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Lothar awoke with a gasp, his body drenched in cold sweat. The sharp stench of unwashed bodies and rotting refuse filled his nose, the ever-present scent of the slums. His bed—a pile of tattered cloth and straw—shifted beneath him as he pushed himself upright, his breath coming in ragged gulps. Around him, the narrow alley where he slept was still cloaked in the pre-dawn gloom. Rats skittered between piles of discarded scraps, their tiny claws clicking against the damp cobblestones. In the distance, the city stirred—muffled voices, the clang of distant hammers, the bark of stray dogs fighting over a bone.
Above, the looming walls of the city proper rose like a fortress of wealth and privilege, their stone untouched by the filth that clung to the streets below.
The slums stretched beneath them like a festering wound, where the poor and desperate clung to life. Crumbling wooden shacks leaned against each other for support, their sagging roofs riddled with holes. The alley was narrow, barely enough space for a man to walk without brushing against the damp, grime-covered walls. Smoke curled lazily from scattered fire pits, where vagrants huddled for warmth against the biting chill of the night.
Lothar pressed a trembling hand to his face, trying to shake the lingering grip of the nightmare. But unfortunately, it was not just a dream. It was his past.
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The village burned.
Smoke choked the sky, thick and suffocating, twisting into the cold night air as flames devoured thatched roofs and wooden homes. The scent of charred flesh mingled with the acrid stench of burning timber. Screams echoed between the trees, sharp with terror, swallowed by the roar of fire and the clash of steel. Lothar huddled in the shadows, his small frame pressed against the ruins of his home, his fingers curled into the dirt. He dared not breathe too loud. He dared not move, as he knew it. The moment he was caught, it was over.
The raiders moved like specters through the carnage, their armor reflecting the hellish glow of the inferno. Mercenaries—not just bandits, but warriors hired for slaughter. Maybe some of them were even adventurers. F ranked maybe.
They cut down men and women alike, their blades flashing in the firelight, cleaving flesh from bone. A woman, her ragged dress soaked in crimson, staggered forward, reaching for a child. A sword licked out, slashing deep into her back, and she crumpled, her last breath stolen by the blood pooling beneath her.
A young man, no older than sixteen, raised a rusted pitchfork in defiance. His hands, trembling, his face slick with sweat and soot. The raider before him sneered and swung his axe low, severing the boy's legs at the knees.
He hit the ground with a choked cry, scrabbling at the dirt, his body convulsing in shock. The mercenary stepped over him and brought the blade down again, splitting his skull with a sickening crunch.
Lothar clamped his hands over his mouth to silence the whimper rising in his throat. He had to be quiet. He had to be still.
The flames crackled hungrily, their orange glow casting flickering shadows against the blood-soaked earth. Lost in tragedy occurring before his own eyes, he was brought back to reality when a shadow was cast upon him.
A figure loomed before him, cloaked in blackened steel, the gleam of an axe resting at his side. His helm bore the sigil of a wolf, its eyes hollow pits of darkness.
"Check the ruins. Leave no survivors," the man growled, his voice rough, void of mercy.
Lothar bit his lip until he tasted blood. He was small. He was weak. He could not fight them.
But he could run.
The moment the warrior turned, Lothar bolted. His bare feet barely made a sound against the scorched earth as he darted between broken carts and smoldering beams. The night stretched before him, vast and empty, the forest just beyond the outskirts of the village whispering a promise of escape.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Pain exploded in his side as something heavy crashed into him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He gasped, clutching his ribs as rough hands yanked him upright. A man sneered down at him, his face smeared with soot, his breath stinking of ale and blood.
"Got a live one here!" he called out.
Lothar struggled, but the grip on his arm tightened. He was dragged forward, through the wreckage, past the bodies of people he had known, of people he had loved.
A man lay against a splintered cart, his intestines spilling from a jagged wound across his belly, his unseeing eyes reflecting the burning sky. A woman's severed hand still clutched at a crude knife, fingers frozen in a death grip. A child, no older than five, lay motionless, her body half-crushed beneath a fallen beam.
The fires raged on, crackling like laughter, as the night swallowed his screams.
"A groan of collapsing wood split the air. One of the homes buckled—and the mercenary yanked Lothar back just in time, cursing as the structure came crashing down between them."
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Lothar's breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled through the smoldering ruins of his village. The acrid scent of burning wood and flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating. He wanted to scream, to cry out for his mother, his father—but he knew better. The men who had done this were still near. He could hear them, laughing, their boots crunching over charred debris as they sifted through the wreckage like scavengers picking a corpse clean.
A guttural voice cut through the night.
"I'll say it again. Make sure none survive. The Lord wants no loose ends."
Lothar squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the wooden shard he had picked up from the ground—a poor weapon, but the only thing he had. His fingers ached, the splinters biting into his skin. He had to move. He had to find a way out.
A cry. Weak. Pain-filled.
Someone was alive.
He turned his head slightly, scanning the ruins. Behind a collapsed wagon, he found the source—a girl, barely older than him, trapped beneath a beam. Blood coated her face, her breaths shallow and uneven.
"Please," she whispered, eyes flickering open. "Help me."
Lothar hesitated. The mercenaries were close. If he tried to help her, he might be caught. If he left her, she would die.
He gritted his teeth. "Hold on."
He grabbed the beam and heaved. The girl whimpered as the weight shifted, freeing her leg. Just then, for the second time of the night, a shadow loomed over them.
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He was thrown into the dirt, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He couldn't even mount an attack as he was defeated.Around him, other children sat huddled together—a small, trembling group of survivors, their faces streaked with tears and a blank stare. Some clung to each other, others stared blankly at the ground, too numb to react.
The girl.
Lothar's gaze darted across the prisoners until he found her. She was slumped against a broken barrel, her breathing shallow, her wound still bleeding. The makeshift bandage on her leg was soaked through. If she didn't get help soon, she wouldn't last the night.
His hands curled into fists. Should he risk it? Would they even let him?
Before he could think, his body moved on its own. Crawling forward, he reached for a strip of cloth from his tattered tunic, his fingers trembling as he prepared to bind her wound.
"What do you think you're doing, rat?"
A boot crashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling onto his side. Lothar gasped as pain exploded through his body. A mercenary loomed over him, his scarred face twisted in a sneer. A look of realization dawned upon him. It was the same one that he ran away from.
"Filthy little wretch. You don't get to decide who lives or dies."
He raised his hand, the whip coiled at his belt coming loose.
Lothar braced himself. He had felt beatings before. But before the first strike landed, a voice cut through the night, cold and commanding.
"Enough."
The mercenary froze. The other captors turned as a figure stepped forward. Cloaked in blackened steel, his presence alone seemed to swallow the firelight. His helmet bore the sigil of a wolf, its cruel eyes staring into the night.
"Don't mistreat the merchandise. Put him into the special cage. The dark one."
Lothar was yanked to his feet, his aching body barely able to stand.
The mercenary looked at him, a disgusted look in his face.
" You are so lucky." He spat.
Lothar cast one last glance at the girl, her expression caught between pain and fear.
Then he was dragged away, toward a metal box and he had to stay there, into the darkness. His heart pounding, fear clouding his mind as he was going toward the unknown.