The stream cut through the village like a silver thread. Clear water spilled over smooth stones, glinting beneath the morning sun. Children's laughter carried across the fields, light and careless, as they splashed at one another with cupped hands.
Among them was a small girl with black hair tied into two uneven braids. Mira Han was only six years old, her cheeks round, her eyes sharp even when she smiled. She darted after a boy twice her size, stick in hand, shouting as if she were a warrior of legend.
The boy tripped her easily. Mira tumbled into the dirt, grass clinging to her clothes. For a moment she lay still, stunned. Then her small fists clenched. She pushed herself back up, dirt streaked across her face, and pointed her stick like a sword.
"I'll beat you next time!" she declared.
Her father, standing by the edge of the stream, chuckled. Han Jae-sun was a broad man, his hands calloused from years of swinging a hammer at the forge. He knelt beside Mira, brushing dirt from her hair.
"A warrior who falls and rises again," he said, voice deep and steady, "is stronger than one who never falls at all."
Mira grinned, holding her stick higher. "Then I'll keep falling until I win!"
Her mother, Lee Ah-young, watched from their home's doorway. She carried a basket of herbs and vegetables, her voice soft as she called, "Don't wear her out too much, Jae-sun. She still has chores to finish."
The man laughed, lifting Mira easily into his arms. She squealed and beat at his shoulder with her little stick, her laughter echoing with the others at the stream.
The village breathed with quiet life. Wooden houses dotted the banks of the water. Smoke rose gently from chimneys. Old men patched nets, young women spread cloth to dry, dogs barked lazily at chickens wandering too close.
It was a day like any other, as though nothing in the wide world could touch them.
That night, under the glow of fireflies, the adults gathered around the hearth. The children were told to sleep, but Mira lingered at the doorway, clutching her blanket.
"They say the stone giants still walk," an elder whispered, his wrinkled face drawn tight with fear.
"Nonsense," another scoffed. "Stone giants are old tales, nothing more."
"They were real once," a younger man muttered. "And if they return, no wall or sword will stop them."
Mira's eyes widened. She did not know what an "stone giant" was, only that it made grown men lower their voices and look toward the mountains.
Her father noticed her. "Back to bed," he said gently, carrying her to her mat.
"But, Papa," Mira whispered, "what's a stone giant?"
He smiled faintly, though his eyes were heavy. "A story," he said. "And stories cannot hurt you."
Mira closed her eyes, clinging to his words.
Outside, the stream kept flowing. The village of Ironland slept in peace, unaware that this night of warmth and laughter would one day be nothing but ash in Mira Han's memory.
The stream wound like a silver ribbon through the valley, carrying the songs of spring with it. Villagers said it was the heart of Ironland—gentle, constant, always flowing no matter the season. To Mira Han, it was her playground.
She crouched at the edge of the water, dipping her hands in until her fingertips wrinkled. The water was cold, and she squealed as she splashed it at the boy across from her.
"Hey!" the boy yelped, stumbling back. The others laughed, cheering Mira on.
"Victory to Mira!" one of the girls shouted, clapping her hands.
Mira puffed her cheeks proudly, but her moment was cut short when a shadow fell over her. Her father stood behind her, carrying a bundle of firewood on one shoulder.
"Training, not splashing," Jae-sun said with mock sternness. He set the wood down, then reached for the stick leaning against a rock. "Come. A warrior doesn't win with water."
The other children scattered as soon as they heard the word "training." They knew what came next: bruises, scrapes, and Mira trying again and again until she finally landed a blow.
She groaned, dragging her feet as she picked up her stick. "Do I have to today?"
Her father raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to be strong?"
"Yes."
"Then yes."
They moved to the grass beside the stream. Mira held her stick with both hands, squinting at her father's stance. His movements were slow, deliberate, made for her to follow. She swung clumsily, smacking his side. He barely flinched, grinning as he tapped her on the forehead with his own stick.
"Too wide," he said. "Tighter grip. Again."
Mira tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder. Fell into the grass, rolled over, then scrambled back up, cheeks flushed.
Her father chuckled. "That's the spirit. A warrior who rises after falling—"
"—is stronger than one who never falls at all!" Mira shouted, finishing his lesson before he could.
Jae-sun laughed, scooping her up. She dangled from his arms, her stick clattering to the ground. "And louder than one, too," he said, pressing his forehead against hers.
From the house, Ah-young shook her head with a smile. "If you break her arms before she learns to cook, Jae-sun, you'll do her chores yourself."
"Then I'll eat burnt rice with pride," he replied, carrying Mira to the doorstep.
The day stretched lazily. Smoke rose from chimneys as women prepared meals. Men worked at the forge or carried tools to the fields. Dogs barked at passing carts. Chickens scattered when Mira chased them with a stick, giggling.
That evening, the village gathered around a bonfire. Mira sat in her mother's lap, chewing roasted chestnuts. Sparks drifted into the night like tiny stars.
The elders began their stories, as they always did.
"Once, long ago," an old man rasped, "the earth shook and stone rose to walk upon the land. Giants of black rock. Their steps cracked rivers, their shadows devoured the sun. They were called the stone giants."
Mira tilted her head, chestnut halfway to her mouth.
"They said nothing. They wanted nothing. They only marched."
"Fairy tales," a younger man scoffed. "To scare children into behaving."
But another whispered, "My grandfather swore he saw one. A mountain with eyes. He said the ground itself trembled when it moved."
The fire popped. Silence followed. Mira clutched her mother's sleeve.
"What's a stone giant?" she whispered.
Her father leaned down, voice gentle. "Just a story, Mira. And stories can't hurt you."
She nodded slowly, but the flicker of firelight in his eyes told her he didn't fully believe his own words.
Later, as Mira lay in her mat, her mother stroked her hair.
"Dream of streams and sun," Ah-young murmured.
"Not of stones?" Mira asked sleepily.
Her mother hesitated, then kissed her forehead. "No, little one. Stones are heavy. You're light. Sleep."
Mira closed her eyes, listening to the stream's quiet song through the open window. She dreamed of racing across the water's surface, her stick held high, faster than anyone could catch her.
For that night, she was only a child.
Ashland was not soft like Ironland. Its soil was dry and cracked, its rivers thin and sluggish. The wind carried dust instead of cool mist, and the mountains surrounding it looked sharp enough to cut the sky.
Yet to Rin Takahiro, six years old, it was home.
He sat cross-legged beside a fire pit, squinting against the smoke. His small hands worked clumsily at tying reeds into a bundle. The old man beside him clicked his tongue.
"Too loose," the elder said, leaning closer. His name was Takahiro Gen, Rin's grandfather. His back was bent, his beard white, but his eyes burned as if no age could dull them.
Rin pouted, tugging at the reeds. "I tied it the same way you did."
"No. You rushed it. Ashland rewards patience, not speed."
Rin groaned. "But I want to go with the others. They're playing near the wall."
Gen smacked him lightly on the head with a stick. "And if you don't tie these properly, the roof leaks when rain comes. Will your friends patch it for you?"
"No…" Rin muttered.
"Then work."
The boy huffed, but obeyed. His fingers moved slower this time, careful to weave the strands tighter. Gen nodded approvingly.
"You see? Even stone bends when shaped with care. Remember this, Rin."
Rin's father, Takahiro Daichi, emerged from their hut carrying a bucket of water. His shoulders were broad, his expression steady, though his clothes bore the wear of hard labor. He ruffled Rin's hair as he passed.
"Let him play, Father," Daichi said. "He's still a child."
"And if we treat him like one forever, he'll break the first time life strikes him," Gen replied firmly.
Daichi chuckled, setting the bucket down. "And if we treat him only as a man, he'll forget what it means to dream."
Rin looked up at both of them, wide-eyed, unsure if he was supposed to smile or frown.
Daichi crouched, placing a hand on Rin's shoulder. "Do your work well, Rin. Then go and play. A man must know both."
Rin's frown turned into a grin. He tied the last reed carefully, lifted it high, and shouted, "Finished!" before darting off before either of them could stop him.
The "wall" of Ashland wasn't a real wall like those in stories—only a ridge of dark stone that separated the village from the wastes. Children gathered there, daring each other to climb as high as they could before an adult noticed.
Rin scrambled up the slope, dust clinging to his knees. His friend Kai cheered him on, waving a stick.
"You'll fall!" another boy laughed.
"Then I'll climb again!" Rin shouted back, voice sharp and determined.
From the top of the ridge, he looked out over the wasteland. The horizon shimmered with heat. No trees, no rivers, only endless barren ground. Rin narrowed his eyes.
"It's ugly," one of the children muttered.
"No," Rin said softly. "It's waiting."
They didn't understand what he meant, and neither did he. But something in that wide, empty horizon called to him.
That night, the Takahiro hearth was warm despite the harsh wind. Rin sat between his parents, chewing roasted grains. His younger sister, Aoi, tugged at his sleeve, babbling nonsense words. He let her play with his half-eaten bread, pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased.
The elders spoke low as the fire crackled.
"They say Ironland grows fat with rivers and harvests," one muttered. "While we drink dust."
"They forget our scars," another replied bitterly. "The day the stone giants marched, it was Ashland they crushed first. We've carried that burden longer than anyone."
Rin perked his ears. "Obsidian?" he asked.
The room went quiet. Gen stared into the fire.
"Stone giants," he said at last, his voice heavy. "Black as night. Taller than mountains. When they walked, the earth itself wept. Our people survived only by crawling into the dirt and waiting for their march to end."
Rin's breath caught. "Where are they now?"
"Gone," Daichi said firmly, shooting his father a sharp look. "Gone, and never to return."
"But what if—"
"No, Rin," his father cut him off. "There is no 'what if.' The past belongs to ghosts. And ghosts have no teeth."
Rin nodded slowly, but when he lay in bed that night, staring at the cracked ceiling, he could not sleep. He imagined shadows moving across the wasteland, each step shaking the world. He imagined his family's hut crumbling like paper. He imagined himself standing in front of it, too small to matter, but unwilling to run.
His small fists clenched around the blanket.
"I'll never crawl," he whispered to the dark. "Not like the stories. If they come again, I'll make them fall."
The next morning in Ashland was loud with roosters and the clang of tools. Rin woke to the smell of ash bread baking and the weight of something small on his stomach.
He cracked one eye open. His sister Aoi, three years old, sat on him like he was a horse, her tiny fists drumming his chest.
"Rin! Rin! Wake up!" she squeaked.
Rin groaned dramatically, letting his head flop back. "Ugh… too heavy… I'm dying…"
"Nooo!" Aoi yelped, bouncing harder. "You can't die! You're my horse!"
"Then I'll haunt you as a ghost horse." He stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes back until she squealed with laughter.
Their mother came in, holding a pot of water. "Off your brother, Aoi. He needs his strength for chores."
"But he promised to play!" Aoi argued, clinging to Rin's shirt.
"I didn't—" Rin started, then saw her big watery eyes. He sighed in defeat. "Fine. Just for a little."
Outside, the air was sharp with dust, but Aoi didn't care. She raced around the yard with a stick twice her size, shouting, "I'm a warrior! I'm giant slayer!"
Rin followed, holding his own stick, amused. "The stone giants are bigger than mountains, Aoi. You'd need a sword as tall as ten houses."
"Then I'll climb their head and poke their eyes!" she said fiercely.
Rin laughed, ruffling her hair. "Maybe you will."
For a moment, the dry, harsh land of Ashland seemed almost alive with her laughter.
That evening, their father returned from the fields, his hands blistered and raw. He collapsed near the fire, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. Rin helped bring him water, trying to act serious, like a man.
"You're too young to frown like that," Daichi teased, sipping the water. "Your face will stick that way."
Rin tried not to smile.
Aoi, curled in their mother's lap, pointed at Rin. "He said he's a ghost horse!"
The hut burst into laughter. Even stern old Gen chuckled, shaking his head.
"You'll haunt the everyone one day, Rin," Gen muttered. His eyes glimmered strangely as he looked at his grandson. "Not as a horse… but as something heavier."
The words brushed past Rin's ears like smoke, leaving only a chill behind. He didn't understand them, not yet.
But that night, when Aoi snuggled beside him under their thin blanket, he whispered, "I'll keep you safe. No matter what. I promise."
Aoi, half-asleep, murmured, "Okay… horse…" before drifting off.
Rin smiled in the dark, holding onto her warmth like it was the only light in the world.
The sun in Ashland was always harsher than in Ironland. It rose fast, hot, and merciless, baking the ground until it cracked. But life went on anyway.
That morning, Rin walked with his father to the dry fields outside the village. Rows of struggling crops clung to the earth, leaves brittle and pale. Daichi stooped low, pulling weeds, while Rin carried a basket for the harvest.
"Why do we grow food here?" Rin asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "The soil doesn't want it."
Daichi's hands paused. "Because people do," he said quietly. "We take what little the land gives. That's the way of Ashland."
"But Ironland has rivers," Rin muttered. "They never go hungry."
His father's voice sharpened. "Envy feeds nothing, Rin. Remember that."
Rin nodded reluctantly, but the thought stayed in him like a thorn.
By midday, he was free to run again. He found Kai and the other children near the ridge. They had stolen old shields from the armory—splintered wood, rusted metal—and were playing "soldier."
Rin grabbed one eagerly. "Who's the enemy?"
"Stone giants!" Kai declared, pounding his chest.
"No, Ironland!" another boy shouted. "They'll invade any day!"
The group split, half shouting "giants!" and the other half yelling "Ironland!" Chaos broke loose. Sticks clashed. Shields splintered. Rin leapt into the fray, grinning wildly as he pushed his friends back.
"I'll fight both!" he roared. "Giants or Ironland—I'll beat them all!"
The others laughed, but in Rin's eyes there was no joke. He meant every word.
That evening, he returned home scraped and bruised. His mother fussed over him, dabbing at cuts with a damp cloth.
"You'll tear yourself apart before the war even comes," she scolded.
"What war?" Rin asked innocently.
Her hand froze. For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then Gen's voice cut through the air.
"There is always a war," the old man said. His eyes did not leave the fire. "We only wait for whose turn it is to burn."
Rin glanced at his father, but Daichi said nothing. His jaw was set, his gaze heavy with things he would not explain.
That night, Rin sat outside the hut, staring at the wasteland beyond the ridge. The air shimmered with heat, even in the dark. His sister Aoi waddled over, holding a pebble in her tiny hands.
"For you," she said, dropping it into his lap.
Rin smiled faintly. "A rock?"
"It's a shield," she whispered, as if it were a secret.
He tucked it into his pocket. "Then I'll carry it forever."
Above them, the stars spread wide and endless. To Rin, they looked like sparks waiting to fall, like fire already hidden in the sky.
The next morning in Ironland was warm with sunlight. Smoke rose gently from chimneys, carrying the smell of rice and herbs. The stream sparkled as if nothing in the world could harm it.
Mira sat on the doorstep, swinging her legs as her mother combed her hair.
"Stop squirming," Ah-young scolded gently. "You'll grow knots in your head."
"I don't care," Mira mumbled. "Warriors don't need pretty hair."
Her mother smiled faintly. "Even warriors need to be cared for."
Her father passed by with his hammer slung over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to Ah-young's forehead and tapping Mira on the head. "Listen to your mother. A warrior's first weapon is discipline."
Mira puffed her cheeks. "Then I'll be the strongest!"
She darted toward the stream, stick in hand, ready for another day of play. The other children cheered as she arrived, and soon their laughter filled the air once more.
At noon, Mira carried a basket of vegetables for her mother. She struggled under the weight, but refused help. Passing villagers greeted her warmly.
"Han's daughter will be a soldier one day," one man said proudly.
"She'll lead the charge!" another laughed.
Mira beamed at their words, her small chest swelling with pride.
But as the sun dipped, the atmosphere shifted. A strange sound rolled across the hills—low, steady, like distant thunder. The villagers paused, glancing toward the horizon.
"What is that?" a man whispered.
The ground trembled. Chickens scattered. Dogs barked wildly.
Then the first plume of smoke rose.
The screams followed.
Ironland's watchmen came racing down the road, faces pale with terror. "Soldiers! Ashland soldiers! They've crossed the ridge!"
The village erupted into chaos. Mothers grabbed children. Men reached for rusty swords and spears. The thunder of marching boots grew louder, closer, until it filled the air like a storm.
Mira stood frozen, clutching her stick, as fire arced through the sky. An arrow landed in a roof. Flames leapt upward, devouring wood. The peaceful houses turned into torches.
Her mother screamed her name. Ah-young ran, grabbing Mira and dragging her toward their home. But the soldiers were already there—dark silhouettes spilling into the streets, torches in one hand, blades in the other.
Mira's father roared, swinging his hammer, smashing one soldier aside. "Go!" he shouted to his wife. "Take her and run!"
Ah-young pulled Mira into the woods behind the village. The child stumbled, sobbing, clinging to her mother's hand.
The air reeked of smoke. The crackle of fire drowned out the stream's gentle song.
They hid among the trees, crouched low. Mira pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear it—screams, steel against steel, the deep cracking sound of burning beams collapsing.
She peeked through the leaves. Houses she had played in front of that very morning were nothing but black skeletons now. Men she had laughed with were lying still in the dirt.
Her mother's arms tightened around her, shielding her from the sight.
"Don't look, Mira," Ah-young whispered, her voice breaking. "Don't look."
But Mira had already seen enough.
Hours passed like seconds. The chaos faded, but the fire kept burning. The soldiers left only silence behind.
When the night deepened, Mira crept back with her mother.
What they found was no village. Only ashes. Only bodies.
The stream still flowed, but it was dark with soot, carrying embers along its surface like dead fireflies.
Mira's legs gave out. She fell to her knees, staring blankly at the ruin of her world.
Her mother knelt beside her, trembling, clutching her tightly.
Mira's small hands dug into the dirt.
"They killed everyone," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, but her eyes burned. "All of them."
Her stick, her toy sword, still lay on the ground beside her. She picked it up, splintered, blackened by fire. She raised it with shaking arms.
"I'll kill them," she said. Her voice grew louder, clearer, like iron being forged in flame. "I'll kill all the stone giants."
Her mother looked at her in horror, but said nothing. The vow was made.
From that moment, Mira Han was no longer only a child of Ironland. She was the seed of vengeance.
The evening in Ashland fell hard and dry. Wind pushed dust across the plain like a skin of sand. Smoke from the day's fires curled in the distance, low and thin, but to the people of the village it was only another sign of work done. They were tired, but their tiredness was the ordinary kind—the kind you slept off with a full belly and the sound of family breathing in the next room.
Rin's mother hummed as she folded the last piece of cloth. The song was small and old, a simple tune passed down by women who mended and fed and soothed. Rin watched her from the doorway, the light painting her face in honey and shadow. She looked up and smiled, a tired smile that reached her eyes.
"Come," she said. "Eat before it cools."
Rin slid down the doorway sill and bowed, like the old men taught him. He took his place at the low table. Aoi sat opposite, stuffing a piece of hardbread into her cheeks, tossing crumbs like a small bird.
Outside, Gen argued with Daichi over a broken plow. The two men's voices rose and fell, sharp and familiar. Children ran past with scraps of rope and old shields, laughing without knowing the danger that would come.
Rin ate slowly, savoring the warmth. He leaned his head against his mother's hand and breathed the smell of stew and wood smoke. For a handful of moments the world was small and good.
When Daichi stood, he ruffled Rin's hair. "Tomorrow you go with me to check the eastern ridge," he said. "If the wind's right, we'll get the seeds in before the dust comes."
Rin nodded. He liked going out with his father. He liked the way Daichi moved—large and plain, like a rock you could rely upon. He liked the sound of his father's boots in the dirt. He liked that Daichi always brought back a joke, no matter how hard the day.
Outside, the first stars pricked the sky. The village settled. Lamps were lit. A quiet moved through the huts like a blanket.
Then it came—the sound that made the dogs lift their heads and the old men fall silent.
At first it was the hoofbeats. Then the shout. A line of torches sprang bright along the ridge, like a string of small suns. Figures moved—soldiers—fast and tidy and ruthless. The air changed from ordinary to raw, heavy with the scent of iron and fear.
"Soldiers!" someone screamed.
Daichi's head snapped up. The men spilled into the yard, only half dressed, only half ready. Gen went for his walking stick as if it were a spear. The children screamed. Mothers called names. Rin felt his stomach turn cold, a stone dropping into him.
They came down the slope in ranks—Ironland, Daichi recognized the armor at once. Black-bright breastplates that swallowed the fire, faces covered with visors. Spears lifted, torches held high, boots stomping the dry soil into powder. Behind them, banners fluttered, small flags with a symbol that meant conquest.
"No!" Daichi spat. He stepped in front of his family, palms out. "This is a village! We are not soldiers—"
A spear point nicked his sleeve. The visor tilted, and a man's voice, flat and certain, called, "Make way. Search for Marked. Any who bear signs go to the center."
Rin's eyes went hot when he heard the word. He thought of the brand tucked under his sleeve. He swallowed, hard.
"Leave them," Gen said, his voice thin. "They have children."
The soldier shrugged. "Orders are orders."
Before anyone could move, torches leapt at the roofs. Iron landed like rain. Men ran through the doorways, methodical, quiet. Shackles were clamped. A woman's wail rose and tore at the night like a rag being pulled.
Rin's mother pushed Aoi behind her. Daichi stepped forward, wide and stoic. "You won't take them—"
A soldier stepped into the light. He was young but his face was mean with a knowledge he had learned. He looked directly at Daichi, and his hand—
—the blade flashed.
It was too quick. Daichi staggered, a thin, red blossom blooming on his chest. He made a sound that was not a word and fell like a tree. The dirt under his body opened into a small, terrible hollow.
Rin's legs moved without permission. He lunged, tripping on a loose stone. He reached out and grabbed the hem of his father's coat. For a breath he clung to the warm, heavy weight that had been the center of his world. Then hands pulled him back.
"Rin! Get away! Hide!" his mother shouted, voice high and raw.
She pushed him—and the world tilted.
Rin did not go far. His mother shoved him into a low, shallow pit behind the outer wall of the house—an odd place, used to store pots or old grain. It was small and deep and dark, with the opening crowned by a loose slab of stone and two broken boards. Her hands were rough but sure. She shoved him under, covered him with straw and the edge of a torn cloth, and jammed the board back across the opening so he could not be seen.
It was the worst hiding place he had ever known and the only one his mother could think of.
"Stay where I can see you," she whispered in his ear, pressing her face close. Her breath smelled of stew and the dust of a day's work. She lifted his chin with two fingers. "Do you hear me? Don't move. Don't make a sound. Not for anything."
"Yes," he said. The word came small.
She kissed his forehead, hair falling into his eyes like a curtain. "Look at me," she ordered softly. "When I raise my hand, you come to me. When I throw the cloth, you run to the far side. Do you understand?"
Rin nodded again, but his throat worked. He did not want to be hidden. He wanted to stand beside his father like a boy who had been taught to stand, to take a blow if it came, to be something important. He had not understood until the board closed over him what it meant for his mother to be the one to decide.
From the darkness, he could still see. The gap between the board and the earth was small, but enough. He had placed his face against the cool wood. He watched through the slit.
He watched as Ironland soldiers moved through the yard. They pushed people out into the open. They shouted for names; they touched forearms in search of marks. A child was pulled from a woman's grasp, and a man beat the air with his fists until the soldier clubbed him.
He watched his mother stand in front of Daichi's fallen form. She was small against the black breastplate of the soldier who held a torch in one hand and a chain in the other. Her voice rose and fell, a single, fierce thread.
"Take me instead," she said. "Take me, not them."
The soldier laughed once, low. "You speak bravely for a village woman."
Someone screamed. The sound panged through Rin's chest and set his whole body shaking.
He could see his father now, where he lay at the center of the yard, pale lips moving. Aoi was crying, hands around her mother's skirt. Gen, old and white, was on his knees, clutching at the hair of another man. The soldiers' boots made an ugly rhythm on the dirt.
One soldier—bigger than the others—took hold of Daichi's arm and hauled him to his feet. Daichi's face was streaked with dirt and blood. He looked at his family like a man looking at the last thing he could ever have. His eyes found Rin's hidden face, and for a second, the world froze.
Daichi tried to speak. He tried to form a word. The soldier drove a spear through his side. He sagged. The movement threw him forward, and his body crashed against the ground with a dull, hollow finality.
Rin's vision tunneled. He wanted to reach out and touch the place where his father had been—anything to keep real the weight that had anchored him. Instead, all he could do was press his face harder to the board and stare at the moving shapes.
His mother slammed her palm on the soldier's chest. "Take me!" she cried. "Take me instead!"
And the soldier—who had held the spear that had killed Daichi—raised his torch.
"Bring the rope!" he barked. "We will bind the women and see the signs."
They dragged women into the center. His mother's hands clenched and unclenched like birds. Her eyes fixed on the slit where Rin watched. For a beat their eyes met through the wood and through the shred of cloth.
She made a shape with her lips. He could not hear the sound, but he guessed—come back. Run when I throw the rag.
She turned away and faced the soldiers. They bound Aoi to a post, and she wailed and beat her small fists against the rope. A woman screamed. Gen cried under his breath.
The soldier with the torch stepped forward. His shadow swallowed Mira's mother. A figure moved to block him—a man from the village, older than Daichi, who begged, who threw his arms out, who offered coin, offered his life. The soldier drove his spear into the man's chest.
Rin watched as, one by one, the men fell and the women screamed. The soldiers spoke in short, efficient phrases. They were not cruel for the joy of it; they were cruel because order told them so. They read names on lists. They read nothing good into the faces of a people who had wronged their masters.
Rin felt something happen inside him. It was not the burning he had imagined when he was small and angry. It was a cold hollow growing fast, like a hole dug to swallow the world.
Someone shoved a man at his mother. The man tumbled and hit the ground. The soldiers laughed. Then they set to work.
Rin watched his mother move. She pushed, she stumbled, she threw herself into the motion of saving her children. Her hair was singed at the edges by stray sparks. She moved like a thin boat through a storm, small but determinate.
Then a torch fell. It spilled, and wind sucked at the flame. A beam collapsed with a terrible crack. The roof gave. The burning wood dropped and hit Daichi's body with a sound that broke something inside Rin like glass.
Rin's mother screamed. It was a sound that pooled into everything: time, air, the small split of darkness where he hid. The soldiers did not pause; they had other orders. One grabbed her roughly and jerked her toward the center.
Rin's chest could not breathe. He clawed at the straw. He wanted to jump out, to pull them out of the mud, to stand with his father until he too fell. He wanted to do all the brave things his father had taught him—no matter the cost. But the board jammed; the earth held him like a net. He beat it with his small fists until they bled.
He watched as his mother was pulled forward and forced to kneel upon the ground—a posture of submission but also of pleading. She looked once more where the slit showed him, and this time she pressed a small, quick hand across her mouth and then raised the other, two fingers, and made a small, urgent gesture—throw the rag. Run when I throw the rag.
He put his hand over his mouth to still the sound of his breath. He felt his heartbeat in his throat, like a trapped bird.
Then they took Daichi. A soldier shoved him onto his knees in the yard, the dirt darkening. There was a silence that stretched like noonday. The big soldier with the torch stepped back. The torchlight painted a long oval on the ground. The man raised his blade.
It was a single motion. The blade fell.
The shock did not go away. The sound of it was the sound of a tree being felled, of a drum struck and then held. Daichi did not cry. He did not scream. He folded like something small but unbreakable finally giving under the weight of the world. He lay still.
Rin felt his own breath stop. For a long few seconds all the noises—the shouting, the movement, the clatter of armor—slid away so that the only sound left was the small, shocking thud where a man had fallen and the ragged, wet sob that escaped his mother.
She crawled toward him, reached for his body. Someone dragged her back. Her shoes left long tracks in the dirt. The soldiers tied her hands with rough rope. Aoi watched with impossible eyes, like a fish out of water, and screamed a sound that was not yet a full human scream—a raw, birdlike thing.
They did not wait. The soldiers herded people to the center of the yard and began to shout names. They marked the wrists of those they wanted. They pushed. They shoved. They burned. They took what they came to take.
From his hiding place, Rin saw the last thing he would ever see of his family standing together: his mother, face slick with tears and soot, her hair loose like a dark halo; his father, still warm on the ground where he had fallen; Aoi, tiny and trembling; Gen, slumped and silent.
Then a soldier kicked at a heap of cloth. Aoi cried out, a sound like something small being broken. The soldier laughed and moved away.
Rin felt a weight drop inside his chest and settle there like a stone. He wanted to scream, to beg them to stop, to show that a child watched and that a child would be made to pay. But his mother's voice had been clear: don't move.
The ropes tightened across his world. The men finished their work, then filed away like a black river back up the ridge. Their torches bobbed like a line of eclipsed stars. When the last one was gone, the wind picked up and the night moved in as if nothing had happened, as if the world could restore itself with a breeze.
Rin waited a long time before he crawled out. He counted the seconds like breaths: one, two—he put his face to the gap and peered. The yard was ruined. Bodies lay where they had fallen. Aoi was not moving. His mother's knees were bent in the dirt, hands smudged with blood, and her face was a mask of something older than pain.
He pushed free. The lid came loose with a creek, and he slipped into the open air like a rat finding its way from a trap. The smell hit him—blood and ash and the sweet, coppery iron of the men's armor. His legs crumpled and he sat in the dirt with the world leaning around him.
He ran to his father first. Daichi was still warm. Rin touched his face. He was gone. He pressed his palm into the wound and tasted bitter salt. The man who had taught him to be steady and to laugh had been erased as if the world no longer needed him.
He turned to his mother. She was alive but barely. Her hands trembled as she drew Aoi to her lap. The little girl's eyes were open but empty, the light gone like someone blowing out a candle. The world narrowed to a single point—the sound of his mother's breath, her small, terrible sounds.
Rin felt something inside break with a sound like ice. He sat staring until the light faded and the shadows pooled long and black. He pressed his fists into the dirt, nails digging in until the pain spread and he felt something real again.
"I will make them suffer more than this," he said at last. The words were small, but they cut the night clean. They were not a child's cry. They were like a promise made with a blade.
His Mark—hidden on the inside of his wrist—burned like a coal beneath his skin. He did not understand it. He thought: this is why I must never crawl. If the world will take my family, then I will make the world learn how to fall.
He gathered Aoi's small limp hand and wrapped it in his cloak. He picked up the small shield pebble she had given him and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at his mother, at the hollow eyes, at the way the wind moved through the ruined rafters, and then he turned away.
He walked without a sound to the other side of the ridge where the dark ground swallowed him, and with each step his chest filled with a cold that did not leave.
The next dawn, the village smelled of smoke and something worse—of the way life ends. Men came to count the dead. They wrapped bodies in rough cloth and carried them away. The old men said prayers. The young men tried to appear steady.
Rin did not join them. He sat at the edge of the ridge and watched the road where the soldiers had gone. He pressed his palm to the place where his father had fallen and imagined a weight upon the world that would match the weight inside him.
He did not cry. He had learned by then that tears did not change the shape of things. Something else took their place: a quiet, cold decision that would outlive his childhood.
"I will make them suffer," he told the ridge, and the wind carried his words away.