Karath the Butcher had once been a minor warlord—brutal, loud, unremarkable.
Then Rakkesh broke its borders.
The chaos gave him purpose, and the alliance with Harvan gave him teeth. Karath turned his holdfast into a blood-soaked bastion, where his riders swept through the sands, torching villages and stringing corpses along the cliffs. He ruled through fear, and those too weak to fight joined him simply to avoid being consumed.
When word reached the XIV Legion of Karath’s attacks on imperial supply lines, Brak wasted no time.
“This dog wants to bite the hand that feeds Rakkesh?” he said, stabbing a dagger into the map. “We’ll cut off his snarl—and his head.”
The march to Karath’s fortress took two days through scorched valleys and dust-choked canyons. When the Legion finally beheld the enemy stronghold, they found it perched against a cliffside—its outer defenses fortified with stolen imperial barricades, and its gates flanked by jagged stakes impaled with the skulls of traders, soldiers, even children.
Kael’s fingers tightened on his axe.
Inside those walls were more than just raiders.
There were slaves. Villagers. Hostages.
The innocent, bound by chains they had never chosen.
Kael could feel his heart growing heavier already.
The assault began at dawn, under the cover of a sandstorm that veiled their approach. Brak led the central push, while Kael was assigned command of a flanking squad—his first independent mission.
The plan was brutal and simple: breach the eastern wall, disrupt the defense lines, and push inward until the gate could be forced open.
Kael led five men through a crumbling ravine, scaling debris until they reached the blind spot behind the outer wall. With precise movements, they set charges beneath the stone and waited.
Boom.
The explosion tore through the rock, opening a path inwards. Kael charged first, cutting down a startled sentry with a single blow. His team followed, swift and fierce.
They reached the inner yard in minutes—and then, the killing began.
The defenders were savage but undisciplined.
Kael’s axe found flesh again and again. He parried, spun, struck—his movements trained, his instincts honed. But then he hesitated.
A young man—barely older than Kael himself—dropped his weapon and raised his hands, eyes wide in surrender.
Kael froze.
Just for a second.
That second was enough for another raider to charge him from behind. The blow clipped Kael’s shoulder and knocked him to the ground. One of his soldiers—Merek—intervened, driving his sword into the attacker’s back.
Kael rose, dazed, and finished the young man who had surrendered.
Not because he wanted to.
But because now, there was no choice.
By nightfall, the gate was open and the fortress taken.
Kael fought Karath himself—a brutal, breathless duel in the burning hall. Karath was enormous, wielding a cleaver like a warhammer, his chest bare and soaked in blood. Kael barely dodged his first strikes, his shield shattered in the first exchange.
But he moved with precision.
Struck fast. Low.
In the end, Kael drove his axe beneath Karath’s chin, splitting his jaw and driving him to his knees.
Victory.
But it tasted like ash.
After the battle, Brak approached him while the bodies were still being cleared from the yard.
“You hesitated,” the sergeant said, voice low and direct.
Kael nodded.
“He surrendered.”
Brak’s stare was cold. “He used your mercy to almost gut you. And your man paid the price.”
“He lived.”
“This time.”
Brak stepped closer. “War isn’t about fairness, Drakar. These people followed a butcher. They watched him impale children. And they chose to stay.”
Kael said nothing.
“You want to survive? Harden your heart. Seal it. If you carry their suffering, it will crush you. And if you pity your enemies… it’ll get your friends killed.”
Brak walked away without another word.
That night, Kael sat beside the fire, staring at the blood drying on his knuckles. The smell of burnt wood and ash clung to his skin.
He thought of the young man who had surrendered.
He thought of Merek, still unconscious from the blow meant for him.
And he thought of his mother’s words, whispered long ago, before he ever picked up a weapon: “Don’t let the war steal your soul. Remember who you are.”
“I won’t become like them,” Kael whispered to the flames. “I won’t.”
He didn’t say it aloud, but he believed Brak was wrong.
You didn’t have to become stone to survive.
You just had to be stronger than the fire.
Then Taren sat beside him, tossing him a piece of hard bread with a lazy grin.
“You look like a man who’s thinking too hard again,” he said.
Kael didn’t reply.
Taren bumped his shoulder against Kael’s and stared into the fire. “You saved a lot of lives today, you know. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Kael closed his eyes.
Taren’s presence was warmth. Levity. Humanity.
He was the part of Kael that hadn’t burned away yet.
The death of Karath had sent a tremor through the bandit alliances of Rakkesh. Lord Harvan, the architect behind the chaos, knew the noose was tightening.
But Harvan wasn’t a coward.
He withdrew to his quarry fortress, deeper into the cliffs, and began to prepare. His men built barricades from broken wagons and stacked corpses as walls. His archers lined the ridges. His scouts disappeared into the sands.
When the XIV Legion arrived, they found a fortress not of stone—but of desperation.
Kael Drakar, though still officially a common soldier, had become known.
Not for speeches.
Not for glory.
But for results.
Brak now gave him quiet authority. The soldiers followed him with silent trust. He had killed Karath. He had survived every skirmish. And though his heart still wavered, his blade never did.
The day before the battle, Kael walked the perimeter.
He studied the cliffs. The kill zones. The choke points.
The fortress could not be taken by direct force—not without heavy losses. But it had a weakness: a breachable side wall, lightly guarded, hidden behind a tangle of stone.
Brak listened in silence as Kael presented the plan.
“Infiltrate at night. Open the gates from inside. Strike fast before they rally.”
Brak nodded. “You lead the strike team. Ten men.”
Kael didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”
Brak stepped close, his voice low and iron.
“No mercy this time. No pauses. Not even for children.”
Kael said nothing.
But his silence wasn’t agreement.
That night, under the cover of darkness and wind, Kael led his team around the cliffs.
Taren was with him.
“Finally some excitement,” Taren whispered, tapping his spear. “I was starting to miss the smell of arrows and blood.”
Kael gave a half-smile. “Let’s stay alive to complain about it after.”
“Deal.”
They scaled the rocks in silence, Kael at the front, Taren just behind. The sentries died quietly. The side gate gave way with a groan.
Inside, chaos erupted.
Kael’s men stormed the inner yard, cutting through the disorganized defenders. Alarms sounded. Arrows flew from above. Harvan’s warriors charged from the halls.
Kael pushed forward, toward the gate controls. Every second mattered.
Then he saw the girl.
No older than twelve.
Filthy, trembling, clutching a dagger with shaking hands.
She stood between him and the gate mechanism.
Kael froze.
She’s just a child.
A beat passed.
Two.
He raised his weapon, then hesitated again.
Maybe she’ll drop it. Maybe she’s not a threat.
He took a step forward—slow, careful.
She didn’t move.
And then, behind him, came the scream.
“Kael, behind you!”
Kael spun.
A raider on horseback, charging from the side corridor. Fast. Silent.
A blur of iron and leather.
Too late.
Taren stepped between them—instinct before thought.
The spear drove through his ribs.
Kael’s axe hit the rider a second too late, cutting him down, but the damage was done.
Taren collapsed in Kael’s arms.
Blood poured from his side.
His breath came shallow, wet.
Kael pressed his hands to the wound, desperate. “No, no, stay with me—Taren, come on—”
Taren gave him a weak smile. “She wasn’t even armed, was she?”
“She was a child—”
Taren coughed blood. “So was I… once.”
His grip tightened briefly.
Then it loosened.
Then it vanished.
The gate was opened.
The Legion stormed through.
The fortress fell.
But Kael didn’t feel the victory.
He felt the weight of a body cooling in his arms.
He felt the echo of Brak’s warning.
No mercy. No pauses. Not even for children.
And now Taren—his friend, his brother in all but blood—was dead.
Because he had paused.
Because he had hesitated.
After the battle, Brak found him where the bodies lay.
“You opened the gate,” Brak said. “You did your duty.”
Kael didn’t respond.
Brak studied him.
“You looked away,” he said quietly. “You thought you could carry mercy into war.”
Kael’s fists clenched.
Brak walked away.
No condemnation. No comfort.
He didn’t need to say more.
Kael already knew.
That night, Kael buried Taren himself.
He dug with bare hands until his fingers bled.
He left no marker.
Just a small flame in a rusted lantern beside the grave.
And as he stared into that dying light, he whispered words only the wind would hear:
“I thought I was better. I thought I could hold on to something good.”
“But I let him die.”
“Because I still believed.”
Chronicles of Astravara 