The battle still burned hot outside the walls.
Elves pressed close, their spells and arrows flashing between the trees. Crystal arrows sang through the air, punching holes in armor and flesh. Ice shards exploded against the palisade, sending wood splinters flying like shrapnel that buried in arms and legs, drawing blood and screams.
But the tide had turned.
Through the gap the elves had torn in the anterior gate, reinforcements poured in: men on foot, on horses, and on Rognarrs—metal helmets and dark green coats, military fashioned, their rifles slung hard and ready. They charged at the elves and the gallou, the Rognarrs leading the way—massive scaled bodies thudding the ground, jaws already dripping elf blood. Horses reared, wild eyes white with battle rage, but pushed forward into the fight.
The reinforcements crashed into the elven lines brutal, no mercy. Rognarrs flanked, jaws clamping down on elf thighs and torsos, crunching bone in wet snaps, ripping limbs free in sprays of red that painted the snow. One elf archer loosed an arrow that took a soldier in the throat; blood bubbled as he fell, clutching the shaft, gurgling until a comrade bayoneted the elf through the eye socket—brain matter leaking out the back of his skull in grey and pink clumps.
Men followed, rifles cracking sharp, lead balls smashing through elven shields, punching chests open, hearts bursting in red mist. Bayonets thrust deep, twisting in bellies, pulling out loops of steaming intestine that slapped wet on the ground, stinking of shit and death. One soldier roared as he gutted an elf; the pointy-eared fuck staggered back, hands trying to hold his guts in, but slipped on ice and blood, falling where a Rognarr pounced—claws raking his face, peeling skin and muscle to bone, eyes bursting under pressure, blood streaming down ruined cheeks.
Through the chaos came a man riding a Rognarr—average size, not the biggest, but the aura around him cut through the noise like a blade through silk. He rode straight, dark green cloak with 3 red straps on the shoulders billowing, black boots and trousers, black shirt, spine rigid as iron. Behind him, another wave of his men poured in, forming lines quick, shouting orders that sliced the chaos. The villagers, ragged at first, found their footing—hope sparking like flint on steel.
The man dismounted, boots thudding heavy in the mud. He yanked off his helmet, revealing his face: tall, probably six-four or more, clean 90° fade buzz cut, a severe mustache, amber eyes that seemed to catalog every corpse on the field in a single glance.
Hector felt something twitch in his memory. Where have I seen this guy?
The man surveyed the fight and the walls, his voice deep and carrying: "I am Commander Alfred, leading reinforcements from the Fort We have orders to hold Edgawter and push these animals back. The other eight villages are hit too and more forces ride to them. We take no more ground today. Form up and drive them out!we need All the possible forces forward men, boys, whoever can hold weapons"
Soldiers roared, surging forward. Rognarrs flanked, tearing into elf lines. Alfred remounted, drew a heavy axe with runes glowing faint blue, and charged. His beast bellowed, claws ripping earth, blade swinging in precise arcs—taking an elf's head clean off, neck stump jetting blood high, body dropping knees-first then face-down in snow. Another elf tried to cast an ice spear; Alfred's axe cleaved his arm at the elbow, the limb flying still clutching the staff, blood fountaining. The elf screamed until the Rognarr bit his shoulder, crunching collarbone, dragging him down, jaws closing on throat, ripping it out in a wet tear.
Hector watched from the kitchen doorway—what remained of it. The gallou's charge had reduced the wall to splintered timber and plaster dust. He stood between Kardinal and Charlotte, his small hand clutching his mother's sleeve, the adrenaline making his legs shake like reeds.
Kardinal stared at the commander, then let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. "That's Al. That motherfucker is Al—my old mate from training days. Him, Comotanos, Morley—we trained together back when the Empire still had proper barracks." He shook his head, wonder and grief mixing in his voice. "Look how big and tall that dickhead got. Climbed ranks faster than we did. What a good man. Solid as a horse cock."
He got a sharp back-slap on his neck from Charlotte.
"AYGGHHH!"
"My bad, love. My bad."
As the elves wavered, ranks thinning under the assault, their screams and gallou rearing—pierced by bolts, riders falling, crushed under their own mounts—one beast collapsed, blood gushing from its neck, its elf pinned, screaming until a soldier bayoneted his mouth, silencing him forever. The crystal staff hummed, building power, but rockets streaked from launchers, blooming bright, shattering the caster's body, bursting him into chunks that rained down steaming on snow.
Alfred directed with calm precision, pointing, his rifle in one hand picking off casters—heads exploding in red mist. By late noon, the elves cracked, retreating, ragged white cloaks red-stained, gallou fleeing to the treeline, horns blowing retreat frantic. The reinforcements pursued short, cutting down stragglers—bayonets plunging deep, twisting, widening wounds, gore coating blades. One elf begged, knees in snow, but a Rognarr crushed his chest, ribs snapping inward, lungs bursting, blood foaming from his mouth.
Alfred called out: "Hold the walls! We keep what we have! These things will lick their wounds tonight."
Kardinal hugged Charlotte tight. "I'm glad we're alive. I'm so glad, love." Tears cut clean lines through the soot on his face.
Hector was being sandwiched between them, his face pressed against his father's coat, smelling of gunpowder and sweat and the iron tang of blood. He wiggled free, gasping for air that didn't taste like other people's deaths.
His sketchbook. He needed his sketchbook—the one thing that connected him to Cevver's old life, to a world where problems had solutions you could draw diagrams for. He scrambled through the wreckage of the kitchen, past the splintered table, into what remained of the main room. The roof sagged dangerously, but his bedroom corner was still partially intact. He dug under his bed—still there, still dry, the leather cover barely scuffed.
He clutched it to his chest and turned back to find his parents.
They weren't embracing anymore. They stood in the ruins of their home, shoulders slumped, faces grey in the fading light—watching the battle wind down with the hollow eyes of people who had already lost too much.
The fight dragged into evening. Elves sniped from the trees, arrows finding marks, soldiers falling, clutching shafts, blood pooling in the snow. Rognarrs charged the brush, emerging with limbs in their jaws, shaking trophies. Alfred moved along the wall, directing fire, his silhouette black against the failing sun.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The elves were gone and faded into the forest, leaving the field littered with bodies: human and elf and beast mixed in frozen piles, snow stained red and mud, the stench of the dead rising like a physical weight.
Villagers emerged slowly from the ruins of their houses. Other women—Maura, Gerda—moved toward what remained of the Freeman cottage, calling down to the cellar where their children had hidden. Hector heard the hatch creak open, heard the muffled sobs and relieved cries as mothers pulled their babies into the twilight.
Charlotte and Kardinal moved through their ruined house in silence. The walls were cracked, the roof sagging, most of it destroyed by fireballs and gallou charges—turned into an unlivable, blackened shell. Charlotte sifted through debris, hands soot-black, finding a pot, a spoon, then a small blanket—frayed but whole.
Then she found the wooden crib. Splintered, one leg broken, but still recognizable.
A voice broke thick from her throat: "Hector... that's your blanket. And your crib. From when you were a baby." She clutched them to her chest, sobs shaking her shoulders. "There's barely anything that survived."
Hector stood beside her, his hand finding hers. He was moments away from breaking—Cevver's sensitivity, the part of him that had never been able to handle gore, rising like bile in his throat. He'd seen enough death for two lifetimes today. His hands slowly rose to clutch his head. He took a deep breath, let it out in a long puff, trying to calm the spinning behind his eyes.
Charlotte knelt, her tears making clean lines through the dirt on her face. "Not just things, Hector. Those were memories. I valued them most. That was your crib. Our home. Everything we built is gone because of those bastards." She pressed the blanket to her chest, rocking slightly. "Oh, God... why's it always us who have to suffer the most? What have we done wrong?"
Kardinal stood apart, clutching his head, watching in despair that wasn't a good sign—Hector had never seen his father look so small. The other women came to take their children from the cellar, one by one, leading them past the Freemans without words.
Abraham emerged last, rushing toward Hector. "Hector! Hector, holy—are you alright?"
Hector didn't know what to say. He clutched his sketchbook tight, knuckles white. "Welp... as you see, everything is destroyed. Of course I'm not alright." He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, hollow and wrong. "I think you should return to your mom and dad. Help them out."
Abraham's face twisted—confused, worried, hurt. "Uh... oh. Then... see you later, Hector?"
"I guess."
"You guess?"
"Blla, just go. This is not the time. Don't you see our house is crumbled?"
The name slipped out—Blla, Ibrahim's nickname from another life. Abraham blinked, not understanding, but the sharpness in Hector's voice sent him backing away, retreating toward his own parents' calls.
Hector watched him go, then looked down at his sketchbook. The cover was warm from his grip. Inside were drawings: the village, the Rognarrs, Mutt's dumb face. Evidence that he had existed here, that some part of Cevver had survived the fire and come through to this world.
He wasn't sure that was comfort anymore.
By night, things settled somewhat. Villagers and soldiers gathered the dead. Human bodies were laid in rows, cloaks used to cover their faces. The dead elves were piled separately—blood and flesh, the smell awful. Captured elves, few and alive—maybe ten—sat with bound wrists in the snow, guarded, sullen faces bruised and bloodied. One was missing an ear, probably bitten off by a Rognarr or taken by an axe.
Hector watched the cleanup from the doorway, his sketchbook forgotten in his hands, his parents silent behind him in the ruins of everything they'd built.