Prologue -Ashes-

The last rays of sunlight retrieved to the horizon, slipping through the green and dense forest's trees. Bursts of lukewarm air among the cold currents foretold summer's arrival, snow was sparse and mostly melted, laying beneath the pines, but enough to leave two pairs of prints; one small, lively and carefree, the other one bigger, heavier, and tired.

A worn, splintered axe hung from the callous hands of a man with the same qualities, carrying several logs on the opposite arm. Despite the cold, he wore a short-sleeved shirt, brown from age and muck rather than choice.

"...and when he thrusted his spear, I had no other choice than to raise my broken shield..." said the deep and fatigued voice, eyes fully immersed in his memory.

"B-but, how did you survive that?" asked a sharp and amazed voice, coming from the boy beside him.

He carried half the logs, using both arms and pushing the cargo against his long-sleeved, cotton shirt. His eyes shone like stars, sticking to the old man, whose stories never fulfilled his curiosity.

Without averting his gaze from the path, the raspier voice answered.

"How could I not? My captain was wounded beside me, I couldn't afford to lose. Of course, the shield broke into a thousand pieces, but that gave me the chance to slide my hand under the spear's tip and take control of the enemy's weapon. I pushed it aside and...!"

He performed an horizontal gesture with the axe, mimicking an attack.

"...slashed right through the gaps in the armor! The Imperials were terrified, those cowards lost the will to push forward."

He tried to burst out laughing, but only a tiny chuckle escaped his mouth. A sharp pain in his right side, under the logs, made him tense the arm. Hoping the little one didn't notice, he continued.

"This must be enough, let's return before it gets dark."

Adjusting the grip on the logs by pushing them upwards with his body, the youngling assured.

"I can still carry more! Let's find another tree."

A pair of sweat drops ran through his forehead, traveling down his temple. Little was he interested in the amount of wood they obtained, more time alone with his grandfather meant more tales from the battleground, which his mother found despicable in her presence.

The elder sighed; he also got carried away by his own stories, to the point he didn't consider the little one wouldn't be satisfied until he had narrated an entire campaign's worth of battles.

"Felling another one would take too much time and effort, both which we don't have to spare."

Answered the hoarse voice, not daring to look the boy in the eyes, given that like snow under his feet, he too would melt easily.

But the young one knew this very well. He diverted to the side quickly, edging the deep, lush forest, eyes searching for any excuse. He tried his best to keep up with the old man's pace, until something in the woods' depths caught his attention. Without hesitation, he submerged into the growing darkness, yelling.

"Grandpa! Over here!"

Somewhat lost in thought, the axe-bearer stopped and turned in the child's direction.

"I told you that—"

The scene developing right in front of him stripped the words from him; the boy had dropped the logs and was, clumsily, trying to rip a branch from a fallen tree. The trunk laid on top of a melted puddle of snow, the wood wet and starting to rot, although only from underneath. Even so, any son of a lumberjack knows, little use does wet wood have to light up a fire, even less build with it.

A smile drew in his wrinkled face, and then he spoke.

"I guess we can take a few more."

After resting the logs on a large pine, over a dry spot, the elder then walked towards the youngling. He kneeled beside him, despite the mute cries of his joints. He placed the axe in the boy's hands, pointing to the connection between the branch and trunk. With an ear-to-ear grin, the child chops and chops, getting a few pats on his back.

"How are you... so strong, Grandpa?" he asked between his herculean effort.

The old man smiled, although only with his lips, his eyes showed a very different emotion.

"If not, who would've helped you against such an imposing twig?"

"I mean it! We would've lost without you!" says the child between laughter.

The elder reflected on aforetime. About wars fought. About blood spilled. The scars on his naked arms, the sharp pain in his side. Then, he noticed the warmth of his grandchild's coat. His face, although focused on his present task, shone with expectation. What will he say next? What will he teach him? What heroic tale will he tell?

How will he maintain that innocent smile?

"You see—"

As he began to answer, a final chop split the wood, and a murder of crows fled in unison, formerly hidden in the treetops. A second of silence, followed by a loud, reverberating explosion. A column of smoke rose on the horizon, while the trees shook in fear. The pair rapidly turned to the source of the noise, and the eldest discerned the approximate location. His pupils shrank and his blood flowed faster than it ever did on the battlefield. Without wasting time, he snatched the axe from the boy's hands and walked a few steps, stopping to address the child.

"Stay here, don't move... It's an order."

He had always kept an imposing presence, his voice even more, but he always made sure to maintain a sweet and calmed tone with this family. He was scared. Scared in what decades of massacre had turned him into, or worse, damaged what little still remained of him. Even so, that was nothing compared to the fear of not being able to defend his family. The boy had never seen him make that face, tense and distorted, his fear forced him to stay still, clutching the branch he hacked with the same grip he did the axe.

Two promises were broken that day. The first, he swore to never again dish an order. He carried with the responsibility of hundreds of lives, a great deal lost only to hold the line. He forced others to give up their lives, their dreams, that which they wanted to protect.

His mind was racing, just like his feet on the ground. The cold air burned his lungs, the pain on his side worsened, and yet none of that stopped him. Cutting through every branch and bush in his way, he cleared a path through the woods he was raised in, the only place he ever called home.

Warmth. Between the ebb breeze traveling through the clear, a red, blazing heat. The outline of what was once a house is now barely recognizable through the flames. The wood cracked and crackled, even to his half-a-century-old ears, it was strident and deafening. Saying his heart sunk to the greatest depths wouldn't be enough; this man was watching his whole life's purpose, the only thing he spent decades protecting, shedding foreign and own blood, cold nights and hungry days, disappearing in an instant. Every fiber of his being cried, it begged to crumble and rot, to cease existing. He wanted nothing more than to give in to his instincts, until he turned around.

He saw the boy, twig still in hand, making a face no child should ever be forced to make, one he had only seen in comrades during horrible campaigns. Yet, it had never affected him so violently as in that moment. He was snapped back to reality. His senses shook his body and before realising it, he was cradling the boy in his arms, escaping as fast as humanly possible.

The second promise he broke pierces through his heart, sharper than any blade ever did. That of protecting his family at any cost, keeping them away from the horrors of the world. But as the elder's will turned to ash, a new one was born in the young one's distant eyes. Clutching the splintered twig, without looking away from the flickering flame of what was once home, he made an oath. An oath of vengeance. One that would forever change his destiny and the one of those around him.

One that would become his legacy.