The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 29 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 30: March!
The morning sun bled across the horizon, casting the battlefield in bronze. King Thomaz stood tall upon his chariot, his heavy cloak snapping in the wind, a dark gleeful grin cutting across his face as he surveyed the sea of steel before him.
Ten thousand men, iron-clad and unyielding, stretched in formation across the plain. Their helms glinted, their spears bristled like a forest of thorns. To his side, Rubian stood, eyes sweeping the lines. His face was unreadable, carved from stone, giving nothing of thought or feeling away.
A captain’s shout split the air, sharp and commanding.
The response came like thunder,twenty thousand boots striking the earth in unison, a sound like a colossal drum echoing across the plain. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the rhythm as the sea of soldiers parted in perfect precision, a corridor forming for the king’s chariot to pass through.
Thomaz’s grin widened as he guided his steeds forward, the wheels of the chariot crunching over packed earth. His men stood rigid, armour rattling faintly with the tremor of their movement.
Rubian raised two fingers to his lips and whistled, low and sharp. His black stallion broke into a trot, gliding to match the chariot’s pace. Without a pause in motion, Rubian swung himself effortlessly into the saddle, his cloak snapping behind him. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, but his eyes remained fixed on the endless lines of soldiers, ever watchful.
“March!” several captains bellowed as one.
The command surged through the ranks like a spark through dry tinder. Shields clashed, spears lowered, banners unfurled. Ten thousand men stepped forward as a single body, the ground trembling with the weight of their march, their voices rising in a roar that seemed to shake the sky.
King Thomaz lifted his arm, the grin never leaving his face. Behind him, his army moved like a tide of iron and fire, a storm he alone commanded.
Thomaz raised his fist high, and at once the march halted. Ten thousand boots struck the earth and stilled in unison, the silence that followed heavier than the drumbeat of their march. Dust hung in the air, shimmering in the morning light.
The king turned on his chariot, his dark cloak swirling, his eyes fever-bright as he gazed over the endless ranks of iron before him. The grin twisting his face spread wider, almost manic, his voice rising like a whip crack across the plain.
“Listen well!” he bellowed, the words carrying with venomous clarity. “Do not think of settlements. Do not think of villages. There are no innocents. There are no allies. There is only the enemy, because I say so.”
A ripple of unease ran faintly through the lines, quickly stifled as Thomaz’s eyes burned over them. He leaned forward, the grin warping into something darker, spittle glistening at his lips as his voice dropped into a guttural snarl.
“If I see hesitation in your ranks… if I see mercy in your eyes… if I see one of you disobey—” He jabbed a gauntleted finger out toward them, the gesture sharp and vicious. “—I will cut you down myself.”
His hand dropped to the edge of the chariot, clawing the iron rim as his voice climbed again, shrill with fury.
“And when you fall, I will not stop there. I will drag your families into the open. Your wives. Your children. I will see them broken as punishment for your weakness.”
A hush fell over the army, suffocating and absolute. No one dared move, no one dared breathe wrong beneath the weight of his words.
Then Thomaz straightened, spreading his arms wide, the manic grin snapping back into place.
“So march, my dogs! March, and burn the world! For there is nothing but the will of your king!”
The air trembled with his voice, a dark tide rising, and as the captains echoed his command, the army moved again, a storm of iron and fire unleashed upon the land.
The firelight inside the king’s tent licked across maps pinned beneath daggers, shadows twitching like restless things. King Thomaz stood over the table, his grin sharp and feverish as he traced a gauntleted finger across the valleys and roads.
“Littleton…” he muttered, tapping the mark until the parchment dented. “And Paulton. Both small. Both weak. They’ll crumble like dried leaves.”
Rubian stepped forward, silent until the king’s words hung in the air, then let his own voice cut through—low, steady, edged with quiet conviction.
“My king, Littleton, is the better prize. Storehouses filled, livestock penned, timber stacked high. Take it first. Feed the army. Then burn Paulton slowly, as warning.”
Thomaz paused, the wild grin slipping into a frown. For a heartbeat, it seemed Rubian’s logic had rooted itself. His eyes narrowed, studying the map, the hunger in them shifting from slaughter to consideration.
Then, with a sudden bark of laughter, he slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the daggers. “No! You think too small, Rubian. Ten thousand men, and you would march them all to a single village?” His voice rose to a roar. “They would drown Littleton in iron before the fight even began.”
He spun on his heel, cloak snapping like a whip. “No, we split the tide. Ten thousand will be two storms instead of one. Five thousand with me to Paulton. Five thousand with you to Littleton.”
Rubian’s eyes flickered, unreadable. His face remained blank, though the braziers caught a glint deep within his gaze.
Thomaz stabbed a dagger into the map, the point pinning Paulton’s name, then another into Littleton with savage force. “We strike both at once. Two blows from the same fist. Let them learn that there is no safe corner, no mercy, no time to plead.”
He leaned over the table, knuckles white on the wood, breath hissing through clenched teeth. “While they choke on fire in Littleton, I’ll be gutting Paulton myself.”
He straightened, eyes burning, and jabbed a finger at Rubian. “You will lead my other storm. Burn their fields, butcher their kin, take their harvest, but leave nothing standing. Do you hear me?”
Rubian inclined his head slowly. “As you command, sire.” His voice was steady, obedient.
Outside the king’s tent, torches hissed in the evening air as the army split. Captains barked names and orders, pulling five thousand men into formation under Rubian’s command. The soldiers moved with grim reluctance, the weight of exhaustion clinging to their iron-clad bodies.
Rubian emerged from the tent and climbed onto his black stallion, his pupil-less grey eyes scanning the gathered mass. He said nothing at first, only stared, his expression as blank and lifeless as carved stone. The silence stretched until the men shifted uneasily, metal clattering like nervous teeth.
One soldier, just one, let his eyes linger on Rubian a heartbeat too long. That was all it took.
Rubian’s hand twitched lazily, and a thread of grey fire snapped from his palm. It struck the man full in the chest. His scream cut the night as his body ignited from within, the flames burning without smoke, eating flesh and bone in seconds. By the time the fire died, nothing but a twisted husk remained.
The silence after was absolute. Five thousand men stood frozen, staring forward, afraid even to breathe.
Rubian’s voice finally cut through, soft but carrying like a blade across steel.
“You are not men to me. You are not soldiers. You are fuel. Ash waiting to fall.” His gaze swept across them, cold and pitiless. “Look at me, and you burn. Fail me, and you die screaming.”
He let the words hang, the corpse still sizzling in the dirt. Then, with a sharp tug on the reins, he wheeled his stallion around. “We march at dawn. Keep your boots moving. Keep your mouths shut. Or you’ll feed the fire before the enemy does.”
The captains dared not speak. Orders trickled down the line in hushed voices, and the soldiers shifted into a grim, rigid silence, every man staring straight ahead as if the simple act of not seeing their commander might preserve their lives.
At the head of the formation, Rubian’s face remained calm, unreadable. But inside, the elemental spirits clawed at him, their power surging with the rush of violence. His lips twitched into the faintest smile. Five thousand lives under his hand — five thousand tools, five thousand sacrifices, if he willed it.
The column of five thousand trudged through the night, iron boots pounding the earth in grim rhythm. No voices carried; no songs, no muttered talk. Rubian’s silence weighed heavier than chains, and the men moved like shades, obedient, terrified, unseen.
At the head of the formation, Rubian rode his stallion with a statuesque calm, cloak trailing like a strip of night. His pale eyes roamed ceaselessly over the lines, the smallest twitch in his jaw enough to send shivers through an entire company. None dared to falter. None dared to meet his gaze.
When at last the ridge broke, the village of Littleton lay before them, a scatter of timber houses cupped in a shallow valley. Smoke curled from chimneys, soft and innocent, as though the world was still whole. Lights glowed in windows, tiny warmth's against the great dark tide rolling down upon them.
Rubian raised a hand, and the army froze as though shackled by an unseen chain. He sat motionless for a long moment, eyes drinking in the settlement below, expression unreadable. Then he spoke, voice soft but carrying like a blade’s whisper:
“Surround it.”
Captains repeated the order in urgent whispers, the wave of command moving swiftly down the lines. Companies broke apart with chilling precision, steel glinting in the torchlight as the sea of men flowed around the valley.
From the ridge, the glow of Littleton seemed suddenly fragile, swallowed by the tightening ring of shadows. The villagers slept unaware, their world shrinking by the heartbeat.
Rubian remained at the centre, mounted and still, watching the circle close. The elemental spirits coiled beneath his skin, hungry and restless. His gaze lingered on the village as though it were already burning.
He allowed himself the faintest smile.
“There will be no dawn for them,” he murmured.
The half of the army under Thomaz thundered down the hill toward Paulton, the ground trembling beneath ten thousand iron-shod boots. Smoke already curled from torched outbuildings at the outskirts, black against the orange sky of dusk. Thomaz rode at the front of his chariot, grin wide and manic, eyes glittering with anticipation.
He raised his fist high, and the army’s momentum surged like a living beast. Men roared, some with fear, some with bloodlust, all caught in the current of their king’s fury. Thomaz laughed, a sharp, dark sound that carried across the fields, mingling with the screams of the villagers who stumbled from their homes too late.
Archers fired into the fleeing masses. Soldiers swung axes and swords, hacking down anyone in their path. Thomaz leaned forward in his chariot, watching the chaos unfold, savoring it. “No mercy!” he shouted, voice cracking with excitement. “The world bends only to those who take it!”
Horses trampled gardens, smoke from burning roofs filling the air. Thomaz’s cavalry swept through the village like a scythe, knocking over anything that dared resist. The village square was a furnace of shouts, splintering wood, and dying cries.
Rubian’s style could not have been more different. Where Rubian sought precision, containment, the suffocating inevitability of encirclement, Thomaz thrived in total, gleeful destruction. Every strike, every fire set, every terrified scream fed him, his grin widening with each life snuffed out or building reduced to ash.
From his chariot, he glimpsed the smoke curling from the horizon, he knew Rubian’s men would be doing the same elsewhere, silent and terrifying, yet Thomaz paid it no mind. This was his domain: chaos made flesh, and Paulton would burn under his hand.
The soldiers followed without question, some out of fear, most out of the violent thrill that Thomaz’s mania inspired. There was no subtlety here, no strategy beyond raw, unbridled devastation. Thomaz would make certain that every villager, every structure, every trace of resistance felt the full weight of his wrath.
And in that destruction, he was alive.
Littleton…
The soldiers moved like a living cage around Littleton, iron boots crunching against dirt and stone. Rubian rode along the perimeter, pale eyes scanning the terrified villagers, lips curling in faint amusement. He raised a hand, and from his fingertips burst small spheres of grey fire, hissing and striking the town hall and school. Timber cracked and splintered, windows shattering in silent screams.
“You think you can hide?” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You will learn fear… you will burn.”
Some villagers, pushed to desperation, grabbed farming tools and sticks, attempting to break through the tightening ring. A mob surged, screaming, but Rubian didn’t flinch. He flicked his wrist, and a blast of grey fire arced through the crowd. Flesh sizzled, screams cut short. Those who survived shrank back against their homes, rage turning to terror. He allowed himself a brief, dark smirk as the perimeter closed further.
Paulton…
Meanwhile, Thomaz rode his chariot through the heart of Paulton, the village already smouldering. Screams of villagers ran through the air, mixing with the roar of his army. He raised a hand, and his soldiers hacked through doors, overturned carts, and set barns ablaze. Thomaz laughed, delighting in the chaos, the noise feeding his manic energy.
“Let them feel my hand!” he cried. “Do not leave a home, a hearth, or a shadow standing!”
Villagers fought back, some brave enough to throw stones or swing axes at the soldiers. Thomaz only leaned forward on his chariot, urging his cavalry to strike harder, faster. Each resisted scream, each futile act of defiance, fuelled his unrestrained thrill.
Littleton…
Back at Littleton, Rubian’s movements were surgical, terrifyingly precise. A second volley of grey fire struck the edges of the town square, igniting carts and stalls. He rode to the front of the encirclement, face expressionless as villagers pressed against the walls of their homes, trapped.
“Rage is useless,” he whispered to them, voice low enough that only the nearest could hear. “You cannot escape. You are nothing.”
The mob’s fury turned inward; fists pounded on doors, voices shouted in vain, but every attempt to resist only drew more fire. The villagers’ fear became a living thing, feeding Rubian’s spirits, coiling beneath his skin like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Paulton…
Across the fields, Thomaz revelled in the frenzy. The village was chaos incarnate: flames, blood, and smoke twisted together. Thomaz pointed toward the church steeple, and his cavalry surged forward, smashing down doors, dragging terrified families into the dirt, forcing obedience through terror and pain.
His eyes gleamed with manic delight. Where Rubian imposed control, he unleashed destruction. Both villages would fall, but in vastly different ways: one through calculated fear, the other through ecstatic devastation.
Littleton…
The villagers’ anger finally broke. One man, gaunt from hunger but blazing with desperation, lunged at Rubian with a rusted axe. He swung it overhead, roaring, as if sheer rage could cut through the circle of steel.
Rubian didn’t flinch. He stepped aside with inhuman speed, catching the man’s wrist before the blade even descended. His grip was vice-like, bone-crushing. The villager screamed as Rubian twisted, snapping the joint with a sound like splitting wood.
“You thought you had a choice,” Rubian whispered, his voice chillingly calm. He raised his free hand, grey fire curling along his palm like liquid smoke. “You don’t.”
He pressed the flame into the man’s chest. Flesh bubbled and hissed, the man’s screams cut short as his body collapsed to ash and cinder. The watching villagers fell silent, horror-stricken. Rubian let the silence hang heavy, eyes sweeping over them all like a blade across throats.
“Remember this,” he said softly. “Rage makes you weak. Fear makes you mine.”
The encirclement closed tighter, methodical, sealing Littleton’s fate in silence and smoldering ruin.
Paulton…
At Paulton, the fires raged unchecked. Soldiers dragged villagers into the street, cutting down anyone too slow to obey. Thomaz stood on his chariot, drinking in the madness like wine.
Then, amid the chaos, a voice rang out. Hoarse, cracking, but full of venom:
“You scar-faced prick!”
The words cut deeper than any blade. Thomaz froze. His grin faltered. His hand trembled as it brushed against the deep claw marks carved down his face, an old wound, a reminder of weakness. His eyes twitched, then bulged with fury.
“Who said that?” His voice cracked with rage. “WHO SAID THAT?!”
He leapt from the chariot, shoving soldiers aside, manic eyes scanning the crowd. A young villager tried to run, and Thomaz descended upon him with unhinged violence, dragging him down into the dirt. He slammed the man’s head again and again against the cobblestones until bone split and blood painted the street.
“Look at me!” Thomaz shrieked, spittle flying, voice raw. “LOOK at me when you speak!”
When the body stopped twitching, Thomaz stood, chest heaving, eyes wild. His soldiers stared in silence, unsettled even in their brutality. For a heartbeat, the manic joy was gone, replaced with something darker, uglier, a wound in the king’s pride that festered beneath the scars.
Then, slowly, Thomaz’s grin crept back, twisted and bloody. He raised his arms to the sky, laughing again, and the slaughter resumed with renewed madness.
Littleton…
By nightfall, Littleton was a husk of itself. Smoke drifted from collapsed rooftops, the black skeletons of the hall and school still glowing red beneath the ashes. The air stank of blood and charred wood. Survivors, few, trembling, broken, were dragged into the square. Mothers clutched children; old men sagged under their own weight.
Rubian stood before them, arms clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He looked more like a judge than a conqueror.
“One voice must remain to speak of what happened here,” he said softly, almost as though he pitied them. His eyes flicked to a boy no older than twelve, dirt streaking his face. “You.”
The boy blinked, stunned, not understanding.
Rubian gestured once. His soldiers descended with ruthless efficiency, blades flashing, screams cut short. Blood soaked into the dirt until only silence remained. The boy stared, wide-eyed, as his world ended around him. Rubian crouched down, voice like a whispering flame:
“Remember what you saw. Tell them Rubian left you alive.”
The child nodded through tears, and Rubian stood, already turning away. His army moved in precise formation, leaving behind only corpses, cinders, and a single trembling witness.
Paulton…
Paulton was worse. The village burned bright as a funeral pyre, black smoke blotting the stars. Thomaz strode through the ruin with a predator’s swagger, dragging his scarred fingers along burning walls, his grin manic and wild.
The survivors, bloodied, beaten, hopeless, were rounded into the square. Soldiers jeered, some kicking villagers to their knees. Thomaz mounted his chariot and raised his hand.
“I want only one voice left to cry of this day!” he bellowed, his laughter carrying over the sobbing. “The rest… the rest feed the crows!”
He pointed at a trembling woman clutching her baby. For a moment, the soldiers hesitated, unsure if he meant the woman or the child. Thomaz barked out a shrill laugh.
“Not her. Him.” He pointed at a man with one arm broken and dangling useless. “He will live. All others… DEAD!”
Chaos erupted. The square became a slaughterhouse, the villagers’ screams drowned by the roars of soldiers eager to obey. Thomaz drank in the horror, throwing his head back in hysterical laughter. The chosen survivor fell to his knees, sobbing as blood and fire surrounded him.
Thomaz leaned down from his chariot, his scar twisting grotesquely as he hissed:
“Remember my face. Remember the scars. Tell the world King Thomaz gave you this mercy.”
Two villages burned, two nightmares unleashed. By dawn, Rubian and Thomaz marched their halves of the army back toward the rendezvous point. Smoke still rose behind them, twin plumes marking the ruin they left.
Rubian’s column was silent, soldiers moving in grim lockstep beneath his cold gaze. Thomaz’s column was rowdy, drunk on blood and fire, their king laughing and shouting at the head of his chariot.
When the two forces converged, the full weight of ten thousand men pressed once more upon the land. Survivors’ tales would spread, carried on broken voices trembling with horror. Rubian wanted fear to cripple hearts before steel ever touched them. Thomaz wanted his name carved into memory with fire and blood.
The two halves of the army converged in a broad valley, smoke from Paulton and Littleton still faint on the horizon. The ground shook under the return of ten thousand iron-shod feet.
When Thomaz and Rubian finally stepped into the same tent, only them, the map table between, they stood like two shadows from very different storms.
Thomaz’s armor was streaked with soot and blood. His eyes were fever-bright, his clawed scars swollen red from the heat of the flames he had reveled in. He paced like a caged animal, laughing under his breath as though the screams of Paulton still rang sweet in his ears.
Rubian was the opposite. His armor was polished, unmarked. His face carried no hint of the ruin he had orchestrated. He simply watched the king, hands behind his back, expression cool and unreadable. The faint scent of smoke clung to him, but he wore it like a cloak of inevitability.
Thomaz slammed both fists onto the map table, making it rattle.
“Two villages gone! Did you see them burn, Rubian? Did you smell it? That is what power tastes like!”
Rubian tilted his head slightly, voice low and even.
“Power is not in the ash, my liege. It is in the silence that follows. Fear will spread now, faster than any soldier’s march. The survivors will carry your name further than fire ever could.”
Thomaz sneered, spittle catching in his scars.
“Fear? I don’t want them just afraid… I want them broken. I want them to choke on the memory of me.”
Rubian stepped closer, shadows curling at his heels, his eyes like cold steel.
“They already do. But if you burn everything too quickly, my king, there will be nothing left to rule. A dead land yields no throne.”
For a moment, the tent was heavy with silence. Thomaz’s eyes darted, fury twitching in the corners. Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter.
“Always the whisper in the dark, Rubian. Always the snake.” His grin widened, manic, feral. “But you are my snake. And together, we will drown this land in blood.”
Rubian didn’t smile. He inclined his head, voice low, almost inaudible.
“Blood is plentiful. It’s what comes after that matters.”
Thomaz didn’t hear, or didn’t care. He was already lost in the music of his own laughter, pounding the map table with a fist, naming the next villages he wanted to see burn.
Chapter 30: March!
The morning sun bled across the horizon, casting the battlefield in bronze. King Thomaz stood tall upon his chariot, his heavy cloak snapping in the wind, a dark gleeful grin cutting across his face as he surveyed the sea of steel before him.
Ten thousand men, iron-clad and unyielding, stretched in formation across the plain. Their helms glinted, their spears bristled like a forest of thorns. To his side, Rubian stood, eyes sweeping the lines. His face was unreadable, carved from stone, giving nothing of thought or feeling away.
A captain’s shout split the air, sharp and commanding.
The response came like thunder,twenty thousand boots striking the earth in unison, a sound like a colossal drum echoing across the plain. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the rhythm as the sea of soldiers parted in perfect precision, a corridor forming for the king’s chariot to pass through.
Thomaz’s grin widened as he guided his steeds forward, the wheels of the chariot crunching over packed earth. His men stood rigid, armour rattling faintly with the tremor of their movement.
Rubian raised two fingers to his lips and whistled, low and sharp. His black stallion broke into a trot, gliding to match the chariot’s pace. Without a pause in motion, Rubian swung himself effortlessly into the saddle, his cloak snapping behind him. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, but his eyes remained fixed on the endless lines of soldiers, ever watchful.
“March!” several captains bellowed as one.
The command surged through the ranks like a spark through dry tinder. Shields clashed, spears lowered, banners unfurled. Ten thousand men stepped forward as a single body, the ground trembling with the weight of their march, their voices rising in a roar that seemed to shake the sky.
King Thomaz lifted his arm, the grin never leaving his face. Behind him, his army moved like a tide of iron and fire, a storm he alone commanded.
Thomaz raised his fist high, and at once the march halted. Ten thousand boots struck the earth and stilled in unison, the silence that followed heavier than the drumbeat of their march. Dust hung in the air, shimmering in the morning light.
The king turned on his chariot, his dark cloak swirling, his eyes fever-bright as he gazed over the endless ranks of iron before him. The grin twisting his face spread wider, almost manic, his voice rising like a whip crack across the plain.
“Listen well!” he bellowed, the words carrying with venomous clarity. “Do not think of settlements. Do not think of villages. There are no innocents. There are no allies. There is only the enemy, because I say so.”
A ripple of unease ran faintly through the lines, quickly stifled as Thomaz’s eyes burned over them. He leaned forward, the grin warping into something darker, spittle glistening at his lips as his voice dropped into a guttural snarl.
“If I see hesitation in your ranks… if I see mercy in your eyes… if I see one of you disobey—” He jabbed a gauntleted finger out toward them, the gesture sharp and vicious. “—I will cut you down myself.”
His hand dropped to the edge of the chariot, clawing the iron rim as his voice climbed again, shrill with fury.
“And when you fall, I will not stop there. I will drag your families into the open. Your wives. Your children. I will see them broken as punishment for your weakness.”
A hush fell over the army, suffocating and absolute. No one dared move, no one dared breathe wrong beneath the weight of his words.
Then Thomaz straightened, spreading his arms wide, the manic grin snapping back into place.
“So march, my dogs! March, and burn the world! For there is nothing but the will of your king!”
The air trembled with his voice, a dark tide rising, and as the captains echoed his command, the army moved again, a storm of iron and fire unleashed upon the land.
The firelight inside the king’s tent licked across maps pinned beneath daggers, shadows twitching like restless things. King Thomaz stood over the table, his grin sharp and feverish as he traced a gauntleted finger across the valleys and roads.
“Littleton…” he muttered, tapping the mark until the parchment dented. “And Paulton. Both small. Both weak. They’ll crumble like dried leaves.”
Rubian stepped forward, silent until the king’s words hung in the air, then let his own voice cut through—low, steady, edged with quiet conviction.
“My king, Littleton, is the better prize. Storehouses filled, livestock penned, timber stacked high. Take it first. Feed the army. Then burn Paulton slowly, as warning.”
Thomaz paused, the wild grin slipping into a frown. For a heartbeat, it seemed Rubian’s logic had rooted itself. His eyes narrowed, studying the map, the hunger in them shifting from slaughter to consideration.
Then, with a sudden bark of laughter, he slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the daggers. “No! You think too small, Rubian. Ten thousand men, and you would march them all to a single village?” His voice rose to a roar. “They would drown Littleton in iron before the fight even began.”
He spun on his heel, cloak snapping like a whip. “No, we split the tide. Ten thousand will be two storms instead of one. Five thousand with me to Paulton. Five thousand with you to Littleton.”
Rubian’s eyes flickered, unreadable. His face remained blank, though the braziers caught a glint deep within his gaze.
Thomaz stabbed a dagger into the map, the point pinning Paulton’s name, then another into Littleton with savage force. “We strike both at once. Two blows from the same fist. Let them learn that there is no safe corner, no mercy, no time to plead.”
He leaned over the table, knuckles white on the wood, breath hissing through clenched teeth. “While they choke on fire in Littleton, I’ll be gutting Paulton myself.”
He straightened, eyes burning, and jabbed a finger at Rubian. “You will lead my other storm. Burn their fields, butcher their kin, take their harvest, but leave nothing standing. Do you hear me?”
Rubian inclined his head slowly. “As you command, sire.” His voice was steady, obedient.
Outside the king’s tent, torches hissed in the evening air as the army split. Captains barked names and orders, pulling five thousand men into formation under Rubian’s command. The soldiers moved with grim reluctance, the weight of exhaustion clinging to their iron-clad bodies.
Rubian emerged from the tent and climbed onto his black stallion, his pupil-less grey eyes scanning the gathered mass. He said nothing at first, only stared, his expression as blank and lifeless as carved stone. The silence stretched until the men shifted uneasily, metal clattering like nervous teeth.
One soldier, just one, let his eyes linger on Rubian a heartbeat too long. That was all it took.
Rubian’s hand twitched lazily, and a thread of grey fire snapped from his palm. It struck the man full in the chest. His scream cut the night as his body ignited from within, the flames burning without smoke, eating flesh and bone in seconds. By the time the fire died, nothing but a twisted husk remained.
The silence after was absolute. Five thousand men stood frozen, staring forward, afraid even to breathe.
Rubian’s voice finally cut through, soft but carrying like a blade across steel.
“You are not men to me. You are not soldiers. You are fuel. Ash waiting to fall.” His gaze swept across them, cold and pitiless. “Look at me, and you burn. Fail me, and you die screaming.”
He let the words hang, the corpse still sizzling in the dirt. Then, with a sharp tug on the reins, he wheeled his stallion around. “We march at dawn. Keep your boots moving. Keep your mouths shut. Or you’ll feed the fire before the enemy does.”
The captains dared not speak. Orders trickled down the line in hushed voices, and the soldiers shifted into a grim, rigid silence, every man staring straight ahead as if the simple act of not seeing their commander might preserve their lives.
At the head of the formation, Rubian’s face remained calm, unreadable. But inside, the elemental spirits clawed at him, their power surging with the rush of violence. His lips twitched into the faintest smile. Five thousand lives under his hand — five thousand tools, five thousand sacrifices, if he willed it.
The column of five thousand trudged through the night, iron boots pounding the earth in grim rhythm. No voices carried; no songs, no muttered talk. Rubian’s silence weighed heavier than chains, and the men moved like shades, obedient, terrified, unseen.
At the head of the formation, Rubian rode his stallion with a statuesque calm, cloak trailing like a strip of night. His pale eyes roamed ceaselessly over the lines, the smallest twitch in his jaw enough to send shivers through an entire company. None dared to falter. None dared to meet his gaze.
When at last the ridge broke, the village of Littleton lay before them, a scatter of timber houses cupped in a shallow valley. Smoke curled from chimneys, soft and innocent, as though the world was still whole. Lights glowed in windows, tiny warmth's against the great dark tide rolling down upon them.
Rubian raised a hand, and the army froze as though shackled by an unseen chain. He sat motionless for a long moment, eyes drinking in the settlement below, expression unreadable. Then he spoke, voice soft but carrying like a blade’s whisper:
“Surround it.”
Captains repeated the order in urgent whispers, the wave of command moving swiftly down the lines. Companies broke apart with chilling precision, steel glinting in the torchlight as the sea of men flowed around the valley.
From the ridge, the glow of Littleton seemed suddenly fragile, swallowed by the tightening ring of shadows. The villagers slept unaware, their world shrinking by the heartbeat.
Rubian remained at the centre, mounted and still, watching the circle close. The elemental spirits coiled beneath his skin, hungry and restless. His gaze lingered on the village as though it were already burning.
He allowed himself the faintest smile.
“There will be no dawn for them,” he murmured.
The half of the army under Thomaz thundered down the hill toward Paulton, the ground trembling beneath ten thousand iron-shod boots. Smoke already curled from torched outbuildings at the outskirts, black against the orange sky of dusk. Thomaz rode at the front of his chariot, grin wide and manic, eyes glittering with anticipation.
He raised his fist high, and the army’s momentum surged like a living beast. Men roared, some with fear, some with bloodlust, all caught in the current of their king’s fury. Thomaz laughed, a sharp, dark sound that carried across the fields, mingling with the screams of the villagers who stumbled from their homes too late.
Archers fired into the fleeing masses. Soldiers swung axes and swords, hacking down anyone in their path. Thomaz leaned forward in his chariot, watching the chaos unfold, savoring it. “No mercy!” he shouted, voice cracking with excitement. “The world bends only to those who take it!”
Horses trampled gardens, smoke from burning roofs filling the air. Thomaz’s cavalry swept through the village like a scythe, knocking over anything that dared resist. The village square was a furnace of shouts, splintering wood, and dying cries.
Rubian’s style could not have been more different. Where Rubian sought precision, containment, the suffocating inevitability of encirclement, Thomaz thrived in total, gleeful destruction. Every strike, every fire set, every terrified scream fed him, his grin widening with each life snuffed out or building reduced to ash.
From his chariot, he glimpsed the smoke curling from the horizon, he knew Rubian’s men would be doing the same elsewhere, silent and terrifying, yet Thomaz paid it no mind. This was his domain: chaos made flesh, and Paulton would burn under his hand.
The soldiers followed without question, some out of fear, most out of the violent thrill that Thomaz’s mania inspired. There was no subtlety here, no strategy beyond raw, unbridled devastation. Thomaz would make certain that every villager, every structure, every trace of resistance felt the full weight of his wrath.
And in that destruction, he was alive.
Littleton…
The soldiers moved like a living cage around Littleton, iron boots crunching against dirt and stone. Rubian rode along the perimeter, pale eyes scanning the terrified villagers, lips curling in faint amusement. He raised a hand, and from his fingertips burst small spheres of grey fire, hissing and striking the town hall and school. Timber cracked and splintered, windows shattering in silent screams.
“You think you can hide?” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You will learn fear… you will burn.”
Some villagers, pushed to desperation, grabbed farming tools and sticks, attempting to break through the tightening ring. A mob surged, screaming, but Rubian didn’t flinch. He flicked his wrist, and a blast of grey fire arced through the crowd. Flesh sizzled, screams cut short. Those who survived shrank back against their homes, rage turning to terror. He allowed himself a brief, dark smirk as the perimeter closed further.
Paulton…
Meanwhile, Thomaz rode his chariot through the heart of Paulton, the village already smouldering. Screams of villagers ran through the air, mixing with the roar of his army. He raised a hand, and his soldiers hacked through doors, overturned carts, and set barns ablaze. Thomaz laughed, delighting in the chaos, the noise feeding his manic energy.
“Let them feel my hand!” he cried. “Do not leave a home, a hearth, or a shadow standing!”
Villagers fought back, some brave enough to throw stones or swing axes at the soldiers. Thomaz only leaned forward on his chariot, urging his cavalry to strike harder, faster. Each resisted scream, each futile act of defiance, fuelled his unrestrained thrill.
Littleton…
Back at Littleton, Rubian’s movements were surgical, terrifyingly precise. A second volley of grey fire struck the edges of the town square, igniting carts and stalls. He rode to the front of the encirclement, face expressionless as villagers pressed against the walls of their homes, trapped.
“Rage is useless,” he whispered to them, voice low enough that only the nearest could hear. “You cannot escape. You are nothing.”
The mob’s fury turned inward; fists pounded on doors, voices shouted in vain, but every attempt to resist only drew more fire. The villagers’ fear became a living thing, feeding Rubian’s spirits, coiling beneath his skin like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Paulton…
Across the fields, Thomaz revelled in the frenzy. The village was chaos incarnate: flames, blood, and smoke twisted together. Thomaz pointed toward the church steeple, and his cavalry surged forward, smashing down doors, dragging terrified families into the dirt, forcing obedience through terror and pain.
His eyes gleamed with manic delight. Where Rubian imposed control, he unleashed destruction. Both villages would fall, but in vastly different ways: one through calculated fear, the other through ecstatic devastation.
Littleton…
The villagers’ anger finally broke. One man, gaunt from hunger but blazing with desperation, lunged at Rubian with a rusted axe. He swung it overhead, roaring, as if sheer rage could cut through the circle of steel.
Rubian didn’t flinch. He stepped aside with inhuman speed, catching the man’s wrist before the blade even descended. His grip was vice-like, bone-crushing. The villager screamed as Rubian twisted, snapping the joint with a sound like splitting wood.
“You thought you had a choice,” Rubian whispered, his voice chillingly calm. He raised his free hand, grey fire curling along his palm like liquid smoke. “You don’t.”
He pressed the flame into the man’s chest. Flesh bubbled and hissed, the man’s screams cut short as his body collapsed to ash and cinder. The watching villagers fell silent, horror-stricken. Rubian let the silence hang heavy, eyes sweeping over them all like a blade across throats.
“Remember this,” he said softly. “Rage makes you weak. Fear makes you mine.”
The encirclement closed tighter, methodical, sealing Littleton’s fate in silence and smoldering ruin.
Paulton…
At Paulton, the fires raged unchecked. Soldiers dragged villagers into the street, cutting down anyone too slow to obey. Thomaz stood on his chariot, drinking in the madness like wine.
Then, amid the chaos, a voice rang out. Hoarse, cracking, but full of venom:
“You scar-faced prick!”
The words cut deeper than any blade. Thomaz froze. His grin faltered. His hand trembled as it brushed against the deep claw marks carved down his face, an old wound, a reminder of weakness. His eyes twitched, then bulged with fury.
“Who said that?” His voice cracked with rage. “WHO SAID THAT?!”
He leapt from the chariot, shoving soldiers aside, manic eyes scanning the crowd. A young villager tried to run, and Thomaz descended upon him with unhinged violence, dragging him down into the dirt. He slammed the man’s head again and again against the cobblestones until bone split and blood painted the street.
“Look at me!” Thomaz shrieked, spittle flying, voice raw. “LOOK at me when you speak!”
When the body stopped twitching, Thomaz stood, chest heaving, eyes wild. His soldiers stared in silence, unsettled even in their brutality. For a heartbeat, the manic joy was gone, replaced with something darker, uglier, a wound in the king’s pride that festered beneath the scars.
Then, slowly, Thomaz’s grin crept back, twisted and bloody. He raised his arms to the sky, laughing again, and the slaughter resumed with renewed madness.
Littleton…
By nightfall, Littleton was a husk of itself. Smoke drifted from collapsed rooftops, the black skeletons of the hall and school still glowing red beneath the ashes. The air stank of blood and charred wood. Survivors, few, trembling, broken, were dragged into the square. Mothers clutched children; old men sagged under their own weight.
Rubian stood before them, arms clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He looked more like a judge than a conqueror.
“One voice must remain to speak of what happened here,” he said softly, almost as though he pitied them. His eyes flicked to a boy no older than twelve, dirt streaking his face. “You.”
The boy blinked, stunned, not understanding.
Rubian gestured once. His soldiers descended with ruthless efficiency, blades flashing, screams cut short. Blood soaked into the dirt until only silence remained. The boy stared, wide-eyed, as his world ended around him. Rubian crouched down, voice like a whispering flame:
“Remember what you saw. Tell them Rubian left you alive.”
The child nodded through tears, and Rubian stood, already turning away. His army moved in precise formation, leaving behind only corpses, cinders, and a single trembling witness.
Paulton…
Paulton was worse. The village burned bright as a funeral pyre, black smoke blotting the stars. Thomaz strode through the ruin with a predator’s swagger, dragging his scarred fingers along burning walls, his grin manic and wild.
The survivors, bloodied, beaten, hopeless, were rounded into the square. Soldiers jeered, some kicking villagers to their knees. Thomaz mounted his chariot and raised his hand.
“I want only one voice left to cry of this day!” he bellowed, his laughter carrying over the sobbing. “The rest… the rest feed the crows!”
He pointed at a trembling woman clutching her baby. For a moment, the soldiers hesitated, unsure if he meant the woman or the child. Thomaz barked out a shrill laugh.
“Not her. Him.” He pointed at a man with one arm broken and dangling useless. “He will live. All others… DEAD!”
Chaos erupted. The square became a slaughterhouse, the villagers’ screams drowned by the roars of soldiers eager to obey. Thomaz drank in the horror, throwing his head back in hysterical laughter. The chosen survivor fell to his knees, sobbing as blood and fire surrounded him.
Thomaz leaned down from his chariot, his scar twisting grotesquely as he hissed:
“Remember my face. Remember the scars. Tell the world King Thomaz gave you this mercy.”
Two villages burned, two nightmares unleashed. By dawn, Rubian and Thomaz marched their halves of the army back toward the rendezvous point. Smoke still rose behind them, twin plumes marking the ruin they left.
Rubian’s column was silent, soldiers moving in grim lockstep beneath his cold gaze. Thomaz’s column was rowdy, drunk on blood and fire, their king laughing and shouting at the head of his chariot.
When the two forces converged, the full weight of ten thousand men pressed once more upon the land. Survivors’ tales would spread, carried on broken voices trembling with horror. Rubian wanted fear to cripple hearts before steel ever touched them. Thomaz wanted his name carved into memory with fire and blood.
The two halves of the army converged in a broad valley, smoke from Paulton and Littleton still faint on the horizon. The ground shook under the return of ten thousand iron-shod feet.
When Thomaz and Rubian finally stepped into the same tent, only them, the map table between, they stood like two shadows from very different storms.
Thomaz’s armor was streaked with soot and blood. His eyes were fever-bright, his clawed scars swollen red from the heat of the flames he had reveled in. He paced like a caged animal, laughing under his breath as though the screams of Paulton still rang sweet in his ears.
Rubian was the opposite. His armor was polished, unmarked. His face carried no hint of the ruin he had orchestrated. He simply watched the king, hands behind his back, expression cool and unreadable. The faint scent of smoke clung to him, but he wore it like a cloak of inevitability.
Thomaz slammed both fists onto the map table, making it rattle.
“Two villages gone! Did you see them burn, Rubian? Did you smell it? That is what power tastes like!”
Rubian tilted his head slightly, voice low and even.
“Power is not in the ash, my liege. It is in the silence that follows. Fear will spread now, faster than any soldier’s march. The survivors will carry your name further than fire ever could.”
Thomaz sneered, spittle catching in his scars.
“Fear? I don’t want them just afraid… I want them broken. I want them to choke on the memory of me.”
Rubian stepped closer, shadows curling at his heels, his eyes like cold steel.
“They already do. But if you burn everything too quickly, my king, there will be nothing left to rule. A dead land yields no throne.”
For a moment, the tent was heavy with silence. Thomaz’s eyes darted, fury twitching in the corners. Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter.
“Always the whisper in the dark, Rubian. Always the snake.” His grin widened, manic, feral. “But you are my snake. And together, we will drown this land in blood.”
Rubian didn’t smile. He inclined his head, voice low, almost inaudible.
“Blood is plentiful. It’s what comes after that matters.”
Thomaz didn’t hear, or didn’t care. He was already lost in the music of his own laughter, pounding the map table with a fist, naming the next villages he wanted to see burn.
The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 31
Chapter 31: Voices Far from any mortal path, deeper than torchlight could reach, there was a chamber carved by no human hand. Its air was heavy, damp with ancient stillness. Shelves of black stone stretched along the walls, each lined with cushions of strange, woven silk that seemed to shimmer...
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