“You must be strong,” Geralt had said to his youngest son, Zane, before riding off into battle. “And look after your brother for me,” he had told him.

Although Zane was younger than Kieran by a year, he was the braver of the two. Whereas Zane was bold and courageous, his older brother Kieran was timid and cowardly.

“No matter what happens to me, you’ll always have each other,” Geralt had said.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Kieran asked. To him, his father was infallible.

Geralt smiled sadly. “I will try my best.”

Zane and Kieran hid in the basement of their house while a battle had broken out overhead. The day they had long dreaded has finally arrived—the Drustanis Army had reached their hometown at last.

From above, the deafening cries of battle rung out.

Zane hated being so powerless, forced to cower in hiding as other men fought and died on his behalf. He would like to join the others in battle, but he knew that his father would never allow a child like him to wield a sword. He was eleven years old as of today, and Kieran was twelve.

In the basement corner, Kieran sat with his face buried on the top of his knees. A quiet whimper broke out of his brother.

Zane hated having to perpetually live in fear. Sometimes, he resented both Kieran and himself for being so weak. Once I’m older, no one will be able to trample over me again, he swore to himself.

Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into hours. It was uncertain how much time had passed, but the noise from the battle overhead had finally died down.

The stagnant air in the basement had long became suffocating to Zane, whose legs ached from sitting for so long. He felt an innate pressure to do something, besides sitting in wait, slowly dying from anticipation.

When Kieran saw his brother getting up and heading for the stairs, he panicked.

“Father told us to wait here for his return,” Kieran said.

‘But what if he isn’t coming back?’ was the unspoken question between the two of them.

“Alright, I’ll wait a little while longer,” Zane replied as he sat back down.

Their basement had earlier been stocked from plentiful food supply and water. Their father had prepared for the worst.

Many more hours passed, and soon a new day had dawned. Neither of them had slept very well— Zane merely drifted in and out of sleep while dark circles appeared under Kieran’s eyes.

"Father would come back for us, surely, wouldn't he?" Kieran asked. His voice sounded afraid.

“If he was able to, he would already be back by now,” Zane answered.

“I’m going out to look for him,” Zane said as he got up and headed towards the staircase. “Don’t try and stop me this time. If you’re scared, you can just wait here until I get back.”

”Wait, I’m coming with you,” Kieran said.

Zane nodded. Together, the two of them climbed the staircase out of the cellar and left the house.

Nothing could have prepared them for the sight outside. Dead bodies littered the streets— both Tyrian and Drustanis. Rivers of blood ran along the stone pavement, coating the road with splashes of dark crimson. A flock of vultures flew down, picking at the corpses. The baker, the tailor, the carpenter, the blacksmith— they were no warriors, but they had died a warrior’s death all the same, with a sword in hand and valor in their hearts.

Zane’s heartrate sped up, wondering if his father was among the dead. Silently, he and Kieran searched the town for their father. Neither of them spoke for a long time, their faces solemn.

“Over there,” Kieran said as he pointed near a tall oak tree on the outskirts of town. There lay the corpse of Geralt Starkov. He was surrounded by four other bodies, which appeared to be Drustanis soldiers. Their father had been pierced with multiple stab wounds from the battle, his torn tunic covered in blood. Zan guessed that he had only lost because he had been outnumbered. To him, his father was a hero. He had died fighting, as all men should die.

Zane clenched his fists. If I was there with him, maybe things would turn out differently. It was a foolish thought, he knew, but he did not like to accept the fact of his helplessness.

Beside him, Kieran had broken out in a sob as he fell next to their father’s corpse.

”Men do not cry.” Zane forced his voice to be steady. Tears had welled up in his own eyes, but he refused to weep. He had to be strong for the both of them— he had promised his father so.

An hour had passed as they sat guarding their father’s corpse. Neither of them spoke. The place was mostly quiet, except for the occasional sound of Kieran’s weeping. Another hour had passed before Kieran had stopped crying. The two of them sat there motionlessly, unsure of what to do. Their father had been their beacon ever since they were born. Now that he was gone, they felt utterly lost.

It was Zane who finally broke the silence. “We should bury him,” he said. “We could do that at least.”

Kieran silently nodded in a daze. Wordlessly, he helped Zane dragged their father’s body to a patch of land next to the tall oak tree.

”I’m going back home to get a shovel. Wait here for me,” Zane said.

Kieran gave no response, but only sat there in silence, staring at their father’s corpse, unmoving.

Zane took his silence as agreement. Slowly, he made his way back to the center of town where there house was located. He went to the shed in their backyard and grabbed a shovel.

After burying their father— what then? They had enough food in their house to last another week. But once that runs out, what will they do? We should look for other survivors, Zane thought to himself. He noticed that among the corpses which littered the streets, there were few women and children compared to the numerous men. There has to be other survivors, but where?

As Zane made his way back to where his father died, he was lost in thought, uncertain of which course of action he and Kieran should take next.

A shout soon broke through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.

”Zane, run!” It was Kieran’s voice. He was running towards Zane, his expression frantic and his eyes filled with pure terror.

Zane then noticed the figure behind his brother— a soldier dressed in Drustanis armor. The man was giving chase after Kieran.

Zane dropped the shovel he was holding, and ran towards the forest with Kieran close behind him. The two of them sprinted as fast as they could without looking back.

Deep within the forest, gnarled tree roots grew untamed, spinning a web across the ground. While running, Zane tripped on one if the roots.

“Damn it,” Zane cursed himself as he fell down. A stab of pain shot up from his right ankle. He had twisted his foot, and could no longer run as fast as he previously did. As he hobbled forward, Kieran ran past him without stopping.

”Gotcha!” The Drustanis soldier exclaimed as he caught Zane, who was struggling within his grasp.

”Let me go!” Zane yelled, “Kieran, help me!”

Up ahead, he saw that Kieran had stopped momentarily. His brother turned around to look at him one last time, giving him a sorry expression, before continued running off into the distance.

Zane stopped struggling. Kieran had abandoned him. His brother had really left him to die. He felt utterly betrayed, his heart broken. His body fell to the ground on his knees, with the soldier’s grasp being the only force which held him upright. Zane continued to wordlessly stare off into the distance where Kieran had disappeared.

”Get up!” The man growled as he yanked on Zane’s collar. Zane’s body slumped as if he were boneless.

The Drustanis soldier cursed as he dragged Zane back to town. Halfway, the man had simply began to carry him. Zane’s body lay limp within the man’s arms, unresisting, as if he had lost the will to live.

The had arrived at the North side of town when the Drustanis soldier dropped Zane off with a bunch of other Townsfolk. These were the survivors which he had planned to look for earlier. A large group of women and children were huddled together. No one dared to speak.

Zane kept looking at the forest, hoping that Kieran would come back for him. However, there were no signs of him. His brother was long gone by now.

”What’s going to happen to us?” a voice murmured.

”Silence!” another soldier shouted.

Up ahead, a man on a horse rode towards them. He inspected the group of civilians, his gaze appraising. “These are all of the survivors?” he asked.

“Commander,” the soldier who brought Zane back saluted the man atop the horse. “One of them got away— a boy. These people are all what’s left in town.”

The commander nodded. “Very well. Bring them all to Renfell. They should fetch a nice price at the slave market.”