The Weight of Orders (2)

The villagers refused to leave.

Three days passed, and the Empire's army arrived at dawn. Rows of soldiers in gleaming armor stood at the edge of the forest, their banners fluttering in the cold wind. The villagers, armed with rusted tools and trembling hands, formed a ragged line at the village gates. They were outnumbered, outmatched, but their eyes burned with defiance.

Commander Vreaya stood at the edge of the battlefield, her sharp golden eyes scanning the opposing forces. A jagged scar ran from her temple down to her cheek, a testament to battles fought and won. Her long dark hair was tied back, revealing the hardened expression of a woman who had seen too much bloodshed.

Beside her, a young soldier shifted uneasily. "Commander," he said, voice laced with uncertainty. "They're not backing down. Should we use force? "

Vreaya exhaled slowly, her gaze never leaving the enemy lines. "Let me talk to their chief."

***

The villagers stood shoulder to shoulder, their breath fogging in the dawn chill. Rusted scythes, chipped axes, and hunting bows trembled in calloused hands. At the front, the village chief clutched his ancestor's sword—a ceremonial relic, its blade dull with age. Behind him, Lily hid in her mother's skirts, her small fingers digging into the fabric. The Empire's army loomed like a steel tide, their banners emblazoned with a snarling wolf. Sunlight glinted off helmets, blinding.

"Chief," croaked an elder, his cane sinking into mud. "We cannot win this."

The chief's knuckles whitened around the sword's hilt. "We cannot abandon the graves of our children."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some nodded. Others wept.

Lily peeked out, her chestnut curls tangled with leaves. "Mama… where's Big Brother Sol? He'll stop them, right?"

Her mother's grip tightened. "Hush, Lily. That man… he isn't who you thought he is."

The air reeked of sweat and smoke. Villagers huddled behind the splintered barricade, their makeshift weapons trembling in shaking hands. Old men clutched rusted sickles. Mothers held kitchen knives. Children hid in cellars, their muffled sobs seeping through cracked doors. At the front stood the chief, his weathered face lit by the orange glow of torches.

"They come for our land," he rasped, voice carrying over the crowd. "Our ancestors bled into this soil. Our children's laughter echoes in these fields. Do we let the Empire erase us? Become ghosts in our own home?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—some defiant, others fearful. A farmer near the back hesitated, his grip on his pitchfork slackening. "Chief… maybe it's better to live as slaves than die as fools."

Silence fell. The chief's knuckles whitened around the hilt of his grandfather's sword.

"Live?" He spat the word like venom. "You call that living? Breathing under the Empire's boot? Forgetting who we are?" He drove the blade into the dirt with a sharp clang, silencing all doubt. "I would rather burn with my pride than kneel with theirs!"

His gaze swept over his people—farmers, hunters, craftsmen—none were soldiers, yet today, they would become one.

"We are not warriors," he said, his voice steady. "But to protect our land, we will fight. Pick up your weapons."

Hands tightened around makeshift arms—rusted swords, axes, pitchforks. A young man raised his weapon high, voice ringing through the cold air.

"For our village!"

Another followed.

"For our children!"

Then another.

"For our land!"

A roar erupted, fierce and unyielding. The doubting farmer bent down, retrieved his pitchfork, and lifted it with trembling resolve.

Commander Veyra dismounted, her scarred face twitching as she surveyed the villagers. The Empire's army loomed behind her—a wall of steel and silence.

"Last chance," she barked. "Lay down your arms. The Emperor offers you homes, work, life. Refuse, and…"

"Or what?" The chief stepped forward, sword shaking. "You'll slaughter us? Your Emperor claims to bring order. Is this order?"

"Stealing from weak... killing innocents.... taking life of children's"

Veyra's hand drifted to her sword hilt. She'd faced rebels, bandits, traitor lords—but this? Farmers. Children. A girl with chestnut curls peeking from a cellar window, her eyes wide with terror.

'Damn the Emperor's vague orders.'

She turned to her lieutenant. "Hold position. No engagement."

"But Commander—"

"Hold. Position."

she rushed toward the camp.

Veyra stormed into the command tent, boots heavy against the wooden floor. The air inside was thick with the scent of wax-sealed documents, stale wine, and something... sweet?

At the center of the tent, Kael lounged in his chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, absently chewing on what looked like a cupcake. His other hand twirled a dagger lazily before flicking it toward the map nailed against the wall.

THUNK.

The blade struck directly into a red-circled region—right over the village they were stationed in.

Veyra's eyes flickered to the mark, then back to Kael, whose golden eyes gleamed with amusement as he reached for another pastry.

"Tell me, Kael," she started, her voice sharp, "are you playing warlord or a spoiled noble on vacation?"

Kael barely spared her a glance, dusting crumbs from his fingers. "Why not both?" he murmured.

The map rustles as Veyra rips the dagger from the wall and slams it into the table.

"Three weeks. Three damn weeks since the Emperor vanished after telling us to play conquerors. And what do we have to show for it?" Her voice rose, fury barely restrained. "A village of farmers who would rather starve than bow, Northern lords sharpening their knives, and you—" she grabbed his half-eaten cupcake and crushed it in her palm—"acting like this is a feast!"

Kael sighed dramatically. "That was my last one, you know."

Veyra ignored him. "You think this is funny? The men haven't eaten in days, and those villagers—"

A THUD sounded against the tent fabric, followed by another. Then a foul stench filled the air.

Kael pinched his nose. "And speaking of our gracious hosts…"

Another sickening splat—As something wet and rotten landed just outside.

Veyra clenched her jaw. "They're throwing dead rats at the soldiers."

Kael let out a low whistle. "Creative."

She turned on him, voice deadly quiet. "They're starving too, Kael. But this? This is making everything worse. Our soldiers are barely holding formation. If one of them snaps....."

she didn't finish her word.

Sigh

Veyra exhaled sharply. "Ren's holed up in his tent, muttering to himself. The Emperor is gone. The treasury is being picked clean. And now we're just… sitting here, waiting for orders"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, trust me, I know. I've been writing letters to the capital every night. 'Dear Councillor Darrin, please stop drinking yourself into an early grave while our grain rots. Love, Kael.' But—shocking, I know—no response."

Veyra shot him a glare. "This is the tenth village. The Northern lords are already calling us butchers. If we add 'child-silencers' to our titles—"

"—they'll still do nothing," Kael interrupted, crunching the walnut. "The Northern lords are all bark. They know what happens to people who bark too loud at the Empire." He gestured to the village. "Besides, these farmers aren't rebels. They're just… loud."

A child's wail pierced the air—high, frantic, terrified. Veyra's grip tightened on her sword. "We need orders. Clear orders. Not this… waiting."

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, finally, Kael pushed himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders.

"Fine. Let's go ask Ren."

Veyra blinked. "What?"

He gestured toward the tent flap, where the distant glow of torches flickered outside. "You want orders? Let's get them. If Ren wants to keep playing ghost general, he can say it to our faces."

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded.

"Alright. Let's see if he still remembers how to lead."

Neither of them spoke as they stepped into the night, toward the only man left who could decide their next move.