"Who could have done something like this?" Armand asked himself as he inspected a corpse at his feet. Its skin had blackened until it was nothing more than a putrid mask of charcoal. And just like this one, there were hundreds more, which from afar could have been mistaken for dark plants.
The news had taken them by surprise; one of the main rebel camps razed in the middle of the night by an unknown attacker. It didn’t take long before they received orders from their superiors to find out what had happened.

Lucien shrugged as he crossed a dry surface whose soil had eroded. He kept walking until he discovered the cylindrical edges surrounding him. Only then did he realize that this place had once been a fountain.
"God have mercy on us," he said upon noticing the first bones hidden in the earth. Dead fish. "It’s as if…" Lucien hesitated, it’s as if they had been burned alive, he was about to say, but thought better of it, fearing it wouldn’t be appropriate.
"It’s as if the sun had fallen on them," Armand confirmed before stepping into the rubble.

The atmosphere was harsh, the air dense, and the temperature higher than usual for midwinter. Armand unbuttoned the top of his shirt to bare his chest and continued carefully analyzing the remains of what had once been houses, the smoke of a fire that had taken time to fade, and of course, the ashes of the victims.
The village had been razed almost to its foundations. The question weighing on the rebel and his companion was: Why?

Armand leaned against the façade of a house that trembled under his weight. Lucien approached with his head lowered and only then, at his side, dared to say:
"Was it the kingdom of Rath? Could the diurnals have been capable of…?"
"I doubt it," Armand replied. "If the rumors that spread about this place were true, they wouldn’t have dared such a massacre. You don’t believe this was the kingdom either; I know that look, Lucien—you have a hypothesis."

The man shifted uncomfortably before removing his velvet coat and stretching his frail arms, the result of limited nourishment. Naturally, being one of the rebellion’s advisors, his role was not in combat, so physical strength had never been his forte—least of all now, in this season.
"It could have been some rebel clan. Some are extremists. Perhaps if they heard the rumors…"

Suddenly both stiffened. A sound; faint, almost imperceptible, and had it come hours later, it might have been mistaken for the whistle of the wind. Someone was there, but… friend or foe? Armand broke into a run and Lucien followed close behind, dodging obstacles and pushing through the mist that wrapped around their feet like poisonous ivy. They stopped in front of a hut whose door had been torn down, leaving only the hinges. Armand drew a knife from beneath his tunic and Lucien hid behind him. Their shoulders were tense as they entered.
"Step out, Lucien. I won’t be able to protect us both if necessary."
"I think I’d feel safer if…" Lucien began, but flinched as the sound came again. Armand, however, lowered the knife slightly and sharpened his gaze.

A shadow beneath a sturdy oak table, covered by a frayed cloth that hung to the floor, forming a curtain—or perhaps a shield—and a small figure behind it. Curled up on itself, as if a poor weave of straw could protect it. Armand closed the distance and pulled the cloth away in one swift motion.

It was nothing more than a child. His cheekbones were blackened, and from his hair shone golden streaks against a forest of ash. A survivor, only one, Armand thought, pressing his lips together.
Armand gestured for him to come closer, but the boy kept his distance, even retreating until he bumped against one of the table’s legs. He didn’t scream, nor did he take his eyes off the silver blade Armand held by its leather grip. Armand understood and slid the knife back into his boot. Then he offered his hand.
"Pleasure to meet you, boy. What’s your name?"

Lucien, who had lagged behind among the ruined columns, grimaced in disgust as the boy stepped out of hiding and into the light. Filthy. It didn’t matter if you were part of the royal court or if your ideals had made you a rebel—the stench was frankly unbearable. But Armand didn’t seem to care; instead, he smiled at the child, despite being surrounded by the wreckage left behind by hell itself.

And perhaps it was that show of kindness that gave the boy the confidence to say:
"Louis."