The Burnt Village

The road to Oakhart stretched long and dusty, winding across fields that had once been lush with barley and wheat.

They had been marching for two and a half days, taking short breaks only when the horses demanded it. Summer heat shimmered in the stagnant air, but the surrounding land bore dark, jagged scars of fire and neglect. Charred fence posts jutted from the parched earth like blackened bones, and in the distance, the hollow shapes of houses rose against the horizon—familiar, but twisted by flame and ruin.

Lyra rode at the head of the column, her jaw set tight. This was ground she knew intimately. Only weeks ago, the Knights of Oakhart had shed blood in these fields, clashing against the Valerian vanguard in brutal, close-quarters combat. She remembered the deafening roar of battle, the smell of burning thatch, and the desperate push that had finally driven the enemy back.

That victory had saved the region, but it had come at a terrifying cost.

Now, as the vanguard entered the outer perimeter, the village lay in absolute, suffocating silence.

An uncomfortable quiet rippled through the ranks. The air smelled faintly of stale ash. What troubled Lyra most was the state of the settlement: when her troops had passed through weeks prior, the village had been mostly intact. Now, it looked freshly scorched.

Many homes stood as charred skeletons, their thatched roofs caved in and heavy timber beams sagging like broken ribs. Only a few structures remained standing, their heavy wooden shutters drawn and doors bolted tight, as if the occupants had sealed themselves away from the world.

No smoke curled from the chimneys. No voices rose in greeting. The fields were devoid of farmers, and the dusty streets carried no sound of children at play. Only the creak of leather armor, the jingle of iron harnesses, and the steady, rhythmic thud of hooves broke the stillness.

Then—splat!

A rotten, overripe tomato burst violently against a lead knight's iron shield, sliding down in a foul, yellow-red smear.

Before anyone could react, a volley of missiles followed—spoiled eggs, soft fruits, and clods of hard mud hurled from unseen hands behind the ruins. One hit a soldier's helm with a wet crack; another splattered across the dirt right at the hooves of Lyra's stallion.

Instincts honed by years of war kicked in instantly. Lyra's sword cleared its sheath with a sharp hiss. She sliced a flying projectile mid-air, sending it spinning into a spray of pulp.

"Who dares challenge the Knights of Oakhart?!" Her roar echoed across the ruined square like thunder.

Behind her, the vanguard answered in unison. Steel rasped against leather as swords were drawn and heavy shields slammed together, forming an impenetrable wall of iron and bronze. Boots thudded into the dirt in disciplined, terrifying unison.

Any normal enemy force would have trembled. Ambushers should have broken rank and run.

But nothing happened.

No enemy soldiers emerged from the shadows. No foreign banners unfurled. The eerie silence pressed in once more, thicker and heavier than before.

Mounted behind Lyra, Selene shifted in the saddle. Her sharp green eyes narrowed as she scanned the jagged outlines of the burned homes. Something caught her attention—a subtle flicker of movement between two scorched timber walls.

Selene leaned closer to Lyra's ear, her voice hushed but urgent. "Lyra... look."

Lyra followed her gaze.

Faces. Small, pale, half-hidden behind the blackened wood. Eyes far too wide, far too hollow.

"They're children," Selene whispered.

Lyra raised a single leather-gloved hand. Instantly, the wall of steel lowered. Shields dipped. The knights held their positions, awaiting their General's next command.

From behind a collapsed porch, a boy stepped out into the open square. He appeared no older than nine, with a small, slim frame. Messy, spiky reddish-brown hair stuck out in untamed tufts around his face. Despite his youth, his large blue-gray eyes held a cold, calm, and unnervingly serious expression. Over a torn, dirt-caked tunic, he wore a bright red-orange hooded cloak that hung in tattered rags at his knees.

In his small hand, he held a rusted, undersized iron shortsword.

"Go away!" the boy shouted, his voice cracking with raw fury. "We don't need you here!"

Lyra swung her leg over her horse, sliding down smoothly to the ground before turning to help Selene dismount. "Where are your parents?" Lyra asked, taking a step forward. "Where is the village chief?"

The boy's face twisted in rage. "You're not getting anything else from us!"

With a sharp motion, he whipped a soft, moldy fruit straight at Lyra's head. Taken off guard by a child's attack, the General didn't duck in time. The fruit clipped the side of her shoulder, splattering across her polished pauldron.

Behind her, a few younger knights let out muffled snorts.

Selene gasp at what happened.

Shawn broke into an outright, booming laugh. Captain Rita pressed a gauntleted hand over her mouth, desperately trying to hide her amusement—until another barrage of rotten produce rained down on the front line.

"Hey!"

"What the—!"

Lyra wiped a smear of fruit from her armor, her brow furrowing in deep annoyance. "Round them up," she ordered flatly.

The command shattered the standoff, turning everything chaotic..

The moment the soldiers stepped forward, the children scattered like sparrows. Shrill cries echoed through the hollow husks of the homes as thin legs pumped furiously toward narrow alleys. They ducked beneath collapsed roof beams and wriggled into drainage holes far too small for armored men to enter.

It quickly descended into sheer chaos.

A squad of hardened veterans discovered too late that the orphans had dug 3 shallow trenches—half a soldier's height—across the alleyways. One heavy knight tripped headfirst into a pit, while another took a soft watermelon directly to the helmet from a second-story window.

"Ow!"

Lieutenant Shawn yelled over the noise, rubbing his forehead. "They're just kids! Grab them!"

The soldiers surged after the children, but they were trained for pitched warfare, not shepherding terrified orphans. Their heavy steel boots and clattering plate armor turned every step into clumsy thunder.

The harder the soldiers pressed, the louder the children screamed, their terror escalating.

"Gently!" Lyra's voice cut through the chaos like a whip-crack.

Shawn dismounted with a heavy thud, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

"Dont hurt then, damn you all! Sheathe those blades!" he barked at the squad.

The knights froze, sheepish realization washing over them as they sheathed their swords.

"Use your shields to block their paths if you must, but stop scaring them!" Shawn growled, his voice thick with fatigue. "You'll break their arms before you catch them!"

Lyra watched the spectacle, her jaw working as she fought back a rare impulse to laugh at the absurd sight of elite vanguard soldiers being outmaneuvered by children.

Selene, seeing how frightened the children were, moved forward with quiet, unhurried grace. Where the soldiers had reached out with grasping hands, she did the exact opposite.

She knelt right in the dusty center of the square, her posture open, her hands resting empty on her knees.

Slowly, a soft, wordless melody rose from her lips. It was a low, soothing lullaby—a calm rhythm that pierced through the screaming and shouting like moonlight through dark clouds.

The children heard it.

A few of the younger ones froze mid-stride, their wide, tear-streaked eyes turning toward her. Slowly, hesitantly, they edged out from their hiding spots, drawn by a gentle resonance they couldn't name, but felt deep in their bones. They ignored the armored soldiers entirely, moving toward Selene.

One by one, the village's secrets were revealed. A small boy crept out from beneath a broken wagon wheel; a young girl stepped from a hollow doorway; a toddler crawled from behind a collapsed fence.

Within minutes, the soldiers realized that force would never have gathered these children. Only Selene's calm presence could.

When the dust finally settled, more than thirty or more children stood assembled in the square. Some were barely old enough to walk, clinging tightly to the tunic hems of older siblings. Dirt streaked their faces, and hollow cheeks betrayed days of severe hunger.

A sharp-eyed girl of eleven held a toddler tightly in her arms, her stance rigid and protective as she glared defensively at Lyra.

Lyra approached slowly, her sword resting in its sheath. "Why are you here alone?" she asked gently. "Where are the adults?"

The older girl spat on the dirt.

Before Lyra could speak, the red-haired boy stepped between them, brandishing his rusted shortsword once more. "We won't tell you anything!"

The older children immediately rallied behind him, raising wooden sticks and broken fence posts in a fragile, defiant front.

Lyra noted the way the other kids looked to him, catching one of the little ones mutter his name under her breath. "Rory..."

"Rory," Lyra said firmly.

The boy's eyes widened slightly at hearing his name, but his posture didn't soften. He wasnt the oldest but it seemed that everyone here follow his lead.

"If you defeat me," Lyra said, testing him, "we will pack up and leave your village immediately."

"General? Allow me—" Captain Rita stepped forward, but Lyra held up a hand, halting her.

A faint, respectful smile touched Lyra's lips. She dropped into an easy, relaxed stance, letting the boy make the first move.

Rory lunged forward with a sharp cry, swinging his rusted blade with wild, desperate energy. Lyra parried each strike effortlessly with her gauntleted forearm, holding back her immense strength. His attack was raw and completely untrained, but driven by fierce determination. Twice he nearly slipped past her guard through sheer stubbornness rather than skill, forcing her to genuinely adjust her footing—a fact that didn't escape her notice.

With a smooth, gentle twist of her wrist, Lyra finally disarmed him, catching the rusted hilt in mid-air before giving the boy a light push back. Rory stumbled and fell into the dust.

"Rory!" the children cried out, surging forward.

The boy scrambled back to his feet, dirt clinging to his red cloak. He shoved a smaller child behind his back and squared his shoulders, though his thin arms trembled violently from exhaustion.

"We have to defend ourselves!" Rory shouted, his voice raw with fear. "If you take us, you'll separate us! And when our parents come back..."

His words struck a chord. The older children straightened, forming a human shield around the toddlers. Their small shoulders squared, their eyes hardening into steel. In that instant, they were no longer a scattered mob of frightened orphans—they were a desperate, united front.

Lyra's eyes softened as she looked at Rory. Small as he was, he carried the burden of a commander protecting his people.

"We cannot help you if you refuse to trust us, Rory," Lyra said softly.

Rory glared at her, deep mistrust burning in his chest, though his sword arm had dropped an inch—as if some small part of him wanted to believe her and hated himself for it.

"Rory!" a terrified cry broke the standoff.

The eleven-year-old girl collapsed to her knees, looking down at the toddler in her arms. The small child's face was flushed dark red, slick with sweat, her small body trembling with a sudden, violent fever. "Something's wrong with Nia!"

Selene stepped forward immediately, her voice cutting through the rising panic like warm silk. "She's sick. Let me help her."

Rory's grip on his wooden stick faltered. "Stay back," he whispered, though all the fire had gone out of his voice.

"I will not hurt her. I promise," Selene said quietly.

She walked right past Lyra and the line of armed knights, kneeling beside the girl. Gently, Selene took the feverish toddler into her arms. "She's burning up," Selene murmured, looking into the older sister's frantic eyes. "Is there a clean place where we can lay her down?"

The girl hesitated, torn between mistrust and desperation, before pointing a trembling finger toward one of the few houses undamaged by the fire. "In... in there."

"Come with me," Selene urged softly. The girl scrambled up and followed closely, her eyes fixed on her baby sister.

Lyra took immediate control of the square. "Robin," she barked, "fetch medical supplies and clean water for the sick. Ava, Elise—search the surrounding perimeter for any sign of surviving adults.Prepare food for the children"

Hearing the word food the children put down their guard

The soldiers scattered to carry out her orders with practiced efficiency.

Lyra turned to Shawn, exchanging a quiet, heavy look. They would hold the square and ensure no harm came to these children.

Inside the quiet, shadowed house, Selene laid the toddler down on a clean woven mat. The older sister hovered inches away, her defiant armor completely crumbling into tearful desperation.

Selene gently pressed her palm against the child's burning forehead.

As she closed her eyes, a faint, familiar whisper echoed from the depths of her lost memory:

Children are innocent. They will see the light in you, not the shadow.

A soft, golden-silver warmth bloomed from Selene's palm. The light spilled gently over the toddler's small frame. Within moments, the dark flush faded from the child's skin. The violent trembling ceased, and her labored breathing smoothed out into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The older sister gasped, her jaw dropping. The mask of anger and fear she had worn all afternoon shattered into pure, unadulterated awe.

She didn't see a witch. She didn't see an enemy soldier.

Looking at Selene, the girl saw only a miracle.

A/N: 👋 I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'll let you in on a little secret: this story was originally meant to be an omegaverse, but I found writing in that style difficult. 😅 Perhaps someday I'll manage to write an omegaverse story.