Rohan rode through the ashen dawn, the scent of smoke still clinging to his cloak. The outpost was gone, its remains smoldering in the distance behind him.

  The documents in his satchel were his next weapon, maps, supply routes, letters of correspondence between the Iron Talons and their allies. Names, locations, weaknesses. He needed time to read, to plan.

  But first, he needed to disappear. The Talons would be looking for him. The moment they discovered the massacre, they would send riders in every direction, hunting for the one responsible. He needed to stay ahead of them, and he knew exactly where to go.

  Rohan had memorized the map before leaving the outpost. There was a small village half a day’s ride west. Not large enough to be strategic. Not wealthy enough to be worth raiding. The perfect place to disappear.

  By midday, he approached the village. The fields stretched wide, dotted with simple homes, smoke rising from chimneys. No banners, no Talon presence.

  Yet something felt off. As he rode closer, he noticed the silence. Villages were never this quiet. His fingers drifted toward his dagger.

  Rohan dismounted at the outskirts, leading his horse carefully through the dirt path. The streets were empty. No children running between houses. No merchants selling goods. Not even animals moving in the fields.

  His eyes swept the village, taking in the signs of a struggle. A cart was overturned. A door hung open, swinging in the wind. Then, he saw the first body. A man lay face down in the dirt, a sword wound across his back. Blood had soaked into the earth, dried beneath the harsh sun.

  Rohan moved carefully, stepping over the corpse, dagger now fully in his grip. More bodies, women, men, the elderly, slaughtered.

  The stench of death filled the air. Then, as he neared the center of the village, he saw something worse. A wooden post stood in the village square, driven into the ground like a marker.

  Atop it, a severed head. The eyes had been removed. The mouth stitched shut. And beneath it, scrawled into the wood with dried blood:

  "THIS LAND BELONGS TO THE IRON TALONS."

  Rohan’s grip tightened around his dagger. His teeth ground together. He had left one ruin behind him, only to find another.

  Rohan moved through the village with silent precision, his eyes scanning every detail. The massacre had been recent, days, maybe less, and yet, he wasn’t alone. Near the village square, fresh footprints stood out in the dirt. Smaller. Lighter.

  Not soldiers, but children. His pulse slowed, his grip on his dagger loosening. He followed the tracks, careful not to disturb them. They led toward a small cabin, tucked away behind the ruins of a barn. A hideout, Rohan approached cautiously, stepping onto the wooden porch without making a sound.

  The door was slightly ajar. The stench hit him first, unwashed bodies, stale air, sickness. He pushed the door open in one swift motion.

  Three children, huddled together in the farthest corner of the room. They were thin, dirty, and malnourished. Their clothes were little more than rags, their faces streaked with dust and dried tears. Two girls, one boy.

  The eldest girl looked no older than seven, her long, tangled hair hanging over hollow cheeks. The youngest girl, five, maybe seven, clung to her, trembling.

  The boy, the oldest, couldn’t be more than eight. But when he saw Rohan, he moved.

  A small dagger flashed in his tiny hands, slicing through the air as he lunged forward. Rohan stepped back, easily dodging. The boy swung again, wild and desperate.

  "I won’t let you hurt my sisters!"

  His voice cracked with fear, but his stance was firm. His grip on the blade was steady. Rohan felt something cold twist in his gut. For a split second, he saw her. The girl he couldn’t save. The one who had asked him to end her life.

  At that moment, the boy lunged again. Rohan caught the child’s wrist before the blade could reach him. The boy struggled, kicking and screaming.

  Rohan crouched, his grip gentle but firm.

  "I’m not here to hurt you."

  He said softly.

  The boy’s eyes were wild, untrusting. His sisters stared at Rohan with wide, fearful eyes. He slowly reached out his free hand.

  "I swear it."

  Rohan kept his grip on the boy’s wrist gentle but firm, his other hand raised in a gesture of peace. The child trembled, dirty cheeks stained by tears that had long since dried to salt on his skin.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Rohan repeated, careful to keep his voice low and steady. The girls clung to each other, eyes wide, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. The boy’s eyes darted between Rohan’s hands, the dagger, and his sisters. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his makeshift weapon.

  “Why… should we trust you?”

  He asked, his voice trembling.

  Rohan swallowed hard. He felt that twisting ache in his chest again, the same that tore at him when he’d found the thirteen-year-old girl in the outpost’s dungeon. The same helpless rage that left him cold and hollow.

  “Because…”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He paused, searching for the right words.

  “Because I’ve seen what men like the Iron Talons do. I’m trying to stop them.”

  The boy’s lip quivered.

  “They killed everyone.”

  A flicker of memory rose in Rohan’s mind, flames at his own village, screams echoing in the darkness. He exhaled slowly, nodding once.

  “I know.”

  He released the boy’s wrist, and the child stumbled back, still clutching his little blade. The two girls looked just as wary, their eyes like frightened animals caught in a snare. Rohan knelt, maintaining as non-threatening a posture as he could manage.

  “I won’t leave you here.”

  He said gently.

  “Come with me. I can take you somewhere safe.”

  The children exchanged uncertain glances. Finally, the eldest girl spoke up, her voice thin.

  “Where… where would we go?”

  Rohan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  “There’s a town.”

  He said quietly.

  “Far from here, where people I trust can help you.”

  He remembered Talia, recalled leaving her with others who might protect her. He’d never thought he’d be back that way, but now it seemed his only choice.

  It took time, reassurances, gathering what little supplies he could find in the ruined huts, a few blankets, scraps of food, a battered leather flask. But eventually, the children agreed to follow him. They had no one else.

  Rohan headed for the village stables, half-burned, roof caved in. Inside, he found a small carriage sitting in one corner, the wood scorched and half-rotted, but still intact enough to be pulled, it would have to do.

  The children stood at the stable door, clinging to one another, flinching at every sudden movement or noise. Rohan tried to ignore the gnawing ache in his chest as he set about rigging the carriage to the horse.

  “Get in, you’ll be safer there.”

  The boy helped the younger girls climb aboard, then turned back to Rohan with a stubborn set to his jaw.

  “If you try anything…”

  Rohan almost smiled, though there was no humor in it.

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  He tried not to dwell on how much the boy’s tense posture reminded him of himself at that age, afraid, angry, with nowhere to turn.

  It was late afternoon by the time they were ready. Rohan sat atop his horse, leading the small carriage behind, where the children huddled under blankets he’d salvaged from the wreckage. The smell of decay still lingered in the village, a grim reminder of why he couldn’t leave them behind.

  He urged the horse forward, and together, they left the silent ruins behind. The children didn’t look back, there was nothing left for them there.

  As they rode, Rohan’s mind raced. He’d planned on heading straight into war, burning strongholds, cutting down Talons, carving a path to the monstrous heart of the conflict. But now, he had three young lives in his care.

  He thought of Talia. Thought of the people who had taken her in after the bandits were slain. They’d shown her kindness, given her a chance at a safer life. Perhaps they could do the same for these children.

  He had no illusions about the danger, travel was risky, and the Iron Talons might be searching for him by now. But every time he glanced back at the terrified faces peering from under the blankets, his resolve only grew stronger. He wouldn’t fail them.

  He let the reins slacken, guiding the horse onto a winding road that led south. The children said little, exhausted and wary, drifting in and out of restless sleep.

  A chill wind picked up, carrying the scent of distant rain. Rohan pulled his cloak tighter around him, jaw set, eyes scanning the horizon.

  He was changing course, abandoning his immediate hunt in favor of saving the children. It wasn’t the path he’d planned, but he wasn’t going to be the man who left them to die.

  Rohan guided the small carriage off the narrow road, stopping at a secluded spot in the woods. The sun was dipping beneath the treetops, painting the sky in hues of oranges and purples. He dismounted carefully, tying the horse to a low-hanging branch before walking to the carriage. The children peered at him with uncertain eyes.

  “We’ll camp here, It’ll be safe enough for the night.”

  They nodded, but none spoke. The exhaustion of the day, their entire ordeal, hung over them like a heavy cloak.

  An hour later, Rohan had a small fire crackling. The flames danced in the encroaching darkness, throwing flickering shadows across the forest floor. He’d hunted briefly before night set in, managing to snare a small game bird, enough for a makeshift meal.

  He’d decided on a stew. It would be gentler on the children’s empty stomachs, easier to digest than tough meat. He tossed bits of the bird into a battered pot along with some herbs and roots he’d collected. The steam rose, carrying the aroma of something warm and comforting.

  The children sat around the fire, hunched in blankets, watching him work. The boy still kept his makeshift dagger tucked close, his gaze darting to Rohan’s movements with guarded mistrust. The two girls were quieter, eyes distant and haunted.

  When the stew was finally done, Rohan ladled it into wooden bowls he’d salvaged from the wrecked village. He passed them around, careful not to get too close lest he spook them.

  “Eat slowly.”

  He said, voice low.

  “Your stomachs aren’t used to it yet.”

  The boy sniffed at the bowl, then took a cautious sip. A moment later, his posture relaxed slightly, and he nudged the bowls toward his sisters. They followed his lead, hesitant at first, then more eager as the warmth of real food seemed to bring them back to life.

  After the meal, Rohan gathered some water from a nearby stream and helped the children wash. Their skin was caked in layers of grime and dried tears, their hair tangled in knots. He tried to be gentle, mindful of their bruises and the shadows of fear that still clouded their faces.

  They said little, but the eldest girl whispered a soft “thank you” when he handed her a ragged, oversized tunic he’d found among the supplies he’d scavenged. The other two children dressed in similar clothes, torn and worn, but far cleaner than what they’d had before.

  Once the fire burned down to a gentle glow, the children settled near its warmth. Rohan’s body ached, his own wounds still healing from countless battles, but he remained vigilant. His eyes swept the dark outlines of trees, ears attuned for any rustle or snap of branches that might signal danger.

  The youngest girl, maybe six or seven, shuffled closer to him, dragging her blanket along. Her feet were bare, caked in mud and scrapes he’d tried to clean earlier. She looked at Rohan with wide, sleepless eyes. Before he could react, she plopped down next to him and rested her head on his lap. Rohan went rigid, the dagger in his hand stopping mid-sharpen.

  She was so small and fragile. He slowly set his blade aside, unsure what to do. The girl was already drifting, her eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in soft, uneven rhythms. A pang hit his chest, a mix of protectiveness and an unfamiliar tenderness he didn’t know how to handle.

  She’d entrusted him with her safety, barely knowing him beyond a single day.

  Me, of all people… he thought, swallowing hard.

  He was scared to move. If he did, would he hurt her? Would he shatter the tiny bit of trust she’d given him? I’ve broken so many things, he thought. Hurt so many people.

  Yet here was this child, asleep on his lap, utterly defenseless. And for once, Rohan felt a twisting in his gut that wasn’t rage. It was fear, fear of failing her, fear of letting something so innocent be destroyed by the cruelty of the world.

  He took a slow breath, forcing himself to relax. The boy glanced over, saw his sister asleep on Rohan, and tensed. Rohan met his gaze, nodded once, as if to say It’s okay. The boy held his stare for a moment longer, then exhaled and wrapped a blanket around his other sister, nestling together for warmth.

  Rohan’s muscles remained tight, but he didn’t shift. A distant owl hooted somewhere in the forest, and the gentle crackle of the dying fire set a strange, fragile peace over the small camp.

  He kept his eyes on the trees, on the darkness that might bring more nightmares. But every so often, he glanced down at the little girl asleep on him, and felt something he hadn’t let himself feel in a very long time.

  Hope, maybe I can still save something in this world.

  With that thought, he stayed awake, unmoving, keeping watch until the first glimmer of dawn approached.