Chapter 8:

No PoV.

The soldiers moved cautiously through the charred remains of Drachenheim, their boots crunching against blackened debris and shattered stone. The fires had mostly died down, leaving behind skeletal remnants of homes and shops, their structures barely standing. The thick scent of smoke lingered, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that stained the streets.

A young soldier, barely past his eighteenth summer, gripped his rifle tightly as he stepped over a collapsed beam. His hands trembled, though whether from exhaustion or fear, he did not know. He swallowed hard and turned to his companion, a veteran with a scar running across his cheek.

"Do you think anyone survived?" the young man asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The older soldier surveyed the ruins, his sharp eyes scanning every shadow and broken doorway. "If they did, they'll be hiding," he muttered. "Stay alert."

A faint noise broke the silence—a muffled whimper, weak but distinct. Both men stiffened. The younger soldier turned his head toward a collapsed building, its remains forming a jagged cavity between the rubble. He gestured to the veteran, who nodded.

Carefully, they approached the wreckage. The young soldier crouched and peered into the narrow gap between fallen beams and crumbling stone. His heart pounded when he saw a small, dust-covered hand reaching out from the darkness.

"There's someone here!" he called out, his voice urgent.

Within moments, more soldiers converged, working together to shift the heavy debris. With each piece removed, the form of a child emerged—a girl, no older than six, her tattered dress smeared with soot and dried blood she have black hair and Silver color eyes. She clutched a limp bundle to her chest, whispering something under her breath.

"You're safe now," the young soldier said gently, reaching out a hand. "Come on, we'll get you out of here."

The girl hesitated, her wide, terrified eyes darting between the soldiers. Then, slowly, she released the bundle—revealing the pale, lifeless face of a younger boy in her arms.

The young soldier felt his stomach drop. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak. "We... we'll take care of him," he promised, though he already knew there was nothing to be done.

The girl didn't respond. She simply let them lift her from the wreckage, her body limp with exhaustion.

As they carried her away, the young soldier found himself wondering how many more were still buried beneath the ruins, waiting for help that might never come.

The soldiers carried the girl carefully through the desolate streets, their movements swift but measured. The once-thriving town of Drachenheim was now a husk of its former self—silent, save for the distant crackling of dying embers and the occasional groan of weakened structures settling into ruin.

As they reached the temporary camp set up beyond the town's outskirts, the scent of burnt wood gave way to the sharp tang of antiseptics and the iron-rich stench of blood. The wounded lay on makeshift cots, tended by medics and priests, their bodies covered in bandages hastily wrapped to stem the bleeding.

A medic, a woman with auburn hair tied back in a messy bun, hurried over as the soldiers entered the camp. She took one look at the girl—filthy, trembling, and still clutching her lifeless sibling's hand—and sighed.

"Set her down here," she instructed, gesturing to an empty cot. The young soldier hesitated before gently lowering the girl, who remained silent, her gaze unfocused.

The medic knelt beside her, brushing strands of ash-covered hair from the child's face. "You're safe now," she said softly. "Can you tell me your name?"

The girl blinked slowly, as if the question was foreign to her. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

The young soldier, still standing nearby, clenched his fists. "She was holding onto her brother when we found her," he murmured. "He… he didn't make it."

The medic's expression darkened, but she nodded. "Not the first one today," she muttered under her breath. Then, louder, she added, "She's in shock. Get her some water and a blanket—something to keep her warm."

A fellow soldier rushed off to retrieve the supplies while the medic turned to the young girl again. "We're going to take care of you, alright?" She reached for the child's wrist, checking her pulse. It was weak but steady. "Do you have any other family here? Anyone we can find for you?"

The girl remained silent, her grip on her brother's cold hand unyielding.

A shadow fell over them as Felix approached, his golden armor glinting faintly under the camp's torchlight. His sharp gaze swept over the scene, lingering on the lifeless child before shifting to the girl.

"Another survivor?" he asked.

The medic nodded. "She hasn't spoken yet. Severe shock, most likely."

Felix exhaled through his nose. "Make sure she receives care." Then, after a brief pause, he added, "We'll need to start identifying the dead and accounting for the missing." His voice was firm, but there was a weight behind his words.

The medic nodded again, turning back to the girl. "We'll do what we can."

As Felix walked away, the soldiers continued their grim work, sifting through the wreckage for any remaining survivors. But as the hours passed and the fires dimmed, it became increasingly clear—Drachenheim had become a graveyard.

As Felix walked away, he spotted a familiar face on a stretcher and immediately ran toward it.

"Alfred, is that you?"

He gazed at the injured man lying on the stretcher—his golden hair disheveled, silver eyes dull with pain.

Felix's breath hitched as he dropped to his knees beside the stretcher, his gauntleted hand hovering uncertainly over Alfred's bloodied form. The golden-haired man lay still, his face pale under the flickering torchlight. Silver eyes, usually sharp and watchful, were half-lidded, clouded with pain. Blood seeped from a deep gash on his forehead, matting his hair, while crimson stains spread across the bandages wrapped hastily around his abdomen.

"Alfred," Felix called again, his voice rough with urgency. He grasped the priest's wrist, relieved to feel a faint but steady pulse. "Damn it, stay with me."

A medic hurried over, kneeling beside them. "We've stabilized him for now, but he lost a lot of blood. He needs rest and proper treatment, or he won't last the night."

Felix clenched his jaw. "Do whatever it takes."

Alfred stirred at the sound of his voice, his eyelids fluttering. His lips parted, dry and cracked, as he forced out a hoarse whisper.

"The children... are they safe?"

Felix hesitated, his grip tightening on Alfred's arm. He had seen them—some barely clinging to life, others unconscious, their small bodies lined with bruises and burns. And then there were the three who had unleashed the devastation upon Drachenheim—Akrūra, Tsukiko, and Shigure—now bound and chained like monsters.

He exhaled slowly. "Some of them. Sister Helene, Amilia, Irene, and the little one—Angelika—they survived. A few of the children are hurt, but they're alive." His voice hardened. "As for Akrūra, Tsukiko, and Shigure... we had no choice but to restrain them."

Alfred's fingers twitched, his expression darkening despite his exhaustion. "You don't understand..." he rasped, his breathing shallow. "They weren't themselves. Something—something took hold of them. It wasn't their fault."

Felix frowned. "Fault or not, they destroyed the city. Thousands of people are dead, Alfred." His gaze turned sharp, searching the injured man's face. "What do you know?"

Alfred coughed, pain flickering across his features. He tried to sit up, but Felix pushed him back down.

"Not now. Rest."

The priest's lips pressed together in frustration, but he lacked the strength to argue. His fingers weakly grasped Felix's wrist. "Promise me... you won't let them suffer for what they didn't do."

Felix was silent for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded. "I'll do what I can."

Alfred's grip slackened, and his body relaxed as he drifted back into unconsciousness.

Felix exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before rising to his feet. The camp around him was a flurry of movement—medics tending to the wounded, soldiers piling bodies of the dead, the grim aftermath of a nightmarish battle.

Beyond the tents, in a secured section of the camp, Akrūra, Tsukiko, and Shigure lay bound in thick enchanted chains, their unconscious forms restrained against cold stone walls. Their expressions were eerily peaceful, betraying nothing of the destruction they had wrought.

Felix's steps were heavy as he approached, his gaze lingering on Akrūra's delicate features—so deceptively innocent, yet moments ago, those same hands had torn through men like paper.

He turned as a soldier approached. "Sir, what should we do with them?"

Felix's fingers curled into fists.

"Keep them contained," he ordered. "And send word to the capital. The Crown needs to know what happened here."

As the soldier saluted and left, Felix let out a slow breath, his gaze returning to the ruined city in the distance.

Drachenheim was lost.

And whatever had taken hold of those children… it wasn't over yet.