The taking went on for what felt like forever.
Soldiers dragged sacks of grain from houses, drove cows and goats toward the road, tossed tools onto wagons. Children cried. Dogs barked until someone kicked them quiet.
Alaric stayed at the window until his legs started to tremble. He sat on the stool, then stood again. Sat. Stood. His bag waited by the wall like a question mark.
He watched one soldier yank Joren's father's plow out of the shed. Another tied ropes around three men's wrists, strong men, the kind who could carry the heaviest loads.
"Temporary labor," the soldier said when a wife screamed. "You'll see them again if they don't run."
Alaric bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.
People don't come back from things like this. Do they?
He didn't know how he knew that. He just did.
Eventually, the clatter and shouting shifted tone. There was… more anger now. Sharper words.
In the village center, Berthold was arguing again, loud enough for Alaric to catch pieces.
"…nothing left… you can see that yourself… you're taking our seed grain too...."
"Lord Valen's orders do not concern themselves with your planting schedule," the captain replied. "We need to cross Horsin quickly. You can pray to your gods for a mild winter. That is not my task."
"We won't survive that winter!" Berthold all but shouted.
People murmured agreement. Someone cursed under his breath.
"Watch yourself, old man," a nearby sergeant growled.
The captain sighed, as if annoyed. "You Horsin folk. Always dramatic." He turned to his men with tally sheets. "Take a third more. If they starve, it's their lord's fault for not feeding them."
"A third more....?!" Berthold choked.
Something in him snapped.
"You can't," he said hoarsely. "Please. Captain. My lord. We're not refusing you. We've given everything we can. If you take the seed, if you take the last sacks, there will be children with nothing but snow to eat."
His voice shook, but he forced the words out anyway.
"We've done nothing to you," he said. "We… we just live here."
A hush fell.
Alaric swallowed. His throat hurt.
"Captain!" a voice called from further up the road. "Commander Valen is approaching!"
A ripple went through the Buckland soldiers. Backs straightened. Men snapped to attention.
Down the road, a rider on a tall white horse approached, flanked by armored officers.
He wore no helmet. His hair was dark and neatly tied back, his face clean-shaven. A white cloak hung from his shoulders, the edges dust-stained but mostly spotless. A black-spear emblem gleamed on his breastplate.
Even from a distance, Alaric could see something in his eyes, not anger. Not joy.
Nothing.
Lord Marius Valen, Northern Army Commander of Buckland.
The captain straightened as Valen drew near. "My lord. We've collected from the village as ordered. Supplies are light, Horsin's lord squeezes them too."
Valen glanced, once, at the piled sacks, the tied livestock, the small knot of villagers.
"And witnesses?" he asked.
The captain hesitated. "My lord?"
"Have the villagers been… cooperative?" Valen asked, as if talking about the weather.
"They… voiced complaints," the captain admitted. "Some loud ones, but nothing we couldn't handle."
Valen's gaze moved over the people of Shuru. Over Berthold half-crouched. Over Tomas, jaw tight. Over the children peeking from doorways and windows.
His eyes didn't look cruel.
They looked bored.
"Lord Valen," Berthold managed, forcing himself upright. "Please. We won't survive the winter if you take everything. I beg you. Leave us a little. Just enough to plant. We're not soldiers. We're just… people."
Valen's head tilted a fraction. "What is your name, elder?"
"Berthold. I speak for Shuru."
"You have my thanks, Berthold of Shuru," Valen said politely. "For your contribution to Buckland's campaign."
"That's not an answer," Berthold whispered, but the sound barely carried.
Valen's gaze cooled by a few degrees. "Speak carefully," he said. "I have no quarrel with you, Yet."
Berthold's mouth moved. Whatever words he tried to say next, Alaric couldn't hear them.
Valen turned to the captain.
"No witnesses," he said quietly. "You heard my orders at Deren."
The captain swallowed. "Yes, my lord."
"See them carried out," Valen said. He flicked the reins. His horse turned, already trotting back toward the head of the column.
The captain's jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, he looked almost sick. Then his face closed.
He raised his voice. "Squads Three and Four, stay on the road with the wagons. Everyone else, clear the village. Burn what's left. No survivors."
Someone gasped. Someone screamed.
"No....!" Berthold started.
A spear thrust cut him short.
Alaric didn't see where it went in. He didn't need to.
He backed away from the window, stumbling, heart pounding in his ears like a drum.
They're going to kill everyone.
They're going to kill Mom. Dad.