Lieutenant Aeric Shale of the Livadian Imperial Light Infantry stood ankle-deep in ash, wondering if the gods had damned this place long before the war did.

  Solokhia. A land of snow-choked fields and iron will, where men built ugly wooden houses on the bones of the earth and slaughtered beasts to warm their bellies. Fifty years of war had stripped it to cinders, but even now the land resisted. Even now, Shale felt the air rebel against him, sharp with frost and human grief.

  He was a dryad. One of the nadic races, touched by the gods to shepherd the creatures of the Isthmus. His kind spoke with the beasts, healed the sickened soil, kept to the old ways of green and growing things. At least, that was what the priests liked to say. Shale hadn't spoken to a god in decades. Hadn't felt clean soil beneath his feet in longer.

  For half a century, the Livadian Empire had fought to tame the humans of Solokhia. Fought to stop them from choking the rivers with soot and tearing iron from the earth's marrow. The nadics called it salvation. The Solokhians called it conquest.

  Now the war was over. The Empire had won. And Shale was starving.

  The farmhouse ahead was blackened and broken, its walls collapsed inward like a ribcage crushed beneath a giant's heel. Snow fell through the beams where a roof once stood. Somewhere under that ruin, a family had lived. Grew things. Killed things.

  Shale pulled his red greatcoat tighter, the fabric frayed and patched over too many times to count. The red trim marked him an officer, though he felt like little more than a scavenger. His rifle, a battered Rosshawk, hung from his shoulder. Not the sleek, polished weapon of a parading soldier, but a thing worn rough by war. Like him.

  He stepped over the threshold, boots crunching on glass and splintered wood, and crouched near what passed for a garden. Frostbitten cabbages clung to the earth like stubborn survivors. He pulled one free, brushing snow from its pale leaves. Edible. Barely.

  His men needed food. Dryads were vegetarians by nature, their bodies tuned to what the earth provided. But the earth here was dying, and so were they.

  Another cabbage, smaller, wilted at the edges. He stuffed it into his satchel, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. The empire had promised supply caravans, promised Solokhia would feed them now that the war was won. Promises were as thin as the soil here.

  A sharp click behind him.

  Shale froze. The sound was unmistakable—a Solokhian scattergun, cocked and ready. He kept his hands visible, voice steady.

  “The war’s done,” he said without turning. “Your king ran. Your lines broke.”

  “That so?” The voice behind him was rough with smoke, old but iron-strong. “You took my sons. You don’t get my crops.”

  Shale turned slow. The man behind the gun was barely holding himself upright. Burn scars crawled up his neck. His coat hung loose on a frame wasted by grief or hunger, maybe both. But the shotgun stayed level.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Shale said. His heart barely believed it anymore. “I just need food.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “You already took everything else. Come and take this too.”

  The old man’s finger twitched toward the trigger. Reflex overrode regret. Shale’s rifle pumped and barked before the scattergun moved an inch. The farmer’s chest opened, blood blooming bright against the gray.

  He fell into the dirt, face-first among the cabbages.

  The Solokhian winter didn’t care that the war was over. Neither did the old man with the scattergun, sprawled face-down in his ruined cabbage patch, blood sinking into the snow like dye in water.

  Shale pumped his rifle’s forestock and let the spent cartridge clink into the frost. His breath came hard, his hands colder than they should’ve been.

  That had been the last cabbage. He stooped, stuffing the frostbitten head into his satchel.

  Sniff. Sniff-sniff.

  The soft sound behind him wasn’t stealthy. It wasn’t meant to be. Shale turned and there it was—a mutt, mangy and rib-thin, padding toward the dead man. White fur streaked with soot, ears half-flattened.

  The dog nosed at the man’s limp hand, gave it a nudge, then whined low and guttural.

  Wake, it said in the rough tongue of beasts. Not words exactly, but intent—loud in Shale’s mind like a distant bell. Wake now. Get up. Make warm. Feed.

  The mutt licked the man’s wrist. Its tail gave a slow, uncertain wag.

  “He’s dead,” Shale said, voice hoarse. “I put him down.”

  The dog whined louder, pawing at the coat sleeve. Up! Up! Cold now. Cold!

  Shale knelt in the blood-flecked snow. His dryad gift—curse, more like—let him feel the dog’s grief swell and tremble. Not a thought, not truly. Just a wave of need.

  “He won’t wake.”

  He wakes before, the dog argued, more pleading now. Wakes always. Brings food. Smells good. Good man. Strong hands. Good man.

  Shale’s jaw clenched. “He nearly killed me.”

  The dog paused, tilting its head. Food?

  Shale shook his head. “Your master wanted me dead for a handful of cabbages. For this scrap of frostbitten dirt.”

  The dog licked the man’s cheek, nose twitching. Smells wrong. Sleep smell. Not-sleep smell. But he wakes! Wakes always.

  “No.” Shale stared at the mutt, feeling the rawness of its confusion. “He won’t.”

  The dog’s ears dropped. Its tail curled under, but it pressed close against the corpse, curling beside the dead man’s ribs. Stay. Warm him. Wait.

  “You’ll starve here,” Shale muttered. “You think he loved you? You were just another tool to him.”

  Good man, the dog repeated, with the desperate certainty only beasts knew. Shared scraps. Let me sleep close. Scratched ears. Good man.

  Shale’s throat tightened, though he cursed himself for it. “He kept you chained, didn’t he?”

  Chained good. Safe. Warm. Food comes. Always.

  Shale rose, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. He stared at the dog a long moment. Watched the shivering mass of white fur, watched it nuzzle against the dead man’s ribs.

  “I’ll never understand you creatures,” he muttered.

  The dog lifted its head, meeting his gaze one last time. Wait here. He wakes soon.

  Shale pulled the satchel strap tight across his chest and turned away.

  “Die with him if you want,” he said. “It’s done.”

  The mutt gave a soft, hopeful whine, curling tighter against the body, eyes fixed on the horizon where the man might rise again.

  Shale walked back into the sleet, the weight of the cabbage in his pack heavier than it had any right to be.

  He Dreamed of Justice and want to explore more of my writing, I Michael Regal have more published works available on Amazon. I specialize in gritty, character-driven stories that dive deep into the clash of cultures, faith, and war across the centuries.

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