It began with a sound—one that did not belong.
Ryen had spent five months in the village of Tona. He had come to know its sounds—the rhythmic pounding of grain being milled, the gentle murmur of voices trading stories, the soft rustling of wind through the fields. Life here had a certain balance. Imperfect, but right.
So when the first heavy footfalls echoed through the village, he knew something was wrong.
From his spot at the edge of town, Ryen watched as men poured in from the main road. Armed, confident, eyes sharp with hunger. Not for food, but for control.
The village did not fight back.
They knew better.
Tona had no warriors, no trained fighters. They were farmers, traders, craftsmen. To resist would mean death.
So, they surrendered.
The leader of the invaders—a broad-shouldered man with a scar cutting through his lip—stepped forward, surveying the villagers like livestock. His men spread out, kicking down doors, overturning carts, snatching food straight from cooking fires.
And just like that, everything that had made Tona feel safe—the stillness, the quiet harmony—was stolen.
Ryen did nothing.
He watched.
For two days, the invaders remained. They drank, they ate, they took what they pleased. The villagers bore it with gritted teeth, unwilling to risk worse consequences.
Then, on the third day, it happened.
Lena.
She had been fetching water when one of the men grabbed her wrist. She recoiled, but another blocked her path. The scarred leader stepped closer, his eyes dark with amusement.
"She's a pretty one," he mused. "We'll be taking her."
A stillness settled over the villagers. Not the stillness of surrender.
Something else.
Something deeper.
Lena pulled against their grip, but they did not let go. Her clothes tore as rough hands yanked at her, laughter rising from the men as if this were nothing more than a game.
Ryen was still at a distance.
He had seen cruelty before. He had seen men commit acts of violence without hesitation. He had seen dissonance—the twisted, warped nature of human desire—consume those who let it fester.
But this,
This was different.
It was the way the villagers stood.
Silent, tense.
It was the way Lena clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out.
It was the way the invaders grinned, the gleam of lust in their eyes so utterly disconnected from the fear and defiance in hers.
It made Ryen tremble.
Then—
A single voice broke the silence.
"No."
An old man stepped forward. Rorik, the village's wiseman. His frail frame was nothing before the invaders, but his voice held weight.
"She is not yours," he said.
The scarred leader raised a brow. "Is that so?"
He gestured lazily.
One of his men swung a fist. Rorik crumpled.
And that—
That was the moment the villagers snapped.
A rock flew.
Then another.
Someone swung a farming tool.
A torch was thrown.
Chaos erupted.
The villagers fought—not with skill, not with training, but with desperation. With rage.
And Ryen—
Ryen moved.
He didn't think—his body acted. He rushed forward, ready to pull Lena away, ready to do something.
A hand grabbed him.
He turned—too slow.
A fist slammed into his gut.
Air fled his lungs.
The world tilted.
Another hit—his legs gave out.
Someone kicked him, rolling him onto his back. His vision blurred. A boot was raised—
Before it could come down—
A sickening crack.
The attacker collapsed.
Then another.
And another.
The villagers—they were winning.
Or so they thought.
For a brief moment, it seemed like the tide had turned. The invaders fell one by one, caught off guard by the sheer force of desperation.
Then, one of them rose.
Another staggered to his feet, blood dripping down his face, but his grip on his weapon steady.
A man who should have been unconscious shoved a farmer aside, his knife cutting deep.
A dying soldier grabbed a woman's ankle, pulling her down before driving a blade into her ribs.
The villagers fought with courage. But courage was not enough.
The invaders were relentless.
They stood back up, one by one. Even with wounds, even when struck down, they did not stop.
What had seemed like victory crumbled into something far worse.
A massacre.
One by one, the villagers fell. Those who had fought back were cut down where they stood. Their bodies littered the ground, warm blood soaking into the dirt.
Screams faded.
The struggle ended.
Ryen was dragged to his knees, hands wrenched behind his back. Around him, the surviving villagers were gathered, their faces pale with horror.
Lena was there too, trembling, but alive.
The scarred leader wiped blood from his mouth, stepping forward with slow, deliberate steps. His men stood beside him, weapons still drawn.
The battle was over.
The village of Tona had lost.