The Burned Village

They said it had been called Blackvine.

The vines were still there—charred along the fences, twisted up through the skeletal beams of what used to be a shrine.

But the name didn't matter now.

What mattered was the ash.

And the silence.

Darin arrived before the main column. Raive had sent him with two others—Harl and Dren—just to check the road fork, make sure the crossing held.

It did.

But nothing else did.

There were bones in the well.

Charred wood on the bread-ovens.

A girl's doll—half-burned—still sitting on a flat stone by the door of what must've been a storehouse.

Dren said nothing. Harl swore. Darin walked slow, eyes on every detail.

He stopped at the shrine.

It had been split—burned, yes, but broken, too. Not by accident.

The saint's carving had been shattered deliberately. He recognized the icon: Saint Verrel, patron of grain traders and oath-rings.

The altar had been pissed on.

This wasn't pillage.

It was message.

By the time the forward file arrived, most of the bodies had already rotted down to bone and dust.

Raive stood near the well, staring into it. He didn't give orders.

The men were quiet.

Not out of reverence.

Out of shame.

They didn't do this.

But maybe someone wearing the same colors had.

Later that night, Darin asked Raive a question.

"Will this make it into the record?"

Raive didn't look up from his map.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because there's no one alive to write the complaint."

Darin said nothing else.

But before he turned to leave, he took the doll.

Not as a trophy.

Just so it wouldn't be left to rot.