Perspective: Elfie
Date: August 17, 2008
Location: St. Jude Orphanage
I told myself that Saturday was just a bad dream.
People got tired. Grown-ups got grumpy when they had too much work, and Kai had spent the whole week chopping wood and hauling heavy buckets for Master Peter. It made sense that he didn't want a heavy 7-year-old jumping on his stomach.
On Sunday morning, there were no chores.
The chapel bell rang for morning prayers at 8:00 AM, and the sun was warm and golden across the courtyard cobblestones. I put on my best clean dress—the light pink one with the tiny white lace trim around the collar—and brushed my hair until my scalp tingled.
When I stepped out onto the gravel walk, I saw him.
Kai was standing by the big oak rain barrel near the kitchen garden, inspecting the iron bands around the staves with a small wooden mallet.
My heart did a tiny, fluttering hop.
I took 3 fast steps toward him, raising both hands to grab his sleeve like I had done a thousand times before.
Then my fingers stopped.
Right in mid-air. 2 inches from his elbow.
What if my hands are the problem?
What if I'm too clingy?
What if touching him makes him mad again?
I pulled my hands back against my skirt, clutching the fabric so hard my knuckles hurt. I forced the biggest, brightest smile I could onto my face and took a small step closer.
"Kai!" I called out, my voice sounding a little too loud and shaky. "It's Sunday! Look, the sun is totally out! Nobody has chores today! Can we... can we go to the big tree now? We can read chapter 7! I'll sit super quiet! I won't even wiggle my toes!"
Kai tapped the iron hoop 1 last time with his mallet.
He didn't jump. He slowly turned around, wiping his dusty hands on a clean linen rag. His dark blue eyes looked down at me, calm and unbothered, like he was looking at a sparrow that had landed on the fence.
"Not today, Elfina."
The air in my chest froze.
The courtyard didn't make a sound. The wind didn't blow. Even the birds in the eaves seemed to stop singing.
Elfina.
He had never called me that.
Not once.
To the caretakers, I was Elfina. To the priest who read the roll call, I was Elfina. To the older boys who threw pebbles, I was Elfina. But to Kai... I was Elfie. He was the one who had shortened it when I was 6, sitting on medical bed.
He was the only person in the entire world who called me Elfie.
I stood there, my throat tightening so hard it felt like someone was wrapping a cold leather strap around my neck.
"Why..." The word barely came out. My lips were trembling so hard I could hardly shape the sound. "Why did you call me that?"
Kai looked at me. His face was completely smooth. No anger. No disgust. Just that terrible, polite blankness.
"That's your name," he said simply.
He turned around, picked up his tool bucket from the flagstones, and began walking toward the carriage shed.
He didn't look back.
A sharp, violent pain tore through my chest, so deep and sickening that my knees almost gave out beneath me.
That's your name.
Tears flooded my vision, blurring the bright morning sunlight into jagged, stinging streaks. I didn't scream. I didn't yell his name. I couldn't. It felt like if I opened my mouth, my whole chest would crack wide open.
I spun on my heel and ran.
I didn't run to the playground. I didn't run to the dining hall. I sprinted through the side door, down the dim, cool corridor of the west wing, and ducked into the dark space beneath the central stairwell.
There was an old linen closet tucked under the wood planks—a dusty, forgotten cupboard filled with moth-eaten blankets and sacks of dried lavender.
It was the place I used to hide when I 1st arrived at the orphanage, back when the older children threw dirt at my pink hair and called me a cursed monster.
Before Kai had sat beside me.
I yanked the heavy wooden door shut, plunged into pitch darkness, and collapsed onto the pile of rough wool.
What did I do wrong?!
The thoughts tore through my brain like claws, suffocating me in the dark.
Did he hate my clinginess?
Did I embarrass him when I yelled in front of Veyren and the older boys?
Am I useless? Because my magic only makes tiny sparks and baby breezes instead of real spells?
Did he find someone better? Does he like Liddy now?
And then, like a heavy iron weight dropping onto my stomach, the memory hit me.
The kiss.
Everything had been fine until Sunday, August 10. We had eaten breakfast. We had laughed. He had let me feed him with the wooden spoon.
And then Miss Sarah had talked about her wedding ring.
And I had grabbed his shirt and demanded that he kiss me.
I ruined it.
I asked for something bad. I made him uncomfortable. I acted like a stupid, greedy baby who wanted to seal a promise he never wanted to make.
I curled my knees all the way up to my chin, burying my face into the moth-eaten wool, my whole body shaking with silent, violent sobs. I bit the sleeve of my pink dress so no one in the hallway would hear me crying.
I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want to look at Miss Sarah. I didn't want to look at Miss Liora.
I just wanted to disappear into the wood planks until there was nothing left of me at all.
*
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart
Date: August 18, 2008
Time: 2:30 PM
Location: Storage Yard Behind the Orphanage
The wooden cart was loaded with 8 bags of quicklime and 4 bundles of slate shingles.
Tommy, an older handyman in his late 50s who handled the heavy repairs around the church grounds, wiped a river of sweat from his leathery neck with the tail of his shirt. He leaned against the wagon wheel, panting heavily.
"Praise the heavens, kid," Tommy wheezed, shaking his head as he looked at the neatly stacked masonry bags. "My lower back has been giving out since the July heat wave. Don't know where an 8-year-old boy gets arms made of iron, but you saved me 2 hours of hauling in the midday sun."
"The lime had to be under the tarps before the humidity rises," I said, dusting the grey powder from my canvas trousers. "There'll be another delivery at the south gate on Wednesday afternoon, Tommy. 3 sacks of dried peas and 2 barrels of cracked barley from Tobin's depot. Make sure the storage cellar is swept."
Tommy grinned, flashing a row of tobacco-stained teeth, and gave me a hearty thumbs up.
"You just keep leaving copper coins on my workbench for my pipe weed and evening ale, kid, and I'll haul whatever you tell me to haul."
I looked back at him and raised my right hand, matching his gesture with a perfectly flat, deadpan expression.
😎👍
Tommy chuckled, wiping his brow, and lumbered off toward the pump to douse his head with well-water.
Once his footsteps faded, I walked over to an overturned wooden crate in the shade of the tool shed and sat down.
The physical labor was routine. The logistics were under control. My thoughts pivoted immediately to the actual subject of the last 7 days.
Elfie.
I reviewed the observational data gathered since Monday, August 11, testing it against my preliminary behavioral models.
Hypothesis 1: Social Substitution. If proximity to me was merely a generic childhood need for safety, my withdrawal should have prompted her to seek an alternative host—attaching herself like a social parasite to Rihaul, Qwencly, or 1 of the older girls like Liddy.
Result: Strongly Negative. She had made zero attempts to form secondary attachments. When Miss Sarah offered her an apple on Tuesday, Elfie took it politely, said thank you, and retreated immediately to an empty bench. She had completely isolated herself from the peer group.
Hypothesis 2: Retaliatory Resentment. Rejection frequently produced hostility, tantrums, or intentional misbehavior designed to punish the caregiver or assert control.
Result: Completely Negative. She had not thrown a single plate, refused a meal, or cast an errant spark.
Hypothesis 3: Anxious-Preoccupied Attachment.
Result: Conclusively Positive.
Her response had followed the classic, brutal trajectory of anxious attachment. When the initial distance appeared, her proximity-seeking behavior spiked violently: hovering near my chores, attempting to perform manual labor she was physically incapable of, suppressing a painful foot injury just to tell a joke and keep my attention on her face.
Then, when the verbal distancing cue was introduced—replacing the intimate diminutive with her formal name, "Elfina"—the system suffered a catastrophic collapse.
She had retreated into profound withdrawal and internalized self-blame.
She wasn't angry at me. She was blaming herself. She assumed that some unspecified defect in her behavior—her clinginess, her smile, her hair, or the demand for a kiss on August 10—was the root cause of the withdrawal.
And that revealed the massive, glaring methodological flaw in my experiment.
I contaminated the system.
I was trying to observe whether her attachment would survive a 10-year natural maturation cycle. But by intentionally withdrawing affection, I wasn't measuring natural development; I was actively manufacturing psychological trauma.
I was the stimulus creating the exact anxiety I was observing.
I could not cleanly distinguish between what Elfie's attachment naturally was and what my withdrawal was forcing it to become.
I rested my elbows on my knees, staring down at the dry gravel between my boots.
The scientifically rigorous choice was to terminate the trial immediately and restore baseline warmth.
I didn't.
Not yet.
I decided to maintain the protocol for exactly 1 more week, until August 24.
There was an inherent risk. If the withdrawal lasted too long, chronic anxiety could harden into emotional burnout, causing her to permanently sever communication. But according to my probability models, that risk was negligible. Her personality baseline was entirely anchored in loyalty and emotional intensity. When positive reinforcement was reintroduced, the relief would actually trigger an aggressive rebound effect, cementing her proximity-seeking even deeper.
And from a long-term strategic perspective, that carried enormous utility.
If we survived the coming war and reached adulthood, an intensely devoted Elfie was the single greatest asset I could possess. A companion who would never question my motives, never betray my secrets, and accept my darker, pragmatic methods without moral disgust.
We could marry.
Humans adhered to mating customs to establish stability. If I had to select a lifelong partner, she was the only logical candidate. Living with her would give me an enduring reason to simulate human emotions.
I found myself picturing what she would look like at 20.
She would probably still be loud. Still ridiculously possessive. She would probably complain about what I cooked, demand that I listen to her stories, and nag me whenever I stayed up too late reviewing plans.
What kind of mother would she be? Overprotective, chaotic, fiercely affectionate.
Would we date 1st? Or would I simply present her with a marriage contract when she turned 18 and tell her it was the most efficient arrangement?
I paused.
A quiet, dry scoff escaped my throat.
I am projecting 12 years into a future that doesn't exist.
She was 7. I was 8.
Planning domestic arrangements a decade in advance while the western provinces were burning in a famine was Sam Wilson level thinking.
Right now, uncertainty remained the enemy. And I had 6 more days of data to collect.
*
Perspective: Elfina
Date: August 20–23, 2008
Location: St. Jude Orphanage
By Wednesday afternoon, the news from the capital got scary.
In the common room near the library, the caretakers had set up an old mana-crystal receiver on a high wooden shelf. It crackled with static, a deep, grim voice echoing through the brass horn across the room while about 20 older children sat silently on the floorboards, listening.
"...imperial logistics corps reports the complete loss of 2 additional supply convoys along the northern frontier," the announcer's voice droned, heavy with gloom. "Demonic raiding battalions and elven partisan militias have severed the western supply corridor between Sylvaris and the capital. Emergency rationing has been declared across 4 provinces. The Ministry of Agriculture warns that regional grain reserves have reached critical deficits..."
The older boys whispered among themselves, their faces pale.
"My uncle said people in the city are eating boiled leather," Veyren muttered, hugging his knees on the bench. "The market in town hasn't had bread in 4 days. The guards had to use iron clubs to break up a riot at the flour mills yesterday."
I sat on a tiny wooden footstool in the far corner of the room, my pink dress pulled over my knees.
I listened to the voice on the speaker, then looked around the common room.
It didn't make any sense.
The news said the whole kingdom was starving. It said children in other towns were chewing on tree bark and drinking dirty puddle water, and that 2 orphanages in the next county had been shut down, with the children marched into quarry work camps.
Yet... our orphanage was fine.
At noon, we had eaten thick yellow pea soup with actual chunks of salted marrow broth. There were fresh sacks of oats stacked in the pantry. When the 3 little refugee kids started coughing 2 days ago, Sister Clara gave them warm goat's milk and sweetened honey tea, and their cheeks were already turning healthy and pink.
Everyone here had food. Everyone had warm woolen blankets.
Miss Sarah walked past with a stack of folded towels, and I reached out, gently tugging the corner of her apron.
"Miss Sarah...?" I whispered.
Miss Sarah stopped, looking down with a warm, gentle smile. "Yes, Elfina sweetie?"
"Why do we have so much food?" I asked, pointing a small finger toward the crackling news horn. "The man on the radio says everyone is starving. Why aren't we starving?"
Miss Sarah knelt down beside my stool, stroking my messy bangs with a soft hand.
"God is watching over us, sweetie," she said softly. "Matron Liora must have found an angel. Some wealthy merchant guild in the province has been sending private cash donations for grain. As long as they keep donating, we'll be safe."
* - Liora's Thoughts
Inside the administration office, Matron Liora didn't feel like an angel was watching over her.
She felt like she was trapped in a room with a demon wearing short trousers.
Liora sat behind her desk, staring at the fresh parchment receipts from Tobin's grain depot and Corvan's butcher shop.
80 pounds of cured meat. 5 sacks of cracked peas. 2 barrels of winter barley.
All paid in cash. Unmarked, unblemished imperial silver.
Her hands were shaking as she rubbed her forehead.
She had tried to follow him. On Tuesday morning, she had stood by the courtyard gate, intending to shadow Kaiser when he left for his supposed errands in the borough. But the 8-year-old boy had vanished into the morning fog like smoke.
Where is he getting this money?!
Her mind spiraled through every desperate, ugly possibility.
Was he running gambling rings with the teamsters at the depot? An 8-year-old boy who could calculate probabilities in his sleep could easily cheat drunken laborers out of their wages with rigged dice.
Was he blackmailing a corrupt magistrate? Did he discover some horrific secret about the town council and threaten them with exposure?
Was he smuggling contraband weapons across the southern ridge for deserters?
She grasped at every rationalization she could think of—theft, fraud, blackmail, smuggling. Because the alternative—that a little boy with blue eyes and scuffed shoes was somehow moving wholesale meat through a province where livestock had ceased to exist—was something her sanity refused to accept.
She locked the silver in her floorboard safe, pressed her face into her hands, and whispered a desperate prayer to the heavens to forgive her for taking blood money to feed 45 children.
*
Out in the courtyard, the late afternoon sun cast long, amber shadows across the gravel.
I walked out the side door, clutching my doll to my chest.
The orphanage was warm. The air smelled of woodsmoke and roasting marrow bones from the kitchen. Little Tommy was laughing by the swings, and the refugee kids were playing tag near the well.
Everything was safe. Everything was stable.
Except for the 1 thing that mattered.
I looked toward the stone well curb.
Kai was sitting there alone, his back propped against the wooden winch post. A thick book about trade laws was open across his knees, his eyes scanning the lines with quiet, unbothered focus.
He didn't look up. He didn't wave.
He didn't call me to come sit.
He could do everything in the world.
Everything... except look at me.
I stood by the kitchen door, clutching my doll, the cold knot in my chest twisting tighter and tighter.
I want my Kai back.
And if I have to beg him on my knees... I'll do it...
*
Perspective: Elfie
Date: August 24, 2008
Time: 1:15 AM
Location: Elfie's Room, St. Jude Orphanage
I woke up gasping in the dark, my nightshirt soaked in cold sweat.
In my dream, the big oak tree was gone. The meadow was gone. The whole world was made of cracked, dry limestone, and Kai was walking away down a road that had no end. I was running after him, screaming until my throat bled, but no matter how fast my little legs moved, the distance between us never got smaller.
I sat up in the pitch-black room, listening to the soft, rhythmic breathing of the other 3 girls sleeping across the floorboards.
My chest felt so hollow it ached.
I raised my trembling hand in the cold air, pressing my fingertips against my lips.
A kiss.
Miss Sarah's words from 2 weeks ago played in my head like an endless, mocking echo.
It's the most special thing in the whole world. It means you chose each other over everyone else.
A fat, hot tear slid down my nose, splashing onto my knuckles.
I grabbed my flat pillow, pulled it against my chest, and buried my face into the linen, curling my knees to my stomach.
What's wrong with me?
Why did he push me away?
Did he start thinking like the other kids? Did he finally realize that I'm weird, that my pink hair is ugly, that I'm loud and clingy and annoying?
Does he not like me anymore...?
The questions buzzed in my brain like angry hornets, stinging every single corner of my chest.
Before August 10, everything had been perfect. We were glued together every hour of the day. Whenever I threw a tantrum or demanded something silly, he would sigh, make that funny flat face, and give in anyway. He let me hold his hand. He let me feed him. He read me stories until I fell asleep on his shoulder.
And now... he looked right through me.
He didn't yell. He didn't scold. He just called me "Elfina" with that terrible, polite stranger voice that made me want to rip my own heart out.
If I could go back...
If I could turn back the clock to that Sunday morning, I would never look at Miss Sarah's ring. I would never ask about weddings. I would bite my own tongue until it bled before asking Kai to kiss me.
I hugged the pillow tighter, biting down on the rough fabric to choke back my sobs, shaking all by myself in the corner of the dark room.
I didn't care about promises. I didn't care about weddings.
I just wanted him to call me Elfie again.
*
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart
Date: August 24, 2008
Time: 2:10 AM
Location: St. Jude Orphanage -> South Ridge Forest
I was awake before the cue appeared.
Lying flat on my back on the narrow cot, my eyes opened into the dark room. My pupils shifted to the right, tracking the open casement window.
Above the jagged silhouette of the southern ridge, 2 kilometers away, 3 thin, rhythmic plumes of pale white smoke drifted up into the moonlit clouds.
Puff. Puff. Puff.
The signal.
The inventory had arrived.
I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress without making the floorboards creak. I reached beneath my low wooden desk, feeling along the underside of the bottom drawer.
My fingers found the rough twine and oilcloth.
I peeled away the tape, freeing a 10-inch, heavy-spine steel butcher's cleaver. The blade was freshly honed, dressed with mutton tallow to prevent rust, its weighted balance designed specifically for splitting cartilage and bone.
I slid the leather sheath inside the waistband of my canvas trousers, pulling my faded grey tunic down to conceal the hilt.
Then I slipped through the open window, dropping 12 feet into the nettles below with the silent, practiced impact of a falling cat.
The night air was freezing, carrying the sharp scent of crushed hemlock and dry dust. I crossed the vegetable garden, slipped past the outer gate, and entered the dense brush of the southern woods at a steady, efficient jog.
As I hit the dry bed of the seasonal creek, I slowed to a walk, scanning the ground under the moonlight.
The tracks told the entire story.
1st: Footprints. Deep, heavy heel depressions stamped into the hardened silt.
They weren't imperial legionnaires; soldiers marched with standardized hobnails and 28-inch intervals. These strides were ragged, uneven, and wide-set.
2nd: Count. 8 distinct pairs of boots.
3rd: Equipment marks. Low-hanging iron rings and notched cleavers had scraped against the limestone outcroppings along the narrow trail.
4th: Physiology and origin. In 3 separate footprints, the deep indentation of an external calcaneus bone—a horned spur common to secondary demonic subspecies from the Sylvaris border. The faint, oily residue of scorched sulfur in the moss confirmed it.
8 demonic deserters and highway marauders. Driven south by the frontline famine, scavenging along the trade roads, hunting for soft targets.
And their march route had followed the creek bed straight toward St. Jude Orphanage.
An isolated, undefended compound housing 45 children and 3 months of grain reserves. If they had reached the perimeter fence, the caretakers would have been butchered within 4 minutes, and the children would have been loaded into carts or slaughtered for rations.
I stepped over a broken branch, my expression unchanged.
The Rabbit Predators were more than an economic collection mechanism. They were an automated, self-funding perimeter defense. St. Jude never required provincial guards or church paladins because any armed threat moving south through the hills was funneled directly into the limestone chute.
I didn't have to hunt deserters through the woods. I didn't have to risk combat against grown soldiers.
The monsters did the work.
I only had to process the harvest.
Time: 2:45 AM
Location: Sunken Hollow, Deadwood Ravine
The smell of fresh, iron-rich blood hit me 50 meters before the clearing.
I stepped through the curtain of weeping willow branches into the sunken amphitheater.
The limestone floor was a slaughterhouse.
7 bodies lay piled across the flat rock in grotesque, tangled heaps. Their throats had been neatly punctured, their hamstrings severed, their leather armor stripped and shredded by hundreds of razor-thin incisions. Pools of dark, thick blood reflected the silver crescent of the moon.
Crouched atop the surrounding boulders were the 16 Rabbit Predators.
Their slate-grey fur was soaked in crimson. Their split jaws hung open in silent, panting grins, exposing rows of curved needle-teeth. Their exposed red abdominal veins pulsed rhythmically in the cold air.
When I stepped into the center of the hollow, their long ears swiveled in unison.
16 pairs of glowing scarlet eyes locked onto me.
I looked at the pile of 7 corpses, nodded approvingly, raised my right hand, and gave the pack a calm, faintly amused thumbs-up.
😁👍
A collective, high-pitched clicking echoed through the hollow.
"Chk-chk-chk-chk!"
Then I heard the wet, ragged gasp.
Over by the far limestone wall, pinned beneath the roots of an overturned cedar, the 8th man was still alive.
He was curled onto his side, his hands clamped frantically over his severed right thigh, trying to stem the dark arterial spurts leaking through his fingers.
A young female predator was creeping toward him, its long, clawed limbs moving with loose, jerky motions, its split jaw unhinging to the width of a dinner plate, ready to crush his trachea.
I stepped forward.
Thump.
I brought the heel of my boot down hard against the limestone slab.
The vibration cut through the stone.
I picked up a fallen oak branch, stepped between the creeping monster and the dying man, and dragged the wood across the pale dirt, carving a deep, jagged `X` into the earth.
I stared directly into the female predator's red pupils, my blue eyes dead and level.
The creature froze. It hissed, jaw clicking in mild frustration, but it respected the boundary. It hopped backward 3 paces, settling onto its haunches among the shadows.
I dropped the branch, folded my arms, and looked down at the man.
My mind assembled his diagnostic profile in under 2 seconds:
Age: 38. Heavy sun-spots across the bridge of his nose, grey streaks coarse in his black hair.
Origin: Demonic Coalition auxiliary levies from the Sylvaris border. The brass harness scar on his left clavicle and the faded tattoo of a charging horned ram on his right forearm confirmed 4 years of frontline service.
Physical condition: Severe caloric deprivation. Hollow cheeks, dry tongue, ketosis on his breath. He hadn't consumed real protein in at least 5 days; crushed vetch seeds were lodged between his yellow molars.
Skeletal trauma: An old, unreduced dislocation of the right shoulder that had calcified crookedly, leaving his right arm hanging half an inch lower than his left.
Magical capacity: Low-tier Demon reinforcement. The knuckles of his left hand were calloused into rough granite plates, but his mana well was completely drained.
Survival mechanism: He hadn't survived the ambush through skill. The defensive gouges on his comrade's back showed that he had actively pushed the man behind him into the rabbit's jaws to buy 4 seconds to reach this rock.
The demon coughed, spitting a glob of dark red phlegm onto the dust. His bloodshot eyes squinted up through the gloom, trying to focus on my shape.
"K-kid...?" he croaked, his voice raw with disbelief. "A human kid...?! Run, you little fool! Run! Those things... they're devils... they'll tear you to pieces...!"
I didn't move.
The man blinked, his gaze darting from my calm posture to the 16 towering monsters sitting obediently behind the scratch in the dirt.
His jaw slackened. The confusion on his face curdled into pure, paralyzing horror.
"Wait..." he whispered, his trembling fingers slipping against his bloody thigh. "What... what is this? Why aren't they attacking you?"
"They're waiting for orders," I said mildly.
"Waiting for what?!" The man dragged himself an inch backward against the rock, sobbing in panic. "Help me! Boy, please! Cut my belt... bind my leg! I've got money! In my left coat pocket, 14 imperial silver marks and an officer's signet ring! Take it! Take all of it! Just get me out of this ravine!"
"I'm not interested in your pocket change," I replied, resting my hands in my pockets.
The man stared, his chest heaving with shallow, terrified breaths. "Is this... is this revenge?! Are you working for the elves?! Did the Sylvaris merchant guild hire you because we hit their grain wagon?!"
I waved a hand dismissively, letting out a quiet, dry chuckle. "I don't care about the elves. And I don't care about your grain wagons. It isn't revenge."
"Then WHAT IS THIS?!" he shrieked, tears carving pale tracks through the grime on his face. "Are you a mind controller?! Are you an inquisitor from the Celestial Kingdom?!"
"I'm an orphan," I said simply. "I live 2 kilometers down the road."
"An orphan...?!" The man's mind shattered against the absurdity. He slammed his bloody palms against the stone, weeping in sheer, maddening terror. "Then WHY?! Why did you trap us?! Why did you kill my men?!"
I looked down at him. My voice was calm, conversational, and entirely stripped of heat.
"You're nothing but poultry in my eyes."
The clearing went dead silent.
The demon froze, his mouth hanging open, the word echoing in his skull like a tolling bell.
"P-poultry...?" he stammered, shaking his head violently. "What... what does that mean...?"
"The harvest has been very good this month," I explained, taking a half-step closer. "The local butcher pays 18 silver per 100 pounds. Master Trevor takes 50 pounds every week for his tavern stew, and Master Harlan buys 55% at 24 silver to feed mercenary battalions on the front line. Live cattle are gone. Pigs were seized by the army. But demand for red meat remains inelastic."
I tilted my head, studying the clean muscle definition along his arms.
"You are worth considerably more to me here than you ever were as roaming deserters."
The man looked from my face to the 7 drained corpses piled across the rock, and the full, unspeakable realization crashed over him like a tidal wave of ice.
He didn't scream. The horror was too immense for sound. His breath hitched in his throat, his eyes bulging until the veins in the whites ruptured.
"Please..." he whimpered, pressing his palms together in a desperate, trembling prayer. "Please, God... don't do this... I have a family! I have a wife in the lower valley... she's waiting for me...!"
I looked at him with zero empathy, zero disgust, and zero hesitation.
"You should have brought them with you," I said evenly. "I would have gotten a larger harvest."
The man stared at me, his soul completely hollowed out by the words.
"Judging by your age and demographic bracket," I added casually, tapping my chin, "you probably have 2 or 3 children as well. You really should have brought them along to see the sights. The forest is quite beautiful this time of year."
"You're a monster..." the man wept, vomiting a thin stream of bile onto his boots. "You're a demon... you're not human...!"
"You didn't do anything wrong," I said, pulling the heavy steel cleaver from my waistband with a soft, metallic hiss. "Neither did I. It's simply the circumstance of war. In this world, those who are willing to do whatever is necessary survive. The rest become inventory."
I turned toward the pack of Rabbit Predators, pointing the flat of the heavy blade toward the surviving demon.
"Eat the arms 1st," I commanded, my voice flat. "And stop tearing the thighs so roughly. The meat bruises when you cause that much trauma, and Master Corvan complains about the blood-spots in the cuts. Learn from your patterns."
The monsters didn't understand the words, but they understood the rhythm.
I raised my boot and struck the stone twice: Thump. Thump.
Then I crouched down and quickly traced the harvest zones across the dirt stick-figure, crossing out the limbs and pointing toward the throat.
"Chk! Chk-chk!"
The pack chittered in unison, nodding their narrow skulls with jerky, excited snaps.
"NO! NO, PLEASE! GOD, PLEA—"
The man's scream was cut short as 4 predators leaped from the boulders, dragging him into the dark shadows beneath the roots.
I stood in the center of the hollow, testing the edge of my cleaver with my thumb.
The world was cruel. Kings starved provinces for military glory. Deserters butchered farmers for bread. Merchants hoarded grain while infants died in ditches. Everyone pretended there were rules, morals, and fairness—and then abandoned them the very second winter arrived.
Nobody cared about fairness.
The only thing that mattered was winning.
And at the end, I was going to win.
For her.