William's footsteps echoed on the muddy road, steady and hollow.
The half-eaten bread weighed like stone in his hands, though it was light as air. His mother's words followed him with every step:
Go. Live. For both of us.
He tried to believe he was doing just that — walking forward, not looking back — but the world behind him still clung to his heels.
Then the scream came.
It tore through the air, sharp enough to split the morning open. William turned. Smoke bled up from the rooftops — black and hungry. Then came the thunder of hooves, the clash of steel, the shrieks of people running for their lives.
"Raiders!" someone shouted.
The quiet village he'd always known erupted into chaos. Soldiers in dented armor sprinted through the streets, dragging frightened men from doorways. At the center of the storm stood a general — a giant in a tattered red cloak, his face streaked with soot and command.
"You!" he barked, pointing at a cluster of boys — William among them. "You've got arms. You fight with us now — or die when the enemy comes!"
William froze.
Only moments ago, he'd been a thief. A son. A boy with nothing but a promise.
Now, fate shoved a sword into his hands and called it destiny.
"Gather everyone!" the general roared. "Any who can fight — to the square! The rest, stay and pray you survive the fire!"
The villagers stumbled into the open. Mothers clutched children. Old men leaned on trembling canes. Smoke rolled across the ground, wrapping them all in the stench of fear.
William's heart pounded. He wanted to run — to throw down the sword and find his mother, to drag her somewhere safe. But her words weighed on him like chains:
Go. Live. For both of us.
The enemy's warhorns cried in the distance, low and mournful, like the voice of the world itself breaking apart.
He took one step forward. Then another.
And before he knew it, he was marching — with soldiers, with strangers, with the doomed — into the fire that would decide what kind of man he was meant to become.