Steel and Sorrow

As I moved through the devastated village, I searched house by house, seeking out any survivors that might have been spared from the bandit's rampage. To my relief, I found women, young boys, and men - all of them appearing to be less than fifty in number.

Gathering these malnourished figures, I led them out into the open, their hollow eyes and gaunt frames a testament to the hardships they had endured. Surveying their weary forms, I felt a pang of pity, for these were the true victims of the bandit scourge that had ravaged their land.

The survivors turned to me, their expressions not of relief, but a haunting mix of disbelief and devastation. There was no joy in their eyes, only the hollow emptiness of those who have endured unimaginable suffering. Families torn apart, children slaughtered, daughters and wives violated - the weight of their trauma hung heavy in the air.

"Go to your liege lord, tell him of what happened, and he will send help until you get back on your feet," Daemon continued, still not fully understanding the depth of the villagers' thoughts and emotions.

As I spoke of seeking aid from their liege lord, a young girl no older than twenty, suddenly lashed out. With rage etched across her face, she hurled a stale crust of bread that struck me squarely in the helm.

"Go to our liege lord?" she spat, her voice dripping with bitter contempt. "He will send help? You think he will care? The only thing those accursed demons think of is taking taxes and leaving us to starve and die! And now, what will we do when he comes to take his taxes? What do we do? Should we open our legs for his tax collectors as well?

Her words struck me with the force of a thunderbolt. I had not anticipated such raw, unadulterated fury from a mere peasant - an act of defiance that would normally be considered suicidal. But as I gazed upon the defeated, lifeless expressions of the surrounding villagers, I realized they no longer cared. They had been broken, their spirit crushed by the unrelenting cruelty they had endured.

There was nothing left for them, no hope of a better future. I had thought to save them, to guide them to safety, but in their eyes I saw only the resigned acceptance of those who had given up on the world. This was not the joyous reunion I had envisioned, but a somber testament to the depths of human suffering, where even being delivered from the clutches of evil offered no solace.

Daemon stood there, unsure of how to respond to the young woman's outpouring of rage and despair. Normally, he would have had little patience for such defiance from a mere peasant, but the haunted expressions on the faces of the surrounding villagers gave him pause.

He stepped closer, and the villagers instinctively retreated. The girl's chin quivered, her defiance waning. She closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable punishment. But instead of cold steel, she felt warmth—the press of iron-clad arms around her trembling form.

Daemon's embrace was unexpected, a paradox of strength and tenderness. His armor, once menacing, now cradled her like a protective shell. The villagers gasped, their collective breath held. The knight's touch was not harsh; it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning soul.

And then it happened—the girl's facade cracked. Tears spilled down her dirt-streaked cheeks, mingling with the grime. All her anger, her grief, her defiance melted away. She surrendered, her body going limp in Daemon's arms. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe.

Without a word, the knight turned and began to make his way towards the house where the other women and children had gathered, instructing the men to collect and burn the bodies of the fallen bandits. 

As Daemon approached the dilapidated house, a familiar face emerged—the boy who had escaped the village and found him. "Lad, come here!" Daemon beckoned, and the boy hurried over. "Sir Knight, what happened to the bandits? Are they dead?"

"Yes, lad," Daemon replied, "I've taken care of them. You needn't worry. Go find your family; they must be beside themselves with concern for you."

The boy's eyes widened. "I've asked around, and they say my mother is being held in that very house." He pointed toward the crumbling structure in the distance.

Daemon's heart sank as he recognized the house. Caught in a moral dilemma, he hesitated. How could he break the news to this innocent boy?

"What's your name, kid?" Daemon asked, trying to buy time.

"Alrick, ser," the boy replied.

Daemon weighed his options. He could tell Alrick the truth—that his mother was likely exhausted, traumatized, and violated by the bandits. Or he could preserve the Blackstone Legion's legacy by transforming Alrick from a sheep into a wolf cub right then and there.

Meeting Alrick gaze, Daemon made his decision. "You see that house, Alrick?"

Alrick nodded, anticipation in his eyes.

"That's where the bandits kept the women" Daemon said, his voice steady. "Husbands and children killed, and then they were violated over and over again"

Alrick's face paled. Deep down, he knew the truth—the bandits had killed his father during the attack and taken his mother on the second day. Denial had shielded him until now, but Ser Knight's words shattered that illusion.

Alrick trembled. What could he do? He wanted to die, yet fear held him back. Daemon squatted beside him, his tone unforgiving. "It's all your fault, Alrick."

"You let them take your mother and kill your father," Daemon continued, his voice low right beside his ear. "You didn't even fight alongside your father."

Alrick stammered, "I'm just a child. What could I—"

Before he could finish, the back of Daemon's gauntlet struck him hard, knocking him to the ground.

"That's no excuse," Daemon said sharply. "I took my first life at twelve. Cowards like you always find excuses. 'I'm just a child,' 'I'm just a boy,' 'I'm just a farmer.' Pathetic."

Daemon's words hung in the air, their weight sinking into Alrick's bones. The boy's nose bled. He watched as the knight turned away, armor creaking with each step.

Alrick's gaze followed Daemon's retreating figure. The truth had cut deeper than any blade. He wasn't just a child; he was a coward who had fled when honor demanded courage.

The bandits had taken everything, but Alrick's own weakness had cost him more.

As the forest swallowed Daemon, Alrick clung to the pain. It fueled something within him. He wiped his bloody nose, tasting iron, and stepped toward the gnarled trees.