The aftermath of battle smelled like burnt wood, blood-soaked linen, and silence.
Throy sat on the edge of a ruined well at the center of the liberated village, staring into the still water. His reflection looked older than it had the day before. Worn. Sharper around the edges.
The Spartgeons moved with a different rhythm now. Not with the frantic urgency of recruits—but the measured silence of those who'd tasted death and survived.
They were still boys and girls. But something had changed in them.
In him, too.
He exhaled and looked up as Tharn approached, arms crossed over his chest, mud caking his sandals, a smear of dried blood on his cheek. He dropped down beside Throy and said nothing for a moment.
Then:
"Three dead."
Throy nodded, his jaw tight.
"We'll carve their names into stone," he said softly.
"That's not what I meant." Tharn's voice was low, quiet, unusually serious. "I mean… they didn't die right. They hesitated. Two froze. One ran."
He let the words hang in the air.
Throy stared back into the water.
"They weren't cowards."
"No," Tharn agreed. "They just weren't soldiers. Not yet."
A long silence followed. The wind whistled through the blackened rafters of a burned stable nearby. Somewhere, a child coughed. A dog whined.
"So teach them," Throy said finally. "Make them more than what they were."
Tharn smirked. "What, you want me to build my own warband now?"
"Not a warband. A unit," Throy said. "Tight-knit. Chaotic. Brutal. Like you."
Tharn raised an eyebrow. "Sounds dangerous."
"It is."
"Good," Tharn grinned. "I'll call them the Ashfangs."
"Stormfangs reborn?" Throy asked.
"No," Tharn said, rising. "Something better. Something ours."
Two Days Later – Spartgeon Encampment
The liberated village had been secured. Makeshift palisades built. Watch rotations started. The civilians, most of them gaunt and weary, had begun to clean the square, cook in silence, and occasionally—tentatively—smile.
Throy stood before a row of villagers and recruits as Elarin, his tactical aide and perhaps the closest thing to a strategist among them, read a small wooden board of names aloud. The three who had fallen in battle.
Each name was met with the pounding of a shield, once.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
A boy laid a strip of cloth bearing the fallen's names at the base of the well. Their first memorial.
"We're not gods," Throy said to the crowd. "We're not invincible. But if we fight for each other, not ourselves… we'll build something that will last. Something stronger than swords. Stronger than tyranny."
He left them with that and stepped away quietly.
In his tent, the System stirred again—this time not as a level-up, but as a quiet prompt.
[SYSTEM LOG – Leadership Milestone: "Burial Rights"]
Alignment: Merciful Flame
Your choice to honor the fallen strengthens morale and unity.
Reward:
Passive Buff: "Weight of Memory" – Squad members gain +10% resistance to morale loss after losing a comrade.
Squad Bonding Unlocked: Ashfang Unit created.
Note: Bonds formed in grief are harder to break… and more dangerous to betray.
Throy leaned back and stared at the fabric of the tent roof above him.
He felt it again.
That pressure in his chest. Not fear. Not exhaustion.
Responsibility.
That Night – Training Grounds
Tharn's voice roared like a thunderclap as he shoved a boy into the dirt.
"Get up! Get up or die! There's no third option!"
Six ragged trainees stood in a circle, breathing hard, bleeding from split lips and bruised forearms. They weren't polished. But they were angry. Fire had begun to light in their eyes.
"What are we called?" Tharn barked.
"Ashfangs!" they shouted.
"What do we burn?"
"Fear!"
"What do we leave behind?"
"Ash!"
Throy watched from the shadows, arms folded. Elarin stepped beside him, frowning slightly.
"He's turning them into lunatics."
"He's turning them into survivors," Throy replied.
He meant it.
The next battle would come. Whether from another Stormbreaker patrol or worse—bandit lords, corrupt nobles, or broken men wearing the face of kings.
And when it did, they'd need more than soldiers.
They'd need believers.