.
"What is wrong? You are silent."
The captain looked at him. His weathered face was unreadable. "This is not my side. I handed you the helm. I trust you, young man." He paused, his jaw working. "It was foolish of me to doubt you in the first place."
William nodded once. "It wasn't foolish of you, no... I needed someone like you by my side."
William advanced, the captain behind him, a handful of men trailing after. They moved through the long staircases, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. The palace was silent—too silent. The torches on the walls had burned low, their flames weak, as if the palace itself had given up.
William stopped. His hand went to his foot. He gripped it, his face tightening.
The captain stepped closer. "What is it?"
"Wait a moment."
William held his foot, his fingers pressing into the flesh. He looked up, toward the direction of the Neverwood. His eyes narrowed. He stood there, motionless, as if listening. As if something was calling him. Familiar voices. Voices he knew.
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He shook his head. Turned. Continued walking.
They reached the great gate of the palace—black, spiked, towering above them. William looked up at it, his neck craning. One of his men stepped forward.
"How do we enter, my lord? We cannot break this gate."
William touched the gate with his cane. The iron was cold. He ran the tip of the cane along its surface, slowly.
"No," he said.
He turned to his men. His voice was calm but firm.
"Search around the palace. Find a way in."
The men dispersed, spreading along the sides of the palace, their shadows merging with the walls. William sat on the threshold, his back against the stone, and rubbed his foot. His face was drawn, his breath slow.
Below, in the alleys of the Black Mud Town, the lights were going out. One by one. The sounds were fading—the laughter, the chatter, the clink of cups. The soldiers of Ironfield moved through the streets, their torches casting long shadows.
Some of them walked with purpose, their eyes fixed on the wall ahead. But among them were men whose eyes were not steady. Men who looked at the houses, at the warm light spilling from the windows. Men whose steps slowed.
A group of them stopped. Before them stood a girl—small, thin, clutching a piece of meat. She looked at them, her eyes wide. Then she threw the meat and ran.
The men did not hesitate. They chased her. Their boots pounded the mud. They followed her into a house, into a dark corridor.
Inside, there was a family. A whole family. The men didn't think twice. They slaughtered them all in silence. When they emerged, their faces were splattered with blood. Their hands were red.
Before the palace, one of William's men came forward, holding an old woman by the arm. Her hair was white, her back bent, her hands trembling.
William looked at him. His voice was cold.
"Weren't my words clear enough?"
The man shifted his weight. "We did not harm her, my lord. I only thought she might be useful. She said she is a servant in the palace."
William looked at the old woman. Then back at the man.
"Release her."
The man let go. The old woman stumbled, catching herself on a nearby wall.
William approached her. His cane tapped against the stone. He stopped before her, looking down.
"Do you serve in this palace?"
She did not answer.
William's voice hardened. "Why do you not speak? They have abandoned you. If one of my men decided to kill you, who would stop him?" He paused. "Do yourself a favor. Tell us how to enter this palace. There must be a way."
The old woman looked at him. Her eyes were old, but sharp. She studied his face—the cane, the lame foot, the cold eyes.
"I will show you," she said. Her voice was dry, cracked. "But just so you know, there's nothing waiting for you inside. Follow me—you will see that yourself."
She led them behind the palace, beneath the secret tunnels. The men were cautious, their hands on their swords, their eyes scanning for traps. William walked behind them, his cane tapping against the stone.
The old woman led them through the tunnels, through the darkness, until they emerged inside the palace. She stopped. Turned.
"Where is that cripple?"
William moved through his men and stood before her. "Here."
"You told me to bring you in," she said. "So I did. Do I go now?"
William nodded. "You may go."
She left, her footsteps fading into the darkness. The men looked around at the high walls, at the silent corridors.
One of them spoke. "What do we do now?"
William looked at the walls. His voice was quiet.
"We will wait. While we wait, tell the men to spread out. Search for anything valuable—gold, papers, anything important."
One of the men shifted. "And if someone is here, my lord? Splitting up is not wise."
William turned to him. "The old woman said no one is here. I do not see a reason for her to lie. If she had, we would be dead by now."
The men dispersed, convinced. William remained with the captain, the two of them walking through the palace, their footsteps echoing in the empty halls.
Frank
Far away, in one of the lands belonging to Thornholl, in a forest called the Rats forest, there were two things in abundance: rats and soldiers. Thirty thousand soldiers of Izzadar were camped there, miles from Thornholl. Tents. Fires. Chatter.
There were soldiers who fought their fear with food and false laughter. Soldiers who trembled when they heard a rat pass behind them. Soldiers who did not know the meaning of war. And soldiers who had fought dozens of battles. Two different kinds of men—but they shared one thing: fear.
The trees were dead, riddled with rat holes. The rats ran through the trunks, through the feet, into the tents.
In one of the large tents, torches lit the space. Five people stood before a table. On the table was a map of the battle. One of them was King Meriel. Three were battalion commanders and the army commander. The youngest was Frank.
Frank stood, looking at the rats passing through his feet. Then he looked at Meriel.
"When do we march? Sunrise? My king."
One of the commanders beside him laughed. Meriel did not look at him. He looked at the laughing commander—a long, hard stare. The man stopped laughing.
Meriel turned to Frank.
"Sunrise? There's no such thing in Thornholl, boy. Gather yourself." He paused. "We march when the fire rises. Our men are everywhere throughout Thornholl's lands, in the high points. When William secures our entry, we will move. So not sunrise—firerise."
One of the commanders spoke. "So, we won't be facing Thornholl's army?"
Meriel's eyes stayed on the map. "We will face them one way or another, but it is best to do so from their walls. But if we must face them in an open land, let it be. There or here, they will face the same men."
He looked at Frank. His voice was steady.
"Be ready, boy, when the time comes. I want you to be loud. I want the enemy to hear you before our men do. Our men won't gain their trust from your looks, and that's understandable—you're still young—but let your voice do it."
One of the commanders looked at Frank. "Why would a boy like you choose war?"
Frank met his gaze. His voice was quiet but firm. "A son walks the road his father walked. That is what I do." He paused. "And unlike my father, I will not die. Not now."
The commander said, "A good desire for life. That will make the difference."
They were positioning themselves, their movements, their battalions. Then one of the men came to the tent.
"The fire! The fire rose, my king!"
Meriel looked at his commanders. His voice was sharp.
"Enough talk. Dawn has arrived. Let's move."
Frank, without warning, said, "Let's fuck."
Meriel looked at Frank, puzzled.
One of the commanders also looked at him, smiling and repeating, "First time. It always carries special feelings." They said. "But why not, boy? Let's fuck."
As the soldiers advanced into battle, the rats scurried in the opposite direction, trying to escape the soldiers' eager feet.