The morning was not like any other. The air was restless, sharp, filled with the cries of men gathering, women whispering, children clinging. Horses snorted, their hooves striking dust into clouds. And in the square of Baibars, where only yesterday people had gathered to condemn their chief, the people now gathered to survive.
Oisla stood close to his father, his small hand swallowed by Dael's rough one. His eyes darted toward the bullock cart waiting at the edge of the square, covered with canvas and padded with blankets. It was the women's cart, hastily prepared to carry mothers, daughters, and grandmothers out of the village.
His mother, Leira, held his shoulders and pressed her lips against his forehead. "Stay close to your father," she whispered. "Don't let go. No matter what you see, Oisla, do not let go."
Her voice trembled though her eyes stayed strong. Oisla wanted to argue, to beg her not to leave him, but the words stuck. His grandmother Mara was already seated in the cart, her wrinkled hands clutching her walking stick like a weapon.
"Don't worry, boy," she said, forcing a smile that carried more weight than hope. "Your father will keep you safe. I'll see you again before you've even grown taller."
The cart lurched forward, oxen grunting, the wheels squealing against stone. Oisla ran a few steps after it, his chest burning, but his father's arm pulled him back.
"They'll be safer away from the roads," Dael said firmly, his eyes fixed on the horizon where smoke already curled like dark fingers into the sky.
The road south was thick with chaos. Families fled with whatever they could carry: bundles on their backs, babies in their arms, carts overloaded with sacks of grain and memories too heavy to abandon. Cows lowed nervously, goats bleated, dogs barked. The voices of the villagers blended into a single note of fear.
And then came the thunder.
At first, Oisla thought it was the storm. But storms did not scream. Storms did not laugh. Storms did not burn.
The Nordits had arrived.
They came from the north like a tide of iron, their armor blackened with soot, their axes glinting cruelly in the dim light. Their banners, painted with wolves, snapped in the wind. The ground shook beneath the pounding of their boots.
Oisla clutched his father's hand tighter.
The first house fell before them like a dry leaf—set aflame with a torch, its roof cracking as fire swallowed it whole. The screams of its occupants cut through the air as steel met flesh.
"Keep your eyes down," Dael muttered, pulling Oisla into a narrow alley. But Oisla couldn't. His gaze snagged on everything—the man who staggered out of his burning doorway only to be cut down mid-step; the woman clutching a child, her mouth open in a silent scream before she vanished under the swing of a sword; the goat bolting wild-eyed through the chaos, flames licking at its hide.
The world Oisla knew was dissolving into ash and blood.
They moved through the alleys, hugging shadows, weaving between abandoned carts and fallen bodies. Dael's grip never faltered, his steps certain even as death painted the road ahead. But Oisla's legs trembled with every stride. His ears rang with the clash of steel and the shrieks of the dying.
At one corner, he saw a boy his own age. The boy's face was pale, smeared with soot, his hands pressed against the wound in his stomach. He reached out as Oisla passed, eyes wide with desperate plea.
"Father—" Oisla whispered, tugging Dael's arm.
Dael shook his head once, his jaw locked. "We cannot stop."
The boy's eyes followed Oisla until the corner swallowed him, and Oisla felt a hollow crack inside his chest. He wanted to scream, to help, to do anything—but he was only thirteen, and his legs could barely carry him.
The Nordits grew closer. Their howls pierced the smoke, their laughter twisted. Oisla could see them now, streaked with blood, their eyes glinting with the madness of victory. One swung his axe into the chest of a villager, then kicked the body aside as if it were nothing more than a sack of hay.
Dael pushed Oisla into the shelter of a collapsed wall. "Stay here. Don't move."
But Oisla couldn't stay still. His breath came too fast, his chest too tight. He peeked through the gap in the stones and saw another house burning, flames curling upward until the sky itself seemed to bleed. A mother stumbled out, her dress aflame, screaming her child's name.
Oisla pressed his fist against his mouth, choking on bile.
"Father," he whispered, trembling. "Why are they doing this?"
Dael's eyes softened, though his face stayed stern. "Because they know no better. Because greed blinds men. Don't look, son. Just keep moving."
But Oisla did look. He looked when an old man fell to his knees, begging for mercy, only to be struck down. He looked when the Nordits dragged a girl by her hair into the street. He looked when the river that once ran clear now carried streaks of red.
Every sight carved itself into him, each wound invisible but deep. His legs carried him forward, but his mind was splintering. The smell of smoke clung to his hair, his clothes, his skin. It filled his lungs until he thought he would drown in it.
They ran past the temple, its door broken, its altar overturned. Statues lay shattered, their stone faces cracked in silent horror. Dael spat, pulling Oisla onward.
The roads narrowed, and the cries grew fainter. For a moment, there was silence. Only the crackle of distant fire, only the rasp of their breath.
Oisla collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking. "I can't… I can't keep going."
Dael knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders. "You can. You must. Do you hear me? You are a Faverish. You carry the blood of those who do not break. You will not break, Oisla."
Tears streaked Oisla's cheeks, hot and endless. "But everyone's dying. The houses… the people…"
Dael's voice cracked, but he steadied it. "Yes. And it will haunt you. But you live, son. You live so their memory is not forgotten. You live because one day, you will need to stand where I stand now."
Oisla nodded weakly, though the words felt heavier than his bones could bear.
As they moved farther, they crossed paths with a family running the other way. The father clutched a spear, his face streaked with ash; the mother carried a child limp in her arms. Their eyes met Dael's for the briefest moment, and in that silent exchange was a truth Oisla understood even at thirteen: not all of them would survive.
He wanted to ask about his mother, about Mara, about whether the bullock cart had made it through. But the words caught. If he asked, he would know the answer. And if he knew, he might break.
So he stayed silent, his father's hand gripping his tightly as they pressed deeper into the night, carrying only their shadows and their scars.
The fires behind them lit the horizon, turning the sky into a furnace. Baibars, his home, the fields he had run through, the oak tree where he had laughed with his friends—it was all burning. The laughter of yesterday was ash in his mouth.
Oisla Faverish did not cry anymore. The tears had dried, leaving behind something harder. Something jagged.
The night did not end. Not truly. For even when dawn came, Oisla knew the fire would keep burning inside him forever.