The village was called Harrow's Ford.
It sat where the road bent toward the river, small and forgettable, the kind of place that only mattered because armies passed through it.
I had marked it on my map days ago, then forgotten it.
Now it stood between us and our next movement.
That was enough to make it dangerous.
We arrived at dawn.
No resistance. No banners. Just smoke from cooking fires and the quiet sound of water moving under the bridge.
Too quiet.
I raised my hand and the column stopped. Horses snorted. Men shifted.
Ril leaned toward me. "Looks empty."
"It never is," I said.
We advanced slowly.
The villagers watched us from doorways. No shouting. No stones. No Draeven scripture nailed to walls. Just eyes. Measuring eyes.
An elder stepped forward eventually. He bowed—not deeply, but not carelessly either.
"You're Kaeldor," he said.
"Yes."
"You're not Draeven."
"No."
That seemed to confuse him.
I waited. Silence makes people uncomfortable. They fill it with truth.
"We've had visitors," he said at last.
"Draeven."
He nodded. "They came three nights ago. Didn't take much. Didn't threaten. Just… spoke."
Ril scoffed softly. I ignored him.
"What did they say?" I asked.
The elder hesitated. "That order is coming. That those who stand in its way will be remembered."
I looked past him. A boy stood near a doorway, clutching a wooden knife. Too tight. Too scared.
"And what did you tell them?" I asked.
The elder swallowed. "That we would not resist."
I nodded once. "Good."
His shoulders sagged in relief.
Then I said, "And what did you give them?"
The relief vanished.
We found the cache behind the mill.
Grain. Salt. Two crates of dried meat. Carefully hidden. Not much—but enough to feed a patrol for days.
Ril's jaw tightened. "That's aid."
"Yes," I said. "It is."
The elder fell to his knees. "They said if we refused—"
"I know what they said."
I crouched in front of him. "Listen carefully. I will not repeat this."
He met my eyes.
"You fed them once. That ends today."
He nodded frantically.
"If I find even a sack missing next time, I will burn the mill and take your bridge apart stone by stone."
His mouth opened. No sound came out.
"And," I continued, voice even, "I will leave your homes standing. Because if Draeven returns and finds nothing but ashes, they'll know who forced your hand."
I stood.
"Make your choice."
We took nothing from Harrow's Ford.
That mattered.
The soldiers noticed. They always do.
As we rode out, one of the younger men muttered, "They helped the enemy. Why let them keep their food?"
I reined in my horse and turned.
"Because starving allies is easier than fighting enemies," I said. "And easier things kill armies faster."
No one spoke after that.
The real fight came that night.
A Draeven patrol tried to cross the river under moonlight. Quiet. Disciplined. They moved like men who expected no resistance.
They were wrong.
Arrows dropped the first rank. Spears caught the rest before they could scatter. It was fast. Ugly. Close.
One of them raised his hands.
"Don't," Ril said instinctively.
I didn't answer.
The man looked at me. Blood soaked his sleeve. His eyes were calm. Almost relieved.
"For order," he said.
I drew my sword and ended it.
No speech. No hesitation.
Afterward, Ril said nothing. He just watched me clean the blade.
By morning, we had prisoners from a second skirmish. Not zealots. Scouts. Younger. Less certain.
I questioned one myself.
"Who commands you?" I asked.
He hesitated.
I nodded to Elren. The man was struck once. Hard. Not fatal.
"Again," I said.
"Valen Draegor," the scout said quickly. "High Strategos."
I already knew the name. Hearing it changed nothing.
"How many units along the river?"
"More every day."
"Supplies?"
He shook his head. "They don't rely on roads. They rely on people."
That was confirmation, not revelation.
I had him released.
Ril stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "You let him go?"
"He'll run back and tell them we don't waste men," I said. "That confuses zealots."
The report came at noon.
Another village—further east—had refused Draeven aid openly. Publicly. Burned the scripture.
And Draeven had responded.
Not with soldiers.
With silence.
Trade stopped. Messengers vanished. Roads closed.
By evening, that village was begging us for help.
Elren looked at me. "We can't protect everyone."
"No," I said. "But we can choose who survives."
That night, I wrote orders I didn't want to write.
We would fortify three villages.
We would abandon two.
Not burn them. Not punish them.
Just… leave.
Ril read the list twice.
"They won't last," he said.
"I know."
He hesitated. "You're choosing who lives."
"No," I said. "I'm choosing who dies quickly."
He didn't argue again.
We marched before dawn.
Smoke rose behind us by midday—not from fire, but from cooking fires abandoned too long. People leaving. Running. Hoping.
War does that. It turns geography into morality.
By the time we reached the ridge overlooking the river bend, the men were quieter than I'd ever heard them.
A soldier near the back whispered, "Is this how it starts?"
I didn't ask what he meant.
Because I already knew.
That evening, a message arrived from Draeven.
No threats.
No scripture.
Just a single line, written cleanly:
Order requires sacrifice.
I crushed the parchment in my fist.
"Yes," I said aloud, to no one. "It does."
And tonight, I had decided whose sacrifice mattered.