My body trembled, gripped by adrenaline and terror. I had just witnessed an act of cruelty unlike anything I had ever seen. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to move—crawling backward at first before finally managing to stand.


    I didn’t know what to do. My thoughts were tangled, but one thing came through clearly—I had to tell my parents.


    I ran.


    I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t look back. My legs burned, my chest heaved, but I pushed forward until the house came into view.


    I threw the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a loud crash. The noise startled Elyra, who rushed out of her room, her face pale.


    “Aidan? What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice trembling.


    I wanted to speak, but the sprint had left me breathless. I leaned heavily against the doorframe, one arm clutching my side.


    “Get… Mom,” I gasped, forcing the words out between shallow breaths. “It’s important.”


    Her eyes widened.


    “What happened? You’re scaring me.”


    I hesitated. She was too young. Too innocent. I couldn’t tell her what I had seen—not yet.


    “Something with the crops,” I lied, forcing a weak smile. “Nothing serious. Just… get Mom.”


    She looked at me doubtfully but nodded and ran toward our parents’ room.


    I let myself slide down the door frame, pressing a hand to my face. My thoughts spun wildly. The Dastens’ home—burning, crumbling into ash. The soldiers. The smoke. I clenched my fists to steady myself.


    Seconds later, Mom appeared, her expression tight with worry.


    “Aidan? What’s going on?”


    Before I could respond, she spoke again.


    “Your father has a fever.”


    The words hit like a punch.


    “What? A fever? How?”


    “I don’t know,” she said, her voice trembling. “He started burning up not long after he got back. I’ve been using wet clothes to cool him down, but it’s not enough. He’s still weak.”


    I dragged a hand down my face, covering my eyes to stop the panic rising inside me. This couldn’t be happening. Not now.


    With Dad bedridden, everything became more complicated. I couldn’t finish the quota alone, and without medicine, there was no telling if he’d even recover.


    “Is he awake?” I asked quietly.


    “Yes. He hasn’t been able to rest.”


    I nodded grimly, straightening my posture even as my legs threatened to buckle.


    “We need to talk—all of us.”


    From the corner of my eye, I spotted Elyra peeking through the doorway, her face lined with worry.


    “Not you,” I said firmly. “Go to your room.”


    “But I want to listen!” she whined, her lip trembling.


    “I’ll explain everything later, I promise,” I said, softening my tone. “But for now, I don’t want too many people crowding Dad’s room. It might make him feel worse.”


    It was a terrible excuse, but I didn’t have the strength to come up with anything better. Elyra hesitated, then finally nodded and shuffled back to her room.


    I exhaled slowly and turned back to Mom.


    “Let’s go.”


    We stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. The sight of my father lying there, drenched in sweat and barely able to move, hit me like a hammer. He looked fragile—like a man holding on to what little strength he had left.


    I approached the bed slowly, forcing my voice to stay steady.


    “Dad… how are you feeling?”


    “Not great,” he admitted with a weak smile. “But nothing I can’t handle.”


    “What’s going on, Aidan?” he asked, his voice strained. “Elyra said something happened with the crops. If you need help harvesting, I can—”


    “The Dastens,”I interrupted, the words catching in my throat. “They’re dead.”


    The room went silent.


    Dad’s expression froze, and Mom’s hand flew to her mouth.


    “What?” Dad croaked.


    “Their house… it’s gone. The State Guard burned it. I saw it myself.”


    I had tried to stay strong, but the words broke something inside me. My voice cracked, and I had to look away.


    “They refused to pay the quota. I think…that''s the only explanation.”


    Mom sat down hard on the edge of the bed, her face pale.


    “Are they coming here?”she whispered.


    “Not yet,” I said quickly, though the words felt hollow.  “We still have time.”


    Dad tried to sit up, but the effort left him coughing violently. I rushed to steady him, guilt twisting inside me.


    “You shouldn’t be moving!” Mom snapped.


    He waved her off weakly.


    “If we’re next, we need to have the quota ready.”


    His words sent a chill down my spine.


    We weren’t ready. Not even close.


    “But it doesn’t make sense.” My voice wavered, caught between disbelief and anger. “Why would the State Guard do something like this? It’s excessive. If they’re so desperate for the quota, killing the farmers won’t help! It’s—it''s insane!”


    I paced the small room, my hands trembling. My father lay still, his breathing shallow, but his eyes followed me with sharp intent.


    “There’ve been... rumors,” he said, his voice rough and strained.


    I froze.


    “Rumors? What kind of rumors?” I demanded, turning to face him.


    He shifted slightly, wincing as if even that small motion drained what little strength he had left.


    “The government is no more,” he whispered. “These decisions… these extreme measures… I heard some parts of the State Guard are acting on their own.”


    That’s when I finally realized.


    “On their own? Are you saying the crops we’re working for—the quota we’re struggling to meet—might not even be going to the real army?” My voice cracked as frustration boiled over.


    “It’s possible.”


    His eyes locked on mine, and suddenly I felt small, like a child again. His gaze—firm yet heavy with exhaustion—cut deeper than any words could.


    “Dalmora is lost.”


    The room seemed to shrink around me. My chest tightened.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Lost?


    The word echoed endlessly in my head.


    This small, broken country—our home—had always been battered by the wars of others. We were pawns caught between titans, struggling just to survive. But even then, I had believed we could hold on. I had believed we could rebuild.


    Now it felt like all of that had been an illusion.


    I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak.


    “No,” I said softly, but there was no conviction behind it. “We… we can still—”


    “Aidan.”


    His voice cut through my denial, steady despite his weakness.


    “You need to face this. They won’t stop. Not until they’ve taken everything.”


    I wanted to scream. To fight. To run until I found someone—anyone—who could make this nightmare stop. But I couldn’t.


    My father was dying.


    My family was falling apart.


    And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.


    I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms, but the pain barely registered.


    “What do we do?” I asked, though the words felt hollow.


    “We survive,” he said. “No matter what it takes.”


    Survive? What was the point of surviving if it meant living like this? I didn’t want to scrape by, clawing at the edge of existence. I wanted to live—a real life. A quiet, ordinary life where I wouldn’t have to count every grain of wheat or fear every shadow on the horizon.


    But that wasn’t the world we lived in anymore.


    My father was right. Pretending otherwise wouldn’t change reality. Survival was all that mattered now. I exhaled slowly and nodded.


    “Dad, how much time do we have before they come for the quota?”


    “That man… he said by the end of the month.”


    “I see.”


    I turned and left the room, leaving my mother to tend to him. Night had fallen, but there was no time to rest. My body ached, but my mind refused to stop.


    Passing Elyra’s room, I hesitated. I’d promised to explain everything, to tell her the truth. But how could I?


    I walked past her door and into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of bread. I took a small bite—just enough to push away the hunger. It would have to do.


    Outside, the night air was cool, and the silence felt heavier than usual. I retrieved the scythe I’d abandoned earlier and went back to work.


    Cut. Gather. Repeat.


    The hours blurred together, and before I knew it, dawn crept over the horizon.


    The next morning, I returned to the house, taking another bite of the same piece of bread before heading back to the fields. For my family. For my future. For my dignity.


    Cut. Gather. Repeat.


    The blisters on my hands burst, raw and stinging, but I didn’t stop. The scythe and I had to become one. Every swing had to count. I couldn’t waste energy—not when so much was at stake.


    Days passed. The fields shrank. My body screamed for rest, but I pushed forward.


    Four days later, I stood in the kitchen, staring at the last bite of bread. My final portion.


    I chewed slowly, my stomach twisting—not from hunger, but from fear.. I’d left the little food we had for Dad and Elyra, and this single piece of bread had been my only reserve. Now it is gone.


    As I swallowed, I saw my mother shuffle past the hallway. Her thin frame looked more fragile than ever, the sharp lines of her ribs visible beneath her dress. She had taken scraps from my father’s meals, but it wasn’t enough. At this rate, my family would starve before the end of the month. That thought clawed at my mind, tightening its grip with every passing second. Then it hit me—the Danstens. Their house was gone, burned to the ground, but maybe… maybe something survived. Anything.


    I didn’t have time to hesitate. I grabbed my scythe and an old leather bag before heading toward the ruins.


    The walk felt longer than it should have. When I arrived, the sight stopped me in my tracks.


    The Danstens’ home—or what was left of it—stood like a skeleton against the gray sky. The charred remains of walls jutted out at odd angles, and ash covered everything like a burial shroud.


    I swallowed hard and stepped closer.


    The back door hung loosely from its hinges, swaying slightly in the wind. I pressed my shoulder against it, and with a groan, it gave way.


    Inside, the air was thick with the stench of smoke and something far worse. The walls were blackened, crumbling in places, leaving gaping holes where sunlight poured in.


    I moved carefully, my boots crunching over debris. My eyes scanned the wreckage, searching for anything—tools, food, even scraps of cloth. But as I stepped forward, my foot hit something solid.


    I looked down..


    Bones.


    I staggered back, my heart almost stopped. There, strewn across the scorched kitchen floor, were the remains of the Danstens. Or what was left of them.


    I forced myself to look, even as tears blurred my vision. Charred flesh clung to blackened bones, twisted and broken. The fire had consumed them, erasing everything they were—everything they could have been.


    My stomach churned, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had played in this house. Laughed with these people. And now…


    Now they were nothing but ashes.


    I was about to collapse in tears when I heard it—a sound, faint but unmistakable. Someone else was here.


    Panic gripped me instantly. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I scrambled into one of the ruined rooms, pressing myself against a wall and peering through one of the cracks.


    A soldier.


    He entered through the front door as if he owned the place, and it didn’t take long to realize he was doing exactly what I was—searching.


    Was his family starving too? Or was it something else entirely?


    I tracked his movements carefully, trying to stay out of sight, but then it happened. My foot slipped on a shard of glass, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Pain flared as the broken glass sliced through my shoe.


    “Who’s there?!” the soldier barked.


    His voice was sharp, angry. I froze for a moment before limping out of my hiding spot, hands raised.


    “It’s me! Don’t shoot!”


    “And who the hell are you?” he snapped, his weapon already pointed at me.


    “M-my name’s Aidan. Aidan Kael.”


    The whole time, the man kept his pistol trained on me. I didn’t know much about weapons, but I recognized the design immediately—a Gamma gun.


    Dalmora still used these outdated relics, a reminder of how far behind we were compared to other nations. These weapons fired projectiles by channeling Gamma energy, a substance found in trace amounts within human blood.


    Gamma energy wasn’t magic or some mystical gift. It was a naturally occurring particle—microscopic, invisible—that circulated through the bloodstream like any other compound. Its origins were still debated, but decades ago, scientists had figured out how to harness it.


    With the right technology, Gamma could be extracted, amplified, and weaponized. These pistols pulled small doses of Gamma directly from the user’s blood, converting it into high-speed projectiles capable of piercing metal and stone.


    But there were limits.


    Each shot drained a small reserve of Gamma from the wielder, and while the body could regenerate it over time, the recharge wasn’t instant. Depending on the design, it could take anywhere from seconds to minutes to regain enough energy to fire again. If used without caution it could kill the wielder.


    That vulnerability made Gamma weapons feel outdated and clunky—tools of second-rate armies like Dalmora’s. But that didn’t make them any less dangerous.


    Gamma energy wasn’t limited to weapons, either. It powered generators, fueled industrial machines, and could be manipulated to create magnetic fields or reinforce materials. Rumors even suggested some factions were developing more advanced technology to weaponize it in ways people couldn’t yet imagine.


    I stared at the gun in his hand, my body tensing.


    One shot was all it would take to kill me. But if I could make him miss, I’d have seconds—just seconds—to act before it recharged.


    “Aidan Kael… You’re not one of the Danstens.”


    “No, sir. I was just—just looking for anything that could help my family. My dad’s sick, and we have nothing left.”


    “Then you’re wasting your time,” he spat. “There’s nothing here. Now get out.”


    “Then what are you doing here?” I asked before I could stop myself.


    The soldier took a step closer, his gun never wavering.


    “You really want me to repeat myself, boy?”


    He loomed over me, his uniform dark green with black accents. The coat he wore looked more like a cloak, heavy and menacing, with Dalmora’s symbol embroidered on the back. At his side hung a blade—a sword meant for close combat.


    And then I saw it.


    The rings.


    Sareth Dansten’s rings. The soldier’s fingers glittered with them—clean, polished, untouched by fire.


    The realization hit me like a hammer.


    This wasn’t scavenging.


    He’d taken those rings from Sareth—while he was still alive.


    My blood boiled. Memories of the screams as the Danstens’ house burned surged back, and I knew. I knew this man was part of it.


    “Drop the scythe,” he ordered. “Turn around and walk away. Now.”


    “O-okay…”


    I obeyed, slowly lowering the scythe and turning as instructed.


    He snatched my bag without hesitation, rummaging through it.


    “You’ve got nothing,” he sneered. “At least the last ones had something worth taking.”


    That was it.


    The dam inside me broke.


    I spun around and lunged at him.


    He didn’t expect it. Not from someone like me—half-starved and desperate. His weapon fired, but I had already knocked his arm aside. The Gamma shot burned across my shoulder, searing my skin.


    I ignored the pain.


    We hit the ground hard, but he was bigger, stronger. I fought to keep him down, my fists pounding against him. My first punch landed awkwardly, sending a jolt of pain through my knuckles. My second was even worse.


    He shoved me off, but as I fell, my hand found the scythe.


    I didn’t think.


    I just acted.


    The blade arced through the air, and then—


    Blood.


    So much blood.


    The curved edge of the scythe had buried itself in his throat. His eyes went wide, shock and terror frozen on his face as he tried to breathe. Tried to speak.


    He couldn’t.


    He was choking on his own blood.


    I staggered back, dropping the weapon as if it had burned me.


    “N-no…”—The word barely escaped my lips. “No, no, no.”


    Tears blurred my vision as I sank to my knees. My hands were shaking—wet and red.


    “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”


    But he wasn’t listening.


    His body slumped to the floor, his eyes still fixed on me, wide and empty.


    I couldn’t breathe.


    My chest heaved, but it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the world to fill my lungs.


    What had I done?


    What had I done?


    The last thing he saw was me—his executioner.


    Aidan Kael, a murderer.