Shadows

Chapter Twelve: Shadows

The village leader, Torran(also Marcus), bowed low as he gestured toward the modest inn that would serve as Draven's temporary residence. The walls were weathered, and the roof sagged under the weight of neglect. Torran's face was etched with worry, his voice apologetic. "Your Highness, it's not much, but we've prepared this for you and your men. I hope it suffices."

Draven stepped inside, his boots creaking against the wooden floorboards. The room smelled faintly of damp wood and herbs. His sharp eyes scanned the space—humble, but clean. "It's more than enough," he replied. His tone was even, but his mind churned. These people had so little, yet they offered what they could without hesitation.

As the night settled over the village, Draven decided to take a walk. The air carried the faint scent of smoke from the scattered chimneys. Shadows clung to the narrow paths, but his keen senses didn't miss the quiet desperation etched into every corner of the village.

Children with gaunt faces huddled together near a fading fire, their thin blankets barely keeping the cold away. Women worked by lantern light, patching worn clothes or rationing scraps of bread. He passed a group of elderly men sitting silently, their eyes reflecting years of hardship.

A commotion broke his thoughts. One of his soldiers grabbed a young boy by the arm. The boy, no older than ten, clutched a half-eaten piece of bread. "He tried to steal from my pack!" the soldier barked.

The boy struggled, tears streaming down his face. "I wasn't stealing! I swear—I just needed food for my sister. She's sick. Please!"

Draven's gaze softened, though his voice was firm. "Let him go." The soldier hesitated but obeyed, releasing the boy. Draven crouched to meet the child's eyes, his expression unreadable. "Where is your sister?"

The boy pointed toward a crumbling hut near the edge of the village. Without a word, Draven gestured for Levi. "Give him food," he ordered quietly. Levi didn't question him, pulling bread and dried meat from his pack and handing it to the boy. The child stammered his thanks before running off into the night.

Levi watched as Draven stood, his jaw tight. "This village is barely surviving," Levi murmured. "How can we expect them to pay higher taxes?"

Draven didn't reply, but his silence spoke volumes.

---

Later that evening, Torran and the villagers gathered in the square to host a small feast in honor of the prince's visit. The long table was lined with simple dishes: roasted root vegetables, thin soups, and loaves of coarse bread. Despite its modesty, the villagers looked at the spread with pride.

"Your Highness," Torran began, raising a cup of watered-down wine, "we welcome you to our home. It's been many years since someone of your stature has graced us with their presence. This feast is our way of expressing gratitude."

Draven's gaze flicked over the table, then to the faces of the villagers. He saw their hunger, the way their eyes lingered on the food even as they stepped back to let him eat first. The gesture felt like a cruel irony—taking from those who barely had enough to survive.

He picked up his cup, nodded in acknowledgment of Torran's words, but pushed his plate aside. "The effort is appreciated," he said, his voice cool but not unkind. "But I find myself without an appetite."

Torran looked uneasy but didn't press. Levi glanced at Draven, his expression questioning, but he said nothing.

As the villagers ate, Torran began to share stories of the village's past prosperity. "We once thrived here," he said wistfully. "The fields were abundant, and trade routes brought wealth. But the raids… they've taken everything. Crops burned, livestock stolen. We can barely make ends meet."

Draven listened in silence, his fingers drumming against the table. When Torran finished, Levi leaned closer. "This isn't sustainable," he muttered under his breath.

Draven's eyes narrowed. "No, it's not," he replied, his voice low.

---

Long after the feast ended, Draven sat alone in the inn, staring at the flickering candle on the table. His mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts. His father's orders had been clear—enforce the increased taxes. But how could he demand more from people who already had nothing?

Levi entered, breaking the silence. "You're troubled," he observed.

Draven's lips twitched into a bitter smile. "You're more observant than you look."

Levi folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "What's the plan?"

Draven didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared into the flame, its glow reflected in his crimson eyes. "Leadership," he finally said, "isn't about making people bow to your will. It's about protecting them. Ensuring their survival. If my father doesn't understand that…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Levi didn't press further. He knew Draven well enough to recognize when his mind was made up. "Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

Draven nodded, his expression hardening. He couldn't afford to be nonchalant now. The people of this village depended on him, whether they realized it or not. And for the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of responsibility—not just as a prince, but as a leader.

The candle's flame flickered as a breeze slipped through the cracks in the inn's walls. Draven leaned back in his chair, the creak of the wood breaking the silence. "Levi," he said, his voice calm but laced with authority, "send word to the soldiers. They are not to take anything from the villagers without my explicit approval. Not food, not supplies. Nothing."

Levi raised an eyebrow but didn't question him. "Understood. Anything else?"

Draven's gaze remained on the flame. "I want a report of the raiders' activity in this region. Where they strike, how often, and how they operate. If the village leader won't provide it, then we'll investigate ourselves."

Levi nodded. "I'll see to it."

As Levi left, the room fell silent once more. Draven's thoughts wandered back to the villagers—their thin faces, the desperation in their eyes. He had seen suffering before, but something about this place felt different. It wasn't just the poverty or the hunger; it was the faint spark of hope they carried, despite their circumstances. It stirred something in him, something he hadn't felt in years.

---

The following morning, Draven stood at the edge of the village, his crimson eyes scanning the horizon. The rising sun cast a pale orange glow over the fields, illuminating the damage left by years of raids. Burned-out barns and trampled crops dotted the landscape, a stark reminder of the struggles the villagers faced.

Torran approached, his gait slow but steady. "Your Highness," he greeted, bowing slightly. "I hope you rested well."

Draven nodded curtly. "The village," he began without preamble, "is it always this quiet?"

Torran hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if the trees themselves might be listening. "We've learned to keep to ourselves," he admitted. "Noise attracts attention—unwanted attention."

Draven's expression darkened. "The raiders."

Torran nodded solemnly. "They come at night, mostly. Quick and brutal. They take what they want and leave nothing behind. We've tried to fight back, but we're not warriors, Your Highness. We're farmers."

"Have you reported this to the king?"

Torran's face tightened. "We've sent letters, but no help has come. And now, with the increased taxes…" His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Draven clenched his jaw. "Show me where they attack. I want to see it for myself."

Torran's eyes widened. "Your Highness, it's dangerous—"

"I'm not asking," Draven interrupted, his tone sharp.

---

Torran led Draven and a small group of soldiers to the outskirts of the village, where the land sloped down into a valley. The remains of a barn stood in the distance, its roof caved in and walls scorched black. Draven approached the structure, his keen senses picking up faint traces of blood and ash.

"They come from the forest," Torran explained, pointing to the dense line of trees on the horizon. "Always the same direction. We've tried setting traps, but they're too clever. They know the land better than we do."

Draven crouched, running his fingers over the charred ground. "How many?" he asked, his voice low.

"Ten, maybe fifteen at a time," Torran replied. "Sometimes more. They're quick, in and out before we can organize any resistance."

Draven stood, his expression unreadable. "They're not just raiders," he said after a moment. "This is organized. Coordinated."

Levi, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "What are you thinking?"

Draven's eyes narrowed as he stared into the forest. "We're not leaving until this is dealt with."

---

That evening, Draven and his men prepared to set a trap. Soldiers were stationed at key points around the village, hidden among the shadows. Draven himself stood near the center, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Levi stood beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Do you really think they'll come tonight?" Levi asked quietly.

Draven smirked. "If they're as predictable as Torran says, they'll be here."

The hours dragged on, the village eerily silent. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant howl of wolves. Just as doubt began to creep in, Draven's sharp ears caught the faintest sound of movement—leaves crunching underfoot, the snap of a twig.

"They're here," he murmured.

Levi tensed, his hand tightening around his sword. "What's the plan?"

Draven's smirk widened, revealing a hint of fang. "We let them think they've won."

The raiders emerged from the forest, their figures silhouetted against the moonlight. They moved quickly, fanning out across the village and heading straight for the food stores. Draven watched from the shadows, his eyes tracking their every move.

When the first raider reached for a sack of grain, Draven stepped forward, his presence commanding. "Enjoying yourselves?"

The raiders froze, their heads snapping toward him. For a moment, there was silence. Then one of them, a burly man with a scar across his face, stepped forward. "And who are you supposed to be?"

Draven's smile was cold. "Your worst mistake."

Before the man could react, Draven moved, a blur of motion that ended with the raider sprawled on the ground, his weapon clattering to the side. The other raiders hesitated, their confidence wavering.

Levi stepped out of the shadows, his sword drawn. "You heard him," he said, his voice deadly. "Drop your weapons."

The raiders looked at each other, their bravado crumbling. One by one, they complied, tossing their weapons to the ground.

Draven's gaze swept over them, his expression cold. "You have one chance to explain yourselves," he said. "Choose your words carefully."