The village burned down overnight.
Beams were still smoldering, smoke rising from collapsed roofs, while charred planks and blackened pieces of furniture lay scattered across the ground. The fire had swept through the streets quickly and without discrimination — almost every house had been touched by the flames. The walls still stood, but inside there was nothing left.
Abandoned belongings lay scattered across the square: overturned baskets, torn sacks, broken benches. Bodies lay there too — some had fallen while trying to run, others had simply burned.
It looked as if whoever had done this had not stayed any longer than necessary.
The barn that had held the grain and the entire harvest had almost burned down as well, but inside it was empty. The doors had been torn from their hinges, deep wagon tracks carved into the dirt, and beside them were heavy paw prints. The grain had been hauled away before the flames could reach it.
The tracks led to a road disappearing deep into the forest.
Judging by the marks, the column had numbered no fewer than a hundred people.
And only at the very edge of the village, in the farthest house — one the fire had somehow passed by — a handful of people were hiding.
.
.
.
The evening in the village had been uneasy.
A young man ran down the main street, stumbling and gasping for breath, shouting about an approaching threat. His voice trembled, but there was no doubt in it — the attackers were already close.
The villagers reacted quickly. Those who had still been trading outside their homes or at small stalls hurriedly gathered fruits, vegetables, and anything left out in the open and carried it indoors, locking themselves inside.
But not everyone hid.
The men, along with a few women, gathered at the entrance to the village, forming a line across the road. Small, but solid — more a gesture of desperation than a real defense.
The village elder stepped forward.
A gray-haired old man in worn but tidy clothes stood before the people, leaning on a cane. His face carried the exhaustion of someone who had faced situations like this more than once.
He knew how to talk. How to negotiate.
And more than once he had saved the village with words alone.
Rumors said he had already paid bandits before — for "peace." No one knew exactly what he had given them. But as long as the houses remained standing and the people remained alive, no one asked too many questions.
Today he planned to talk again.
But not everyone approaching the village came for negotiation.
Voices and the heavy stomping of beasts echoed from the entrance. A moment later, a group of riders emerged from the darkness — perhaps fifty men, maybe more. No one counted.
They rode Siverns — large mage-wolves nearly two and a half meters at the shoulder. Massive shoulders, thick dark fur, and long claws that scratched the ground with every step. They moved in perfect coordination, like a single pack rather than dozens of separate beasts.
The column slowly approached the villagers standing in the middle of the road.
At its head rode a man in well-made gear, seated atop a Sivern. When he stopped, the rest of the group halted slightly behind him.
The rider looked over the gathered people and calmly asked:
— Who's your village head?
A hoarse but steady voice came from the crowd.
— I am.
The rider's gaze shifted to the gray-haired man standing slightly ahead of the others. Bent with age, dressed in worn clothes, leaning on a cane — from atop the enormous wolf he seemed especially small.
The rider smirked at the sight of the old man.
— Allow me to ask… — the elder began.
— Shut up. We didn't come here to talk.
The leader cut him off mid-sentence.
The elder froze. The people behind him stiffened noticeably. Someone gripped a knife more tightly; someone else took a step back.
Before, he had always managed to negotiate. With other mercenaries he had found common ground — concessions, deadlines, terms.
But these men weren't even trying to listen.
And that was a bad sign.
— Does the word "Reapers" mean anything to you?
After those words, the villagers' remaining confidence vanished.
Everyone knew that name.
Unlike ordinary bandits who robbed a little and disappeared, the Reapers worked differently. They didn't come for random loot. They were an organized group.
They came with a purpose.
You didn't bargain with them. You didn't argue with them. And you certainly didn't set conditions.
They were the ones who set the terms.
They hadn't been given that name by accident.
The Reapers came to villages and small settlements and took the entire harvest — grain, cereals, vegetables, fruit. They left only the bare minimum needed to keep people from starving.
And if anyone resisted or refused to hand over what was demanded, the punishment was swift and public.
They cut people down as coldly as wheat in a field.
— We want your entire harvest. Everything in the village. That's the first thing, — the leader of the riders began calmly. — Second — from this day on, you live under our rule.
His voice was steady and loud so everyone could hear.
— You keep working your fields. Sowing. Harvesting. Storing. But everything you grow belongs to us.
The crowd stiffened. It sounded like slavery.
— You'll be left enough not to starve. The rest we take. Every season. No exceptions.
He leaned slightly forward.
— In return, you get protection. No other band will come here. The roads will be under our control. Your caravans won't be touched.
Then he smiled.
— But any resistance will be considered refusal of the agreement.
The Sivern beneath him slowly dragged a claw across the ground.
— And refusal means the village ceases to exist.
People began whispering nervously. The village head, who had already seemed small before, looked even smaller now.
— And one more thing, — the man added almost casually. — A few of our people will remain in the village. For order.
Now it didn't sound like an offer anymore.
It sounded like a declaration.
The villagers didn't know what to say. Someone opened their mouth, only to close it again without speaking.
This meant the end of the life they knew. From now on they would work not for prosperity, but simply to survive.
The elder spoke first.
— We… — his voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. — We are willing to pay you. But leaving people only scraps… that would condemn the village to death.
The crowd stirred after his words.
— What exactly do you mean by "enough not to starve"?
— Why should we listen to you at all?
The Reapers simply exchanged glances and smiled. They outnumbered the villagers. They were better armed. Crushing such a rebellion would be easy.
But someone refused to stand quietly.
A stone flew from the crowd and struck the leader in the shoulder.
— Get the hell out of here, you bastards! We don't need your rule!
The leader didn't even sway. On the outside he remained calm.
But his gaze turned colder.
— Step forward.
His voice was even and calm.
— Last chance. Otherwise it won't just be the one who threw the stone who suffers. Step forward.
The crowd pressed closer together. Someone stepped ahead to shield the others, but no one stepped out.
The silence stretched.
The leader slowly exhaled and waved a hand to the men behind him.
— You've made your choice.
That gesture meant the beginning of the Harvest.
— Wai… — the elder didn't finish the word.
The Sivern lunged forward. Its paw swept through the air — and a dense blade of wind cut through space.
The elder fell first.
The other Siverns and their riders surged forward as well.
The riders simply drove their beasts into the crowd.
The first line collapsed instantly — two people were struck down by the beasts' chests, a third was knocked aside by a claw. Sickles flashed from the saddles. Short swings — and those who tried to run fell before taking even a few steps.
The leader's scythe carved a wide arc, and everyone it touched dropped to the ground.
The Siverns tore through the formation, slamming into backs, knocking people down. Claws ripped across shoulders and throats while the riders finished off anyone who tried to stand.
The screams quickly dissolved into chaos.
Those who still lay alive on the ground were cut down without hesitation.
Some of the Reapers spread through the village and began setting fires.
They entered houses, took whatever they wanted, and tossed torches onto the floors before leaving.
Flames leapt from building to building, and soon the entire village was burning.
Within minutes the screaming faded.
Only the crackling of burning wood remained.
Another group headed for the barn. The doors were torn open, grain shoveled into sacks and loaded onto wagons before the fire could reach it.
The leader of the Reapers — a man named Torsul — looked around. Everything pleased him.
When the riders gathered at the village exit, they quickly counted their numbers to ensure no one had been left behind.
Then the column turned and rode into the forest.
No one bothered checking if anyone had survived. Those who had hidden would burn soon enough.
But one house had somehow escaped the fire.
And inside it were those who would survive the night…