The coppery stink of blood, thick and sticky, clung to Aerion's scaled skin, drying tacky under his fingernails and on his leather gear. This smell mixed with burnt wood, and with the bad smell of dead bodies left cooling in the mountain air, showing that he had won and had delivered a lesson.
Aerion stood on a hill, looking down at Green's Hollow, which was now a burning ruin. His followers moved below him, working through the destroyed village, not with fear like they had earlier, but with a hard, quick purpose, because terror and his harsh rules had made them this way.
They took good weapons, armor, and coin puches from the dead Vaelgard soldiers, bundling any usable food that had not been ruined by fire and blood. Their movements were fast and quiet, showing no pity, and light from the burning homes showed their faces, which were hard, like masks of necessity.
The village was broken, but this was not a sad event for them, it was a way to get supplies, a harsh gathering done using the fear they had caused.
Eana woked with cold skill near the broken well, her small hands efficiently tying the wrists of a strong villager who stared blankly ahead, tears making clean lines on his soot-covered face. She did not look at his face, focusing entirely on the know, making it tight, secure and professional.
Garren pulled a heavy sack of grain, which he had taken from the headman's storehouse, and his old eagerness was gone, replaced by a focused, grim satisfaction, a hard light shining in his eyes that reflected the fire.
He grunted as he lifted the sack onto a pack mule, which shifted restlessly at the pervasive smell of death.
Ryn and Mira guided a small group of children and a few adults, who were useful or calm enough to live, their faces pale and their eyes wide with terror that had passed beyond screaming into mute, shivering shock.
Mira held the youngest child close, her own face showing nothing, while Ryn's eyes moved quickly, looking not towards the captives, but towards Aerion's dark shape on the hill.
They were learning and changing, becoming the self-sufficient, ruthless tools he needed, their dependence crushed under the weight of his power and the harsh results of showing weakness.
Inside Aerion's mind, Kairos looked at the scene, feeling no old grief from Aerion, whose voice was blessedly silent, crushed by the terrible act.
Kairos himself felt a cold and clear satisfaction, as the terror came from the survivors, from his followers, and from the new captives, a palpable, nourishing force that washed over him.
It felt like a soothing balm, helping the deep ache of his own weakness, for the mental wounds from the obsidian valley still hurt, throbbing like bruised bone, a constant reminder of his weak state.
But here, now, after causing this fear, he felt stronger, and the link to Aerion's great power hummed more steadily, though it was still less than before.
The villagers' sadness, the captives' shocked fear, his followers' careful obedience—all of it was fuel, blood currency that worked the same way, whether taken by force of given freely.
He looked away from the dead bodies, and then at the wide valley, which was lit by the harsh orange and black of the dying fires.
The attack had been exact and brutal, using the knowledge etched in Aerion's old memories, like the hidden goat path that went around the watchtower, and the poorly built western wall, and the moment when the soldiers changed guards.
He had moved them like chess pieces, as villagers panicked, blocking their own escape routes. A few loyal people died early to cause confusion, and the Vaelgard patrol was led into an ambush by fake retreats.
This was more than just a win, it was a show of control, a show of knowing. The knowledge was stolen, and it was tainted by the dead boy's ghost, but it had worked and had caused great damage.
The Vaelgard hold here was broken, and their idea to control over the deep valleys was gone. The news would spread, as survivors ran into the night, and no smoke from Grenn's Hollow tomorrow would tell the tale, because fear moved faster than any imperial messenger and destroyed more.
Garren made a low sound, a rumble more felt in his chest than heard, as he pushed a stumbling captive. "Move, sheep," he grunted, his voice full of scorn.
The man stumbled and fell to his knees in the bloody mud, a low sob escaping him, and Garren raised his hand, not his axe, but his strong fist, ready to hurt him.
"Garren," Aerion's voice cut through the sound of flames and the low moans, flat and devoid of feeling, yet carrying great weight.
It was not loud, but it made the immediate area silent, and Garren froze mid-motion, his fist still up, while the captive flinched as if struck.
Aerion did not come down from hit spot, his dark shape remaining against the stars. "He runs, he dies. He fights, he dies. He serves, he eats. The lesson is simple. Make sure he understands it, because wasting strength on broken tools is not smart."
His words were cold, each one a choice to remove pity, to reinforce his brutal rules, showing that pain was only useful if it served a purpose beyond quick satisfaction, and broken spirits were easier to manage than broken bodies that could not work.
Garren slowly lowered his fist, and a flicker of something, perhaps a new understanding of a more cruel kind, showed in his eyes. He pulled the man up by his collar, not gently, but without hitting him again.
"You heard the master," he spoke to the captive, shoving him towards the others. "Serve or starve. Simple choice."
The man stumbled again, but he stayed on his feet, and raw terror was in his eyes, now mixed with a desperate plan to live. The lesson was being learned.