PART V: The Battle of BlackwaterSwamps
On a rainy night in the Blackwater Swamps—which stretched endlessly along the eastern borders of the kingdom of Lavat—hollow trees creaked as the wind struck them. When the moon shone its brightest, the sound of muddy footsteps could be heard. Imperial foot soldiers advanced as fast as they could, trying to avoid falling into the murky depths where many before them had unknowingly sunk.
A young man, not even in his teens, wore chainmail armor and a steel-capped helmet. He held a wooden shield bound with steel along the edges in his left hand and a short sword in his right—a blade used in many battles by foot soldiers before him, chipped at every edge and barely usable. His face was hidden beneath a layer of mud, pushed into it when he was handed his armory and thrown into battle—just as all foot soldiers were by their commanders.
Carefully, he navigated the swamps, obeying a simple order from his commander—to conquer the enemy camp atop the hill beyond the wetlands. He placed his sword into the ground before each step, using it to gauge the mud's depth. Around him, stretching ahead and behind, was an endless horde of foot soldiers. All were armed with poor-quality weapons and the same chainmail armor that, as the boy would soon discover, was utterly useless on this front.
Beyond the murky expanse of the Blackwater Swamps, the hill rose sharply, crowned by a fortress-like encampment aglow with flickering torchlight. From below, the advancing soldiers could just make out the silhouettes of fortified wooden palisades and watchtowers etched against the cloudy night sky. Rows of sharpened stakes jutted from the muddy slopes like teeth, promising pain and death to any who approached unprepared.
Flanking the incline, dense tangles of thorny vines curled around gnarled, leafless trees whose twisted branches reached skyward like skeletal hands, casting eerie shadows in the pale moonlight. Beneath the hilltop defenses, trenches carved into the soaked earth were reinforced with logs and sandbags, forming brutal barricades where archers and crossbowmen waited with patient, lethal focus.
At the summit, tall flags snapped in the wind—faded banners bearing the emblem of the kingdom of Lavat. Bonfires blazed atop stone-lined platforms, sending glowing embers into the dark sky and illuminating armored knights who strode confidently along the battlements. Occasionally, bursts of laughter and harsh commands echoed downward—a chilling mockery of the carnage below.
To those who looked up from the swamp, the hill seemed less like a strategic position and more like a grim altar—an unholy monument to war, built on the bones of the fallen, its very soil drenched in blood and sorrow.
By the time they neared the edge of the swamps and saw tall green grass ahead, the wetlands had already claimed hundreds. Some had drowned; others had fallen sick from mud seeping into their wounds. As the soldiers regrouped for the attack, stepping onto solid ground, they were suddenly greeted by fire arrows.
The arrows arced through the night air, trailing sparks, before igniting the dry grass—and the hundreds of men who stood in it.
The young boy was still in the grass when he saw his comrades—the elder who had shared his food ration, a strong man who looked like a stonemason, and another who had said he was once a farmer—all engulfed in flames. They had been cleaning their leather boots of mud to march forward.
He watched in horror as their skin melted and their screams pierced the night. Archers atop the hill laughed and mocked the agony below.
Terrified, the boy turned back, pushing into the swamps, trying to flee. Around him, however, most foot soldiers—apart from a few—marched toward the fire without hesitation, obeying the suicidal order.
Struggling through the muck between two massive pools of swamp water, he stumbled over a dead comrade's body. A miner nearby saw him fall and helped him up, pulling him by the armpit.
The miner wiped mud from the boy's face and shouted, "Where are you going, boy? Do you want your family to carry the debt of a hundred gold to the Empire, huh? Can your family buy twenty horses? If not, then don't turn back—run forward toward your death, boy, and let your family live with a hundred yearly gold! That's why you volunteered, right? Because your family needs it? If not, then go ahead—run back to them and work the rest of your life. Maybe your children will work too, just to pay off your cowardice!"
But the young boy didn't hear a word. His eyes were fixed on the flames consuming the people he had met—their lives reduced to ash.
He saw others scooping mud and swamp water into their steel helmets, throwing it onto the burning grass to make way for the charge toward the hilltop camp—heavily defended by archers, crossbowmen, and even knights of Lavat, the kingdom's elite troops.
Frustrated, the miner grabbed the boy's face, forcing eye contact. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!"
But then he paused. In the boy's face, he saw his own ten-year-old son at home.
His voice softened. "Go. But don't return to the camp. Head somewhere else. Run to another kingdom. Abandon your armor and weapons. If you're missing, your family will still get the gold. Go."
The boy nodded and turned—not back to camp, but eastward. He aimed for the forest beyond the front lines. Rumor said anyone who entered that forest never returned. But he had made up his mind: he would vanish from his siblings' lives so that his five-year-old sister could use the gold to buy medicine.
Two days later, his legs were numb. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since he left. He had discarded his armor, sword, and helmet, wearing only his leather clothes and boots.
At last, he heard the gentle sound of moving water—slow but steady. He ran toward it and found the Red River, the famous one that flowed from the northern sea all the way south through the forest and across the empire's western edges.
He dropped to his knees and drank directly, his hands muddy. Then he stripped, washed himself and his clothes, letting the cool current soothe his sunburned skin and parched throat. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to rest, letting the water wash away the grime and horror of war.
As he prepared to leave, he noticed fish swimming in the shallows. Desperate for food, he tried to catch them, but his clumsy hands scared them off. Frustration built as his stomach cramped from hunger. Each lunge at the water came up empty.
Then—footsteps.
A small group approached—four or five people.
As he grabbed his clothes to flee, one of them called out, "Easy, boy! We just want to fill our pouches. You can fish all you want."
He froze, then turned slowly. "I couldn't fish even if I wanted to. I've been trying for hours."
The men stepped into view—young, laughing at his failure. They looked like hunters, equipped with bows, quivers, and hunting knives. One peeled an orange casually.
As he crouched beside the riverbank, the leader glanced back at one of his men, who gave a subtle nod—almost imperceptible. It passed quickly, but the young boy noticed.
Their leader approached and extended a hand. "Need help?"
Then he asked, "What's your name, boy?"
The boy responded, "Bewolf."
The leader raised an eyebrow. "Your family must've loved the late emperor, naming you after him."
Bewolf's eyes darkened. "My mother named me after him because he avenged my father's murder. A thief killed him trying to steal from our cattle. My father fought him off, not knowing the thief had a knife. He was stabbed in the throat... and died before the night patrol could arrive."
The leader looked away, guilt creeping into his expression—or maybe something else. "I'm sorry. Your father was a good man. Your mother was brave to name you after the emperor—he was hated by many, except those who needed his justice."
"I heard stories," Bewolf said. "They say the thief was skinned alive. Salted water and rosemary were poured over the wounds. His fingers were cut off. Then he was kept alive before being publicly executed. They say he laughed and thanked the executioner while dying."
Another man stepped closer. "He did. My uncle was the executioner. Told me the same story."
The leader smiled faintly but didn't laugh. "So, boy, why are you here, fishing in this river? You're not from around here. The criminal was executed in the empire's northern region. What brings you all the way west to Lavat's border?"
"I got lost," Bewolf replied. "I was with merchants delivering goods to the Blackwater Swamps war front."
This time, the laughter stopped entirely. The leader's expression sharpened just slightly. He exchanged a longer glance with one of his men—this one not disguised.
"That front isn't public knowledge," he said after a pause. "Only imperial commanders and soldiers know of it." His eyes narrowed. "And you're no commander."
That was when Bewolf realized something was wrong.
He threw the fish at the man's face and bolted.
Laughter rang out behind him—not surprised laughter, but something darker.
He heard one of them shout, "Told you! Pay up!"
Coins clinked.
Then a net flew through the air, and in a blink, it tangled around him—his arms pinned, legs caught beneath heavy cords.
He hit the ground hard, mud splashing into his mouth as he struggled.
He wasn't unconscious.
He was wide awake.
But no matter how hard he twisted or kicked, the ropes only tightened. All he could do was watch, breathing heavily, as the boots of his captors approached through the grass.
"Let me go! Please! I don't want to go back!" the boy cried.
The leader crouched beside him. "Sorry, boy. Orders from the imperial twins—any deserter is to be brought before them for judgment."
They tied his hands and legs with thick rope, then mounted their horses and began the journey back to the war camp where the twins resided.
As hooves beat the dirt beneath them, a chilling thought sank into Bewolf's heart: imperial law gave deserters two choices—slavery in the stone mines for life, or returning to the front lines until their debt of a hundred gold was repaid in confirmed kills.
Each ear or head taken from an enemy was worth ten gold.
His stomach twisted.
Neither path offered hope of seeing his siblings again.
Part VI: Deserter's Fate
"My name is Loa. I'm the leader of this bounty hunter group," the man said from atop his horse. He handed a waterskin to young Bewolf, who lay limp across a saddle, too weak to move from thirst. They were riding north, following the river trail back toward the imperial front—toward the twins' camp.
As Bewolf greedily drank, he gasped between gulps, "Please… you don't understand what's happening on the front. This isn't a battle we can win. We're being thrown in just to die. Our only real purpose is to report which path is safer for the actual army of the Empire."
Loa didn't flinch. "That's not really my concern, young Bewolf. I was paid to do a job—and I'm going to finish it. Same as you were... before you deserted."
"I volunteered," Bewolf said. "For the Empire. And for my sister's medicine." He gritted his teeth, voice cracking. "But that wasn't a war. That was a massacre. Innocent men, elders—they were used and discarded. I saw a man who could've been my grandfather burn alive in a trap laid by the Lavantines. When I turned to look at our commander, he stood there—unmoved. Like he knew it would happen."
A moment of silence followed.
Then one of the bounty hunters riding beside them leaned in and kicked Bewolf in the head, knocking him off balance. He slumped to the side, groaning.
"We didn't ask for details," the man growled. "We don't want to know. We've got families too. We're not dying for the twins—no more than you are."
Loa slowed his horse and reached down. He grabbed Bewolf by the back of his shirt and hoisted him effortlessly, dropping him across the back of his saddle.
"Boy, your fate's not ours to decide. By imperial decree, you get two choices: a lifetime of slavery in the stone mines, or back to the battlefield until you pay your debt in blood. Either way, make your peace with it before we reach camp."
The sun had begun to dip behind clouds, casting long shadows as they followed the Red River north. The sound of the imperial camp ahead crept into earshot: shouting, hammers clanging, carts being moved across mud.
As they approached, Loa signaled his men. They rode through the perimeter checkpoint and presented their credentials—wooden necklaces carved with the phrase Imperial Bounty Hunters. The guards nodded, unimpressed, and let them through.
They made their way toward the twins' command tent.
Along the path, Bewolf looked around, absorbing everything with weary, sunken eyes. Men sharpening weapons. Others repairing broken carts. A few guards throwing dice near a wet campfire.
Then, as they neared the center, he saw him—a giant of a man, lifting barrels from the mud and stacking supply crates like they were nothing. His white, pupil-less eyes were unmistakable. It was Tazan.
Further ahead, just outside the twins' tent, a young boy with golden-brown hair and sea-blue eyes was bent low, digging a long trench with a rusted spade. He looked younger than Bewolf. The boy's face was pale, hands blistered from labor.
it was Nex.
Loa dismounted and entered the twins' tent, leaving his bounty hunters outside with the prisoners. He returned shortly after, carrying a heavy pouch of gold and silver. Without a word, he handed the rope binding Bewolf to Abigail.
She didn't drag him harshly—instead, she led him gently, but with the kind of calm that made it worse.
She brought him toward the trench where Nex rested, and stood him alongside two other captured deserters.
One was a wild-eyed madman, muttering to himself—his sanity shattered by what he'd seen at the Blackwater Swamps.
The other was an elderly man, accused of stealing weapons from fallen comrades to sell back home.
Bewolf, tired and grim-faced, stood between them.
Abigail called out with a soft voice: "Tazan. Actaeon. Nex. Come here."
Tazan dropped the crate he was lifting and strode over. Actaeon came with the infant still in his arms. Nex followed last, wiping dirt from his forehead with a shaking hand.
Abigail spoke again, her tone almost gentle:
"Execute them."
There was silence.
Then: "No!" Tazan shouted. "It's against imperial law to execute them without trial. Deserters must be given a choice—slavery or a return to the front."
Actaeon added, "They still have rights, even now."
Alexander, who had been standing behind the tent's flap, stepped forward. His voice dripped with disgust.
"Rights? My sister is showing them mercy, and you dare object?"
He unsheathed his massive two-handed sword, its steel gleaming in the firelight.
With one swift movement, he beheaded the madman, blood spraying across the trench's edge.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" he growled. "And look—no lightning struck me. No imperial knights burst from the woods to drag me away. We are the law here. Our father gave us full authority over this front. We do what we deem right."
The elderly thief collapsed to his knees, sobbing, begging for a second chance to fight.
"I'll return to the front! Let me die with honor! Please!"
As for Bewolf, he didn't beg. He looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, and said quietly:
"I am ready."
Alexander smiled and reached for a nearby short sword. He tossed it toward Nex.
"Give him mercy, Servus," he said mockingly, using Nex's slave name—the identity they had forced upon him, stripping away any memory of who he truly was.
Nex bent down and picked up the blade.
It felt cold.
He had trained with it before. Sparring, drills, thousands of repetitions under imperial command.
But this moment wasn't training.
His fingers trembled around the hilt.
The blade was suddenly heavier than he remembered.
He looked at Bewolf—cracked lips, raw bruises, hollow eyes filled with pain.
Not a criminal.
Not a threat.
Just a boy, barely older than him.
A boy the Empire had chewed up and spat out.
And now they wanted Nex to end him.
Not in defense.
Not on a battlefield.
But because two imperial royals said so.
His legs locked. His shoulders tightened.
The sword in his hand vibrated with hesitation.
He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't here by choice.
He was a slave, forced to carry out the will of his brother and sister—two children wrapped in silk and armor, playing judge and executioner.
And his father, the Emperor, had given them this unchecked power… and never once looked back to see how they used it.
That was the truth.
It wasn't about duty.
It was about abuse.
It was about who gets to decide who matters.
And the ones who did?
Didn't even flinch when they used their boots to press others into the dirt.
Abigail stood nearby, watching—not with cruelty, but with something worse: curiosity.
A glint in her eyes, subtle, intentional.
She was testing him.
Not his skill.
His obedience.
Alexander, irritated, raised his sword again, stepping forward—ready to carry out his threat to harm Nex's friends.
But Abigail lifted her hand, graceful and composed, and stopped him with a small smile—like a noblewoman feeding stray dogs.
In the thick silence, Bewolf screamed.
"Do it! Release me from this!
You coward!
You're no soldier—you're a disgrace!
I'm begging you… just make it quick!"
Nex's lips parted slightly.
But his voice failed him.
His body felt as if it were trapped in stone.
Then—an arrow flew.
It struck Bewolf cleanly through the left eye.
He collapsed backward into the trench Nex had dug with his own hands.
Nex didn't turn to look.
He didn't need to.
He knew it was Actaeon.
The old thief fell to his knees, eyes wide and terrified.
Tazan took a step forward—ready, but not eager. He reached down toward the ground for a weapon.
But before his fingers could wrap around the hilt of anything—
Thwip.
A second arrow shot forward. Clean. Deadly.
It pierced the old man's throat.
The thief dropped, gurgling into silence, his body joining Bewolf's in the trench.
Behind them, Actaeon's bow trembled in his grip, even after the string had gone slack.
His breathing was heavy. His face was stone. But in his eyes burned something he couldn't yet speak aloud—rage.
Not just at the twins.
At himself. For not speaking sooner. For not stopping this madness. For letting it get this far.
Tazan, standing nearby, released a quiet breath.
He didn't say a word, but a flicker of relief crossed his face.
He hadn't wanted to kill the old man.
And now… he didn't have to.
Alexander turned to Nex, eyes narrow with disgust.
"If you won't kill a deserter," he spat, "then kill a slave instead."
But Abigail's hand rose again. She was still watching Nex—not with anger, not with kindness, but with something colder.
Assessment.
"No," she said softly. "Nex has another task now."
She nodded toward the trench.
"Bury the dead."
Nex nodded. Once.
And so he did.
He stepped into the grave he had unknowingly prepared.
And with his bare hands, he began to cover the bodies with soil.
From that day on, Nex changed.
Not because he had killed.
But because he had refused to.
Because he had seen what power does—
Not in stories. Not in drills. But in the faces of those it crushed.
Because he had watched his own brother and sister tremble on the necks of the voiceless, simply because they could.
And because now, he knew:
He could no longer lift a sword without it slipping.
Not from fear.
But from the unbearable knowledge that one day,
they might ask him to do it again.
And next time…
they might not let him hesitate.
"One day, I will bury them too," Nex—the Prince of Death—vowed, as he threw soil over the dead, pausing only to wipe away his tears.