Garren was standing with fifty-three knights. Fifty-two were dead. Some were injured badly enough that the number standing would be lower by morning.

He watched them go.

The Valdenmoor knights reformed on the road with the pride that came with almost ending an entire Barony. And to almost do so with just 200 men.

The leader looked back once at Percvale, at the burning houses, the destroyed farmland, the small cluster of surviving knights at the wall, and said something to the man beside him.

"Should we chase them down?" one of his men asked. "Finish it?"

"No," the leader said. "Leave them."

"King Aldric didn’t order we finish them" He looked at the smoke still rising. "Let them tell the story of what happened here. That’s the point."

He turned his horse and rode.

Garren watched until the they were off the road and the dust was the only evidence they had been there at all.

Then he turned to what was left of his knights.

"Get the injured inside," he said. "Leave everything else as it is."

"Why leave it?"

Garren looked at the dead livestock on the farmland. At the torn-up soil. At the burned buildings still smoking beyond the wall.

"Because the Baron needs to see it," he said. "Exactly as it is."

Also, he wasn’t in the right state of mind to start instructing any clearing stuff.

He was badly damaged. So badly hurt that even breathing was becoming a problem. His left side where the sword had caught him, that was the worst. Every lungful of air sent a spike of pain through his ribs. His arm hung heavy at his side, not useless but close to it. The second hit he’d taken during the retreat had landed on his shoulder, and the third had been a glancing blow to the head that had blurred his vision for a good ten minutes.

He was still seeing stars at the edges of his sight.

And where would they even start?

He looked at the dead livestock scattered across the farmland. The goats. The cattle. The animals they had been breeding, the females that were pregnant, the future of Percvale’s food supply lying in the dirt with their throats cut.

Would they eat the meat? Prepare a large soup for all the Percvale people? Or instead of doing that, should they preserve it? Salt it, smoke it, make it last? Or did they just throw it away?

He didn’t know. He would have to wait to hear from Darion.

But the loss greatly, greatly hit the aging man.

What Darion had suffered to achieve over his time as Baron of Percvale, Valdenmoor had taken it. Weeks of work. The farmland restoration, the livestock, the hope that had been growing alongside the green shoots in the soil. All of it gone in an afternoon.

This made him wonder, was it all worth it in the end?

If they had agreed to sign off the farmlands, none of this would have happened. The land would be Valdenmoor’s, yes. But Percvale would be safe. They wouldn’t have the lives of so many knights taken. Fifty-two dead. That number kept circling in his head. Fifty-two men he had trained with, eaten with, stood beside in the dark during the bad times when there was nothing to do but wait for things to get worse. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

They wouldn’t have the houses burned either. The little lives of the villagers disrupted. He wasn’t sure if any Percvale citizens had died, he didn’t know. In the chaos, in the smoke and in the screaming, it was impossible to tell who had made it and who hadn’t. The counting would come later.

Two knights assisted him back to the castle. He leaned on them more than he wanted to. Each step sent a fresh jolt through his ribs. The courtyard was chaos. People were running, wounded men lying on blankets, someone shouting for bandages, a man crying over a body he didn’t recognize.

The people of Percvale had already started quenching their burning houses, fetching water from their wells and doing whatever they could to save what remained. The fires weren’t as high as they had been, but smoke still curled up from half a dozen buildings along the market row.

The barony was caught in the aftermath of the tragedy.

---

The carriage that carried Darion, Seren, and her mother arrived at Percvale in the night.

Instead of a two-day journey ( or a day and a half) it had been just a day’s journey. The driver had pushed the horses hard, and the horses had delivered. Darion sat in the middle of the carriage, Vera on one side, Seren on the other.

He seemed to be the bridge between them. Not by choice though, just by seating arrangement.

They rode through the darkness without any idea of what had happened to Percvale.

As the carriage man drove toward the castle, Darion couldn’t really see what was happening. But he noticed that some people were outside. They had made fires with wood and circled around them, watching the carriage pass. Not knowing who was inside and not bothering to find out.

They looked exhausted. Their faces were pale in the firelight.

Darion noticed that their houses had been burned. Dark shapes against the night sky, roofs gone, walls blackened. He didn’t understand what had happened at first. His mind was still on the road.

Then the truth started forming. One burned house could be an accident. But three. Five. A row of them.

He looked at Seren. She was staring out the window, her face unreadable.

He looked at Vera. She was watching him.

None of them said anything.

Small children cried outside their houses with their parents. Others, whose houses were still standing, were inside, but the lights in the windows were low, like people hiding from something.

Darion’s heart was beating fast now.

Eventually they arrived at the castle gate. They got off. The carriage man left without a word.

The gate was open and the place was eerily quiet. They entered the courtyard. Something had happened. He knew what had happened.

He walked to the castle door.

He knocked. Time for confirmation