The Wolves
Irun madly through the darkness. I run from the flickers of torchlight. I am running from the screaming, from the blood. I am running from my fear. I don’t know where I am going—I just run, panicked, gasping.
What have I done? What have I allowed them to turn me into?
I wish I could drift away like a cloud, but I cannot. I wish I had wings to fly, but I do not. I wish I were braver, strong enough to say no—but I am not.
I am a sinner. I will repent for what I have done.
It is by the stream where I finally stop running. I kneel in the icy water, my knees pierced by centuries of rounded stone. And there, with fire rising behind me, I pray for my soul. I pray the way my mother taught me long ago.
I plead for the sun to rise, for the ravage of a village to end. I ask to be returned to my own bed, to be wrapped in my mother’s quilt, to lie safely beneath the rafters my father built.
And as I weep—as my tears join the sorrows of my appeal to the gods—I hear the voice of the man I hate. He is calling to me, shouting praise for my ghastly deed.
I abandon my unfinished prayer by the stream. I run from my captain’s voice. Madness and terror billow like smoke through the air. I see him there—he who dares to say no to the carnage.
I try to stop it, but I am only a spectator to a play. The actors do not hear my warnings. They go on heedlessly, speaking their lines until the curtain falls. The ending is inevitable—the hero, standing alone before the beast.
I will not deny it.
I am a participant in this carnage, in this tragedy.
I am a witness to the ending of his life—and the beginning of our grief.
—Collin, June 21, 501
The moon’s weak beam could not pierce the dense canopy overhead.
Torches and lanterns only deepened the gloom, casting elongated shadows that flickered with a life of their own.
The midsummer night clung to him, stifling and oppressive.
Heat amplified every scent—the damp earth, sap seeping from torn branches, the rot of fallen leaves, stale sweat, and drying blood.
The air vibrated with the chorus of night-loving insects—buzzing, chirping, humming, scuttling. Their strange symphony rose into the canopy like an offering, muffling the weary footfalls of the trudging survivors.
Collin stumbled. A hand caught his elbow before he collapsed.
His skull throbbed, his eyes felt ready to burst from their sockets.
Every joint burned, every muscle screamed.
He willed his heavy eyelids to stay open, though part of him longed to crumple into the roots, to disappear beneath brambles, to rot and become part of the forest floor.
He turned his head. Aries. His best friend—his brother in this life and the next.
Aries pressed a waterskin into his hands, his voice low and ragged. “Drink.”
Collin uncapped the nozzle and drank greedily.
He coughed as the water hit his throat—it tasted sour, metallic, as if it had absorbed the grime of the night.
He pushed the stopper back in, wiping his mouth with a trembling sleeve.
Blood smeared across his forearm. His? He couldn’t remember. There had been too much—too fast.
Slinging the waterskin over his shoulder, he looked up. Aries was already ahead, bent under the weight of a wounded boy slung across his back. Always Aries. Even when limping from his own injuries, he sought out those in need—especially the smallest amongst them.
Collin had followed Aries into the burning hut. Lieutenant Tate had ordered them to set the next charge and move on, but Aries ignored him—there were children screaming inside that blazing shell of a home.
When Collin forced the door open, smoke swallowed him like dragon’s breath.
Aries was already retreating from the flames, cradling a limp child in his arms. Without hesitation, Collin took the girl, her weight alarmingly slack.
He expected Aries to follow him out—but instead, Aries turned and vanished back into the inferno.
Choking on the smoke, nearly blinded by the heat, Collin stumbled into the open. He laid the girl a few yards away, lungs heaving, eyes burning. As he turned to re-enter the flames—
—the hut exploded. A fiery blast tore upward into the night, scorching the sky.
Collin screamed. His throat ripped raw. No one could survive that. No one. Still, he staggered toward the wreckage, ready to throw himself into the fire for what scraps of hope remained.
And then—through the firestorm—a silhouette emerged.
It was Aries. Charred, staggering, but alive. A child in each arm.
Collin would never forget that moment: the horror, the miracle, the sheer, staggering courage of his friend. The memory was branded into him, as indelible as fire into wood.
“Leave me alone!”
Collin jerked to a halt. The waterskin swung on its strap and struck his injured hip, sending a jolt of pain through him. He turned, forcing his way to the rear of the column—past smug-faced guards and hollow-eyed Nesaea refugees. After all they’d suffered, nothing would keep him from her.
Even in the gloom, he saw her, Dragonfly, crouched low on the narrow trail carved through choking undergrowth. A man's shadow loomed over her.
Collin surged forward, shoving the guard with all the strength he had left. The man staggered, flailing to regain his balance. Then he retaliated, grabbing Collin’s arm and slamming him back against a tree.
A cry tore from his throat. Alarmed gasps echoed through the forest.
The guard’s face loomed into view, bathed in a pale trickle of moonlight—twisted into a sneer of contempt. Collin flinched at the man’s rancid breath, but after the night they’d survived, he had no fear left to give.
“Morr, leave them alone, you idiot! We don’t have time for this,” barked Captain Owen from the dark.
A long pause. Then Morr released him and stomped off, shouting orders at the straggling marchers.
Dragonfly remained crouched where he’d found her, trembling. Gently, Collin knelt and gathered her into his arms. He moved with care—terrified of hurting her more. Slowly, he helped her to her feet. She sagged against him.
He didn’t care who was watching. He wrapped his arms around her and held tight.
He felt... nothing. No terror, no grief, no rage. Just a dull emptiness. But within that void, she sparked something—faint but unmistakable.
Love.
And with it, other truths bled through. He felt protective. He felt longing. He remembered the pain she’d caused, and still, he wanted her beside him in whatever came next.
Dragonfly made him feel again. And so he held her tighter, matching the desperate strength of her grip on him.
When the chaos began, Dragonfly had been at Collin’s side. But in the blink of an eye, a guard swept her away—driving her deeper into the village. Collin lost her in the crush of bodies, in the rising panic.
Then Captain Eric’s voice exploded through the heat of dusk, “Burn it all to the ground! Kill all who resist!”
The veteran guards moved quickly, breaking the novice wolves into pairs.
That was when Guard Tate took Collin and Aries under his watchful command.
With the man’s cold eyes on them, they set the charges, packed and primed the black powder.
One by one, huts were marked for destruction.
As the outer walls caught flame, Tate allowed them—reluctantly—to pull sleeping villagers to safety.
It had been early evening when the wolves surged into the square of Nesaea. Most of the villagers were still outdoors, sharing a meal, rounding up children, savoring the last light of day. The heat had driven them from their homes—a small mercy, perhaps.
Those inside were awake, vigilant. Some ran as the first huts fell. Others cowered inside their doorways, paralyzed by fear. Only when the flames began to lick the walls did they emerge—driven out by smoke, chased by fire.
When Dragonfly finally stopped shaking, she raised her head and looked up at Collin. Her hair was caked with blood and soot. A gash bloomed beneath one eye; a bruise darkened her jaw. Her lips trembled as she whispered, “He’s gone.”
Tears blurred Collin’s vision. He pulled her close and pressed his face into the crown of her head.
“Yes,” he breathed. “He is dead.”
“Move out!” Captain Eric’s voice cracked through the trees like a whip. “Captain Sol expects us back before sunrise!”
Even the insects paused their droning. Collin flinched. Eric’s voice still held the power to make his heart tremble.
But Dragonfly was there—arms around him, grounding him. She feared Eric too, but somehow, she drew courage from their closeness. She found his hand and laced her fingers through his, then began walking.
They had fallen far behind—just a scattering of weary Nesaea women straggled nearby. Collin followed Dragonfly like a man led from shadow into light. He didn’t know who she sought in the crowd, and he didn’t care.
They slipped past Rhea and came upon Sky.
Sky was cradling a baby, its soft whimpers barely audible above the shuffle of feet. If Collin hadn’t known the truth, he might have found the image tender. But he did know. He knew how the child had come to be in her arms.
In the flickering torchlight, he saw the burns marring Sky’s hands and forearms. Still, she rocked the baby gently, whispering to it until the cries subsided into little hiccupping sounds.
After Collin and Aries had pulled the three children from the burning house, fate split them apart. In the confusion, Collin slipped from the reach of Tate’s watchful eyes. While the guard pushed Aries toward a crumbling barn to set the next explosive,
Collin was drawn by a different sound—women screaming.