#violent silence

This was war. Ugly. Wasteful. Pointless.

She stood on the remnants of a wall, its edges jagged where some spell or brute force had torn through it. The battlefield stretched before her in a vast, writhing expanse. Fire flickered in the distance, guttering orange against the storm-gray sky. The earth was broken, gouged deep by magic and steel, corpses half-buried in the trenches that had once been rolling plains. The banners that remained standing were tattered and filthy, their colors indistinguishable beneath layers of dirt and gore.

Somewhere far off, a war horn sounded—low and guttural, echoing through the smoke-cloaked hills. She barely heard it.

Her fingers trailed idly over the cool stone of the broken wall, feeling the rough, pitted surface, the lingering dampness where blood had sprayed and dried. It was almost peaceful , in a way, this aftermath. The screams had quieted, the chaos dulled to the occasional clash of steel or the ragged breath of the dying. And soon, even that would fade.

She had no love for war. Had it been her choice, she would have let the High Lord and his wretched court crumble beneath Hybern’s might. Let them burn in the ruins of their own arrogance. Hewn City would survive. She would survive.

What did she care if the Night Court fell, if its warriors were cut down like cattle? There was no loyalty in her veins, only pragmatism, only the certainty that power shifted like sand, and the wise did not stand in the way of an inevitable tide.

And yet—her father had come. The general of the Darkbringers. And she had followed, not for honor, not for some misguided sense of duty, but because he commanded and she obeyed. Because standing in the aftermath of battle was better than being trapped beneath the mountain, waiting in the shadows for whichever force emerged victorious.

A crow cawed from a half-collapsed tower, wings glinting black as onyx as it took flight. Its brethren feasted below. She watched them idly, tearing into whatever remained of the fallen, their beaks slick with blood.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, where the remnants of battle still clung to the earth. The armor-clad figures retreating in the distance caught her eye. She saw the familiar dark silhouettes of the Darkbringers, their once-proud ranks now fragmented and disordered. Some limped, some staggered, while others simply marched in grim silence, their faces hard and grim. The sight made her lips curl in disdain.

Among the retreating soldiers, she could pick out her father—standing tall in his battered armor, his face a mask of fury and determination. Next to him stood Keir, equally battered, equally furious. They were deep in conversation, the two men standing apart from the others, their voices low but unmistakable in their tension.

Even from this distance, she could see the way Keir’s jaw tightened, the way his hands clenched at his sides. Her father’s broad shoulders were stiff with anger, his eyes narrowing as he listened to Keir’s words. She could imagine the conversation without hearing it—the reports of their losses, the curses exchanged, the blame shifting from one commander to the other.

They had taken a heavy blow, and both knew it. The way they stood—proud but seething—spoke volumes about the pride that had been bruised, the battle they had lost. It was the kind of loss that didn’t just sting—it crippled.

The soldiers behind them were in disarray, but her father and Keir were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to notice. They were soldiers first, always soldiers, and everything else came second.

She looked around the battlefield once more, but it offered her little in the way of solace. She had come up here to escape the stuffy confines of her tent. The air in there had been thick, oppressive, a prison of too many layers of velvet and fine silk. But stepping outside hadn’t been any better—the stench of blood still clung to the world, the cries of the wounded still echoed in the distance.

The chill of the wind, sharp and biting, cut through the layers of her black and grey dress, the heavy fabric pulling tight around her neck. She crinkled her nose at the cold, longing for the warmth of a fire and the softness of her bed back in Hewn City, where the thick mountain walls wrapped her in a familiar embrace.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the stone as she glanced back toward the camp. She would much rather be nestled in her own chambers, away from the noise and the bloodshed, where the only sound was the hum of life within the walls. The mountain had always been her safe place, its walls thick enough to shut out the world, to shield her from the brutal reality of places like this.

But even now, with her thoughts drifting toward home, she knew that even her father, for all his pride and distaste for battle, understood the necessity of being on the field.

It wasn’t just about the Darkbringers . It was about the High Lord, too—showing strength, showing power. The message was clear: they weren’t afraid, they weren’t backing down.

There was an art to it, a cruel game in which their presence was meant to command respect, to remind the others of who stood at the top. She had no illusions about it. She had no illusions about any of it.

They were all just pawns in a much larger game.

The wind howled again, and she tugged the fabric of her dress closer to her body, trying to shield herself from the cold. The thick layers of fabric did little to block it out, and her fingers were beginning to feel numb. She hated it—this dress, the weight of it, the way it made her feel like she was drowning beneath a sea of fabric.

War was not for her. Comfort was.

Even though her tent had been luxurious, as lavish as anything could be under these circumstances, it hadn’t provided the peace she’d craved. It was as if the tension of the battle itself had seeped into the very walls of the tent, into every heavy drape, every gilded corner.

And for all the silk and finery that surrounded her, she felt more trapped than ever.

She wasn’t made for this. The battlefield, the blood, the violence—it wasn’t her. She would rather be nestled in the comfort of her mountain keep , away from the cold and the sound of dying men.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft, delicate voice, cutting through the stillness of the battlefield. The girl stood before her, head downcast in a proper curtsy. Her dress was plain compared to the fine garments she wore, but there was an air of respect in her demeanor that made her lips curl ever so slightly. The girl spoke in a measured tone, “My lady, your father requests your presence.”

She didn’t immediately reply, her gaze flickering toward the girl only for a moment, a brief glance of indifference. She could already feel her father’s summons, the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. He never called for her unless there was something he needed, and his need always came before her comfort, before anything else.

She didn’t give the girl a second glance. With a flick of her wrist, she swept her skirts up, fingers clutching the fabric tightly, and turned on her heel, her boots sinking slightly into the thick mud beneath her. The cold wind stung against her exposed neck, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Her feet trudged down the uneven stone steps leading off the wall, the sound of her boots muffled in the sludge beneath her.

She didn’t bother with pleasantries or even a polite word of acknowledgment. No thank you. The girl had done her part—she’d delivered the message. That was all. Her thoughts, her focus, were already elsewhere.

She felt the weight of the fabric in her hands, the layers of the heavy dress pulling against her with every step. The long skirts swayed around her legs, brushing the wet ground, but she kept them lifted, holding them away from the mud. She wasn’t about to let the cold muck of the battlefield further ruin her fine attire. It was beneath her, beneath everything she had been taught.

Her father’s camp loomed in the distance, a stark reminder that her place in this world—this brutal world of soldiers and bloodshed—wasn’t of her choosing.

But she didn’t need to choose. She had no choice but to obey, and obey she would, without hesitation.

The path to her father’s tent was a long, winding stretch of mud and dirt, the remnants of battle scattered around her. The sounds of the dying and the wounded barely registered in her ears as she walked, her boots heavy with each step, her dress dampening from the wetness of the ground.

By the time she reached her father’s tent, her skirts were damp and the mud had left marks on the hem of her dress.

Her father’s tent was dimly lit, the low flicker of candlelight casting long shadows across the room. A sturdy wooden table sat at the center, maps spread across its surface, the edges curling from the weight of time and use. He was bent over them, his brow furrowed in concentration as he and Keir went over the battle plans. They were deep in discussion, their voices low but sharp with frustration, the tension thick in the air.

When she entered, her father didn’t look up immediately. He was focused, his fingers tracing the lines on the map, muttering under his breath. Keir stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a look of impatience.

Only when her footsteps drew closer did her father glance up, his cold, dark eyes briefly meeting hers. It was more a gesture of acknowledgment than concern, just enough to confirm that she was indeed present. Without another word, his gaze shifted back down to the maps in front of him, his fingers tapping the table in thought.

“The High Lord’s ‘allies’,” he muttered bitterly, his voice thick with disdain, “do nothing but weigh us down. These Illryians… brutes, the lot of them. They’ve no understanding of tactics, no sense of strategy. They charge in, killing mindlessly, as if that’s enough to win a battle. They take up space, and what do we get? Chaos. A waste of resources.”

Keir, standing nearby, merely nodded, his own expression one of agreement, but it was clear they both shared a frustration that went beyond the battlefield. Her father’s frustration burned in every word he spoke, but there was no sign of it easing.

“They don’t fight with intelligence,” he continued, his voice growing sharper. “Just violence. It’s as though they believe strength alone will win this war.”

He slammed his fist on the table, causing the maps to shift slightly. “It’s strategy, it’s precision. It’s control of the field, not reckless abandon.”

He shook his head, his features hardening again as he scanned the maps. His thoughts were elsewhere, but the bitterness remained in his tone. “This alliance with the High Lord… it was a mistake.”

She stood quietly as her father continued his rant, but her mind wandered, thoughts flickering to the Illryians. She knew all too well what they were like—brutes, savages. She had caught glimpses of them in passing, just enough to form a harsh opinion.

Their men were monstrous, large and imposing, wings spread wide, covered in blood from battles she could only imagine. They seemed made for this—made for war, for chaos.

Their very presence on the battlefield was a testament to that. They didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. Blood, dirt, and war— it was all they knew.

She had seen their camp from a distance, and it was nothing like her father’s. Their tents were in disarray, their people scattered, as if they didn’t care about order or organization. The Illryians didn’t seem to need the comfort of shelter.

Those that had tents barely kept them intact. The fabric was torn, ripped at the seams, barely offering any protection against the elements. But they didn’t seem to care. The men moved in and out of the chaos like they were born for it, their steps purposeful, as if the disarray didn’t matter.

The only tents that stood with any semblance of care were for the higher-ranked— the lords, perhaps. They had the luxury of tents that appeared somewhat intact, though even those looked hastily put together.

Her people, the Darkbringers, had order. They fought with purpose, strategy, and control. It was how they survived, how they succeeded. The Illryians, though—they had no strategy. They fought with sheer brutality, as if the battlefield was nothing more than a place to spill blood and claim victory by force.

She had watched them from afar, their camp a chaotic mess. The way they moved in and out of it, with no regard for the mess they left behind. No respect for their surroundings, no discipline. It made her skin crawl.

Her father finally straightened from the table, his back cracking as he did. He turned, his eyes cold and piercing as they landed on her, and for a moment, there was silence between them. He studied her, as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface, before his voice broke the stillness.

“Where were you?” His tone was sharp, laced with irritation, but there was no hint of concern in his voice—only the commanding authority she had grown used to. He glanced over her appearance with distaste, taking in the dirt that had clung to the hem of her dress, the faint traces of mud that speckled her skin from her walk across the field.

She opened her mouth to speak, but she knew the answer wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t care where she had gone—only that she had disobeyed the expectations he set for her. She had no answer that would satisfy him, but there was no need to say it aloud. She was already certain he’d continue his tirade, regardless of her response.

“I—”

“You should not be wandering about, especially not in this filth,” he cut her off, his gaze hardening as he walked toward her. “Who knows what sort of disease or rot has touched this place? You’re far too important to be exposed to such… lowly conditions.” He emphasized the word lowly , as if the very thought of her being tainted by the dirt and the chaos of the battlefield was beneath him—and beneath her, too.

If it had been her way, she would never have left. But she kept that to herself, as she always did.

She inclined her head slowly, the weight of his words settling heavily on her chest.

“Yes, Father,” she said, the words soft but obedient. It was the only answer he wanted, the only answer he would accept.

She didn’t offer a single word of defiance, didn’t voice the thoughts running through her head. She simply stood there, eyes lowered, willing to submit to his will, as she had always done. This was the life she was bound to, whether she liked it or not. And for the moment, all she could do was comply.

─────

He stood amidst the chaos, the blood from the battlefield coating him from head to toe. His chest heaved with each breath, the air thick with the stench of death, sweat, and the iron tang of blood. His leather attire clung to his skin, sticky and heavy with the weight of the carnage around him.

It was difficult to tell how much of the blood was his own and how much had spilled from the bodies of the men he had slaughtered. He could feel the cuts and bruises that marred his body, the searing pain from each wound, but it hardly mattered. It was just another part of the battlefield, another mark of survival.

His leather tunic was torn in places, the edges ragged from where his enemies’ blades had cut too close. His arms, streaked with blood, were caked in layers of grime, but it didn’t bother him. The blood—whether his or his enemies’—felt like a part of him now. It was the price of battle, the cost of being alive in this world of constant war.

His hands, still gripping his weapon, were slick with the red liquid, the hilt of his blade now almost unrecognizable from the blood that had soaked into it.

The pain in his side was sharp, but he had learned to push it aside. His body ached, his muscles burning from the constant movement, from the hours of fighting that seemed to never end.

The sound of dying men and screams of agony filled the air, but he was numb to it. All that mattered now was survival. The battle had become a blur of faces—some familiar, others not—but all of them had one thing in common: they were either dead or dying, and he had played his part in their end.

He wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead, his eyes scanning the battlefield, looking for the next fight, the next enemy to face. His wings, large and powerful, brushed against the torn leather of his back as he moved, a reminder.

It didn’t matter that his body was a canvas of wounds. It didn’t matter that his breath was ragged and his energy spent. He would fight until there was no one left standing.

The horn sounded, a low, echoing call that cut through the battlefield. The signal that the fight was done for today. That it would pick up again in the morning.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, feeling the deep ache in his muscles. The exhaustion had settled in now that the killing had stopped. His body protested every movement, but he forced himself to start walking, to drag himself back toward what little rest he would find before dawn.

Around him, other men did the same. His brothers in arms, all of them covered in blood and grime, their bodies just as worn and battered as his. Some walked in silence, heads bowed, too tired to speak. Others muttered curses, complaints, or jokes too dark for anyone outside their ranks to understand.

Their camp was a mess of ragged tents, torn fabric barely holding together, but no one cared. Those who didn’t have tents would gather near the fires, the only warmth they would have against the cold night air.

He wasn’t sure where he would end up tonight—by a fire, inside a tent, or simply collapsing on the dirt where he stood. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that he was still standing.

Tomorrow, the killing would begin again.

As he trudged back toward the camp, the exhaustion settling deeper into his bones, his eyes caught sight of his general. The man stood rigid, frustration evident in the tightness of his stance, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His face was hard, stern, and shadowed with something bordering on fury.

And standing with him was Cassian. The bastard-turned-general.

Even from a distance, he could hear the tension in their voices. His general’s was sharp, cutting through the night like a blade, his anger barely restrained. “We don’t have enough tents! We don’t have enough food! Half my men are walking around with wounds that should have been tended hours ago, and yet, since we arrived, not a single damned healer will come near us.”

Cassian, for all his legendary status, didn’t snap back. His face was drawn tight, exhaustion visible even in the way he stood, but his voice remained level. “I’ve spoken to them. They’re tending to as many as they can.”

The general scoffed, shaking his head. “As many as they can? We both know that’s not true. Your High Lord’s people—his precious court—don’t give a damn about the Illyrians, not really. We’ve seen the way they look at us, the way they avoid us unless they need us to spill blood for them.”

Cassian sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “We’re all fighting the same war.”

The general let out a bitter laugh. “Are we? Because it seems to me that some are fighting while others sit back and wait for the war to be won for them.” His gaze was cutting, sharp as a blade. “And when that happens, when the fighting is done, we’ll be discarded like we always are.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened, his wings twitching as he shifted his stance. “That’s not going to happen.”

The general gave him a long, unreadable look. Then he shook his head. “We’ll see.” Without another word, he turned on his heel, stalking off into the camp, leaving Cassian standing there, fists clenched at his sides.

The soldier watching it all didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. He simply turned away, dragging himself back toward whatever space he could find to rest. None of it changed the fact that tomorrow, they would fight again.

He knew no healer would come. They never did. The Illyrians weren’t worth the effort. Weren’t worth the supplies, the bandages, the magic that could be spent on someone else—someone more important in the eyes of the court. It had always been that way. They were only useful when they were killing, when they were bleeding for a High Lord who barely acknowledged their existence beyond the battlefield.

Not that he needed a healer. He had survived worse. Pain was nothing new. The wounds would scab over, the bruises would fade, and he would still be standing. He always was. If the price of war was suffering, then he had paid it in full and would keep paying it, battle after battle, until there was nothing left of him but blood and scars.

But if he had it his way—if the choice had ever been his to make—he would let Hybern take their High Lord. Let them take the bastard general, too. Let them fall, let them grovel in the dirt and beg for mercy, just as his brothers had begged for healing that never came. Let them feel what it was to be discarded, to be seen as nothing more than bodies to throw at an enemy.

And when they begged? When they were broken and bleeding, pleading for the help they had always denied?

He would stand over them and watch.

He dropped down beside a random fire, the heat barely cutting through the chill that had settled deep in his bones. The exhaustion weighed heavy, but he didn’t let it show. He just sat there, stretching out his legs, his wings shifting stiffly behind him, and stared into the flames.

Across from him, Caedes sat hunched over, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the space between them, steady and unbroken. Caedes barely spared him a glance, too lost in the task—or at least, that’s what it looked like.

But he knew better.

Caedes was listening. Always listening. For whispers, for rumors, for any scrap of information their generals wouldn’t bother telling foot soldiers like them. The kind of things that could decide who lived and who didn’t.

The firelight flickered, casting shadows across Caedes’s face as he ran the blade against the stone again.

“They’re arguing again,” Caedes muttered, voice low. Another scrape of the blade. “Not just with Cassian. I heard one of the Lord’s own was in the war tent. Didn’t like what he heard.”

He said nothing, just picked up a nearby stick and jabbed at the fire, watching the embers glow brighter. He didn’t need to ask what that meant.

It meant the war wasn’t going the way they wanted.

He wanted to laugh. The absurdity of it all. What did they expect? Hybern had everything they didn’t. Power. Resources. Men who actually seemed like they knew what they were doing. They were strong, their army well-fed and well-equipped. They had the things that made a war worth fighting—the things that made men want to win, not just survive.

And here they were, the Illyrians, dragged into someone else’s battle with no more than their blood, their wings, and their grim determination to keep moving forward. No healers. No supplies. Barely enough food to fill their stomachs for a day, let alone enough to last through weeks of fighting. What did they expect?

He snorted, low and bitter, staring into the fire. Hybern had everything they lacked—and more. They had the kind of warriors who fought for something real. Not for some High Lord who looked down on them like they were nothing. Hybern’s men fought for their land, for their pride. They fought for something worth dying for.

If he could, he would have joined them.

At least there, he thought, the fighting might have had meaning. Hybern’s warriors didn’t hide in the shadows, hoping for scraps. They took what they wanted. They lived in the blood of battle, and there was no shame in it.

But here? All they had was pain. And war. And a High Lord who probably didn’t even care if they lived or died.

He could almost laugh at the thought. Here they were, standing in the mud, covered in their own blood and the blood of men they barely knew. And the bastards who sat at the top never even bled.

At least the Hyberns looked like they were having more of a time than he was.

They fought with purpose. They fought like they were something more. If he could have switched sides, he would have. But he had no choice, no escape.

All he had was this.

And it felt like nothing.

He leaned back slightly, the weight of his exhaustion settling deeper into his bones, and let out a dry, bitter chuckle. His fingers drummed absently on his knee, the rhythmic sound of it lost in the crackling of the fire. Finally, he broke the silence.

“What did they expect?” he muttered, his voice rough from the dust and blood that clung to his throat. He glanced at Caedes, but there was no real expectation of a response. It was a question he already knew the answer to.

“They come here, drag us out like we’re just tools to be used, and they expect us to fight and die for them. For what? A High Lord who doesn’t give a damn about the blood we spill? A bastard general who doesn’t see us as anything more than cannon fodder?” His laugh was hollow, bitter. He shook his head, staring into the fire.

“Hybern has everything we don’t. They’ve got men who don’t have to beg for scraps. They’ve got strength. Real strength. They’ve got power. We’ve got what? Nothing but our wings and our wounds. So what the hell did they expect?”

His hand clenched around the hilt of his blade, the thought of it making the anger inside him flare, even as the cold numbness of battle continued to settle over his body.

Caedes’s voice was low, a sharp warning in the stillness of the night. “Careful,” he muttered, his eyes flicking around, as though sensing the weight of the words and the consequences that could come with them.

The soldier heard the caution, felt the sting of truth in it, but he didn’t care. He knew what was at stake— of course he did. But that didn’t matter anymore. The fire in his chest, the anger that surged with every cut and bruise, every day spent fighting for a cause that didn’t feel like his, drowned out any sense of restraint.

He didn’t care about their court, or their precious rules. Not anymore.

With a grunt, he shifted his weight and looked away, staring back into the flames, the heat doing little to warm him. His wings twinged, sore and stiff, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he focused on the flickering light, on the embers slowly fading into ash.

He knew Caedes was right, but it didn’t matter.

It didn’t change a thing.

He didn’t know how long he stared into the fire. Time seemed to blur, the flickering light hypnotic, drawing him in and pulling his thoughts further into the darkness. His mind wandered, caught between the rage still simmering beneath his skin and the fatigue that tugged at him, threatening to pull him under.

The crackling of the flames became the only sound he could hear. The rhythmic pop of the wood, the soft whisper of wind through the trees—everything else faded into the background. For a while, he let himself just exist in the firelight, letting it burn away the thoughts that tangled in his mind.

It was easier that way.

But as he sat there, lost in the flames, he felt the sky slowly shift, the darkness creeping in, swallowing the last remnants of light from the horizon. The warmth of the fire no longer felt like enough. He hadn’t even noticed when the sun had disappeared entirely, leaving nothing but a sky full of stars and the faint glow of the campfires scattered around them.

He could hear the soft murmur of voices in the distance, the rustle of wings and the shuffle of tired soldiers, but none of it seemed to matter. He could’ve stayed there forever, just watching the fire burn down to embers, his thoughts spinning, his body aching.

Finally, he blinked, his eyes adjusting to the deeper shadows around him, and he realized how long he’d been sitting there. Long enough for the world around him to grow dark, for the last sliver of daylight to fade into the blackness of the night. He hadn’t even noticed the shift.

All that was left was the fire, and the gnawing emptiness that spread across his chest.

Caedes’s voice broke through the silence, low and edged with something that sounded like concern. “Your wounds. You should get them checked. They’re still fresh.” His eyes flicked to the blood-soaked leather that clung to the soldier’s skin, the wounds barely wrapped in hastily done bandages.

The soldier didn’t even look at him. He didn’t need to. His response was a grunt, the sound rough as he shifted slightly, the ache of his body reminding him of every slash and bruise. “By who?” His tone was thick with mockery. “The healers? They won’t come anywhere near me. Not that it matters. It’s nothing that won’t heal on its own.”

He glanced at Caedes briefly, the weight of the world in his gaze. “We’re not worth their time, you know? Not to them. Not to anyone.”

A sharp breath left him as he shifted again, wincing slightly, but he made no effort to tend to the wounds. He wasn’t interested in what might or might not be healed. There were worse things in this war than the sting of a few cuts.

Caedes didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The soldier’s words rang true, and he knew it. The healers wouldn’t come, not for them. They weren’t worth it, not when the High Lord and his court were safe in their tents, untouched by the real battle. Caedes let the silence stretch between them, his fingers still working on his blade, but his mind far away.

The fire crackled, the only sound in the still night, its light casting flickering shadows across the ground. The soldier didn’t move, didn’t make any effort to stand up or tend to his wounds, and Caedes didn’t push him. Neither of them spoke again. There was nothing left to say.

They sat like that for a while longer, the weight of the night pressing down on them. Both of them knew they should be resting. They should be sleeping, trying to recover, to gather strength for whatever came next. But neither of them moved. Neither of them had the energy for it.

Instead, they just let the moments stretch out, heavy and silent. Neither of them cared to acknowledge the exhaustion creeping into their bones, nor the fact that sleep would be hard to find in a world like this. There were more important things to think about. More important things to fear.

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