Ashes Of the Führer

"Well..." a scout asked, pulling his gloves tight, "how'd the meeting go?"

I didn't look at him. Just sat down by the fire, watching the weak flames flicker in the stone-lined pit.

"Not good."

Another man, tall and broad-shouldered, rubbed his temples. "So what now? We go back empty-handed?"

I shrugged. "Looks that way."

"Oh yeah." Another man spoke. "Otto's gonna love this—guy treats failure like a plague."

A few of them chuckled under their breath. Bitter laughter. Tired. I couldn't blame them.

"I don't know yet," I said. "The chief won't budge. He wants isolation more than food. Doesn't care if people suffer—as long as they suffer quietly."

The fire cracked. Sparks popped once and faded into the wind.

"Lets get some sleep, we have a long day tomorrow". I said.

They started settling down after that.

Some climbed into the wagons, shoving sacks and cloaks aside to make space between crates. Others found cover behind carts or leaned up against the village's stone walls, arms crossed, cloaks tight. Two stood watch—one at the entrance to the path, the other by the supply wagon. Quiet. Focused.

The wounded were still asleep. One coughed once, then stilled again beneath a blanket. No movement from the others.

I sat near the center fire with five men and one women, all bundled close. The flames didn't offer much warmth, but we took what we could get.

After a long silence, I spoke again.

"There was a man," I said, voice low. "One of the village guards. After the meeting, he stopped me."

The men around the fire turned to look.

"He begged for food," I said. "Not for himself—for his daughter. Said she hadn't eaten in two weeks."

That drew a few sharp looks.

"I told him no," I added, before anyone could ask. "We're not here to start a riot. Not without a deal."

One of the soldiers frowned. "You think he'll try something?"

"No. Not him. Or maybe he could. I wouldn't bet on it. He looked... defeated. Like someone who'd already begged too many times and knew this one wouldn't end different."

The fire crackled again. No one spoke for a moment.

Then one of the younger men muttered, "I didn't even think about that. What if there are more like him? Kids. Whole families starving while that old bastard plays king of the rocks."

Across from me, someone exhaled hard through their nose. "They don't have to live like this. They choose it."

"Not all of them," I said.

That's when a voice broke in from the edge of the firelight.

A woman. One of our medics—Lina. Late twenties, scarf wrapped around her hair, sleeves rolled to her elbows even in the cold. She'd been silent until now, arms crossed beside a stacked crate.

Lina stepped closer to the flames.

"I could only imagine…" she said softly. "Watching your daughter starve. Knowing you have nothing to give her. That's—" she paused, her voice steady but low, "that's not just hard. That's heartbreaking."

The men around the fire grew quiet.

Even the wind seemed to ease up for a moment.

"I don't know what kind of chief lets that happen," she added, "but I don't think we should leave until we know we've done everything we can. Even if it's just one family."

I looked at her.

Then at the fire.

And I didn't say a word.

Because she was right.

But I also knew—I couldn't. Not now. Not without risking everything. Not without tipping this mountain into war.

So I just stared into the flame as it crackled on, quietly wishing the world made different rules.

I awoke to a scream.

High-pitched. Fragile. A child.

"Help me!" the boy cried out, voice cracking, terrified.

I bolted upright, hand flying to my sword. My body was still heavy from the cold, but my instincts lit like fire.

I saw him—a young boy, no more than eight—sprinting through the dirt, barefoot and shrieking.

But from what?

I turned.

And then I saw it.

The creature.

Same skin—gray, wet-looking, stretched tight over lean muscle. Its build was smaller than the one we fought before—six feet at most—but its speed was monstrous. Long limbs, hunched forward, claws skimming the dirt, yellow eyes locked onto the child like prey.

It was already too late.

The boy tripped. Or maybe he was caught—I couldn't tell.

The thing's hand lashed out, claws closing around his ankle. With one smooth motion, it hoisted him into the air like a sack of grain.

Then—it bit.

Its jaws tore into the boy's upper thigh and ripped a full chunk clean out.

Blood sprayed in a wide arc, splashing across the dirt and the stone wall behind them.

The scream cut off instantly.

Not because it was finished—but because the child's body went limp, like death had arrived before the pain could.

Time froze.

My blood turned to ice.

"EVERYONE WAKE UP NOW!" I screamed, my voice tearing through the cold like a whip.

Without waiting, I charged.

Hoping the boy was still alive.

Steel in hand, I sprinted through the frost-hardened mud, boots slipping, breath burning. The beast turned its yellow eyes on me and let the boy's limp body drop. A crimson smear trailed where he landed.

Behind me, tents rustled. Shouts rang out. Men stirred. But I was already closing the distance.

Two of my caravan soldiers were first—Dalen and Hersch. They burst from the shadows with swords drawn, eyes still groggy, but too hardened to hesitate.

Dalen reached the beast first—his blade caught it across the back. A black spray of ichor burst out, hot and smoking. The creature screamed—jagged and bone-sharp.

Hersch flanked from the left, slashing upward. His sword dug into the ribs, but the monster spun too fast—a blur of gray and teeth. Its claw caught Hersch across the arm, opening it to the bone. He dropped back, blood spurting down his sleeve.

Villagers had gathered now, many still half-dressed, clutching iron and crude spears. Some froze in place—others charged.

Two villagers stabbed at once, yelling as they drove their weapons forward.

The beast caught both spears in one swipe. Before the men could react, it yanked them forward—lifting them like dolls—and with a monstrous twist, slammed their bodies together.

Their heads cracked. Ribs folded. For a moment, it looked as if they passed through each other, the speed so unnatural, their spines snapping from sheer force. Blood splattered across the mud—coating the side of a wagon in red.

One man screamed and fled. Another lunged forward but was knocked aside by the twitch of a claw—his throat torn open mid-turn.

I was already there.

I drove my sword deep into the beast's side—steel burying halfway to the hilt, cutting through hide and tendon. But I had swung too hard—the blade stuck.

I tried to pull it free.

It didn't budge.

The beast turned—rage swelling in its one good eye—and swiped for my head with a roar like a dying bear.

I dropped—just in time. Its claws passed inches from my head. I felt the wind from the strike, hot and sharp, and knew if I'd hesitated even a heartbeat, I'd be headless.

I rolled across the blood-slick dirt, reached for the nearest thing I could grab.

A spear. Dropped by a villager. Still wet with blood.

I grabbed it. Rose to one knee.

The beast turned back toward Dalen—claws out, mouth wide, ready to kill again.

I didn't wait.

I threw.

The spear flew like lightning.

It struck the beast straight through the right eye, the tip exploding from the back of its skull in a gush of black pulp.

The creature jerked. Twitched once.

Then dropped—hard.

It landed in a sprawl of torn limbs and twitching claws, the haft of the spear jutting up from its ruined face like a broken flagpole.

Silence followed.

Just the crackle of nearby fire, the soft sobbing of a woman kneeling over the boy's body, and the distant whimpers of wounded men in the dirt.

I rose slowly, chest heaving, hands stained black and red.

"LINA!" I shouted, eyes scanning the chaos.

I turned, looking around frantically. "We need you—NOW!"

"I KNOW, SIR—I'M ON IT!" came her voice, firm and already in motion.

"Save the child first! He's bleeding out!"

From behind the caravan, I saw her vault over a crate, medical bag in hand, coat trailing behind her.

She didn't stop to catch her breath—just sprinted across the blood-soaked ground toward me.

"He's right there!" I pointed to the boy's crumpled form. "Still breathing."

Without a word, she darted toward him, boots skidding through the mud, kneeling beside his body as she tore open her satchel.

And then a voice rang out—harsh and thunderous.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

I turned fast.

The elder stood a few paces back, eyes blazing, sword drawn, flanked by the same two guards from last night.

"Let that child go!" he barked, voice shaking with fury. "He doesn't need your medicine!"

Lina hesitated for only a second.

I stepped between them.

"You're out of your mind," I said.

"You hear me, outsider?" the old man growled, raising his blade. "Take your hands off my people and GET OUT OF MY VILLAGE!"

Then he charged—sword raised, scream full of rage.

Before I could even reach for my weapon, someone else moved.

The young guard from the night before—the one with the starving daughter—stepped in like a hammer swung from the sky.

He caught the elder mid-swing, grabbing him by the neck with both hands and slamming him to the ground with bone-cracking force.

THUD.

The old man's sword clattered to the dirt beside him.

"I've had enough of you," the guard snapped, voice cold and cracking. "You let my wife starve. My daughter cry herself to sleep. And you still talk about your people?"

The elder coughed, trying to sit up, his voice sputtering. "W-what are you doing? Biting the hand that fed you? You—ungrateful little—"

CRACK.

A brutal fist silenced him—a punch to the jaw that left blood pooling in the back of his throat.

The young man didn't hesitate. He unslung the axe from his back—the same one he'd gripped the night before when begging for mercy.

"Let us eat," he said through clenched teeth. "Or die here. Right now."

The elder coughed again, bloodied but still glaring up at him, defiant even on his back.

"C-curse you... You'll bring ruin to this place..."

He never finished.

The axe came down.

With a roar of finality, the blade slammed through the elder's skull—splitting it from crown to chin, the crack echoing across the cold stone like a gavel.

Not a swing—A sentence.

Blood sprayed across the cold dirt, splashing onto the young man's boots, even onto the hem of Lina's coat.

For a moment, there was only wind.Then silence.Then breathing.

Heavy. Shaken. Real.

The elder's guards stood frozen, staring at what had just happened.

Lina's hands moved fast—blood smeared across her forearms, gauze already wrapped around the boy's shredded thigh. Her breath came in shallow bursts, but her voice remained steady.

"He's gonna live." She didn't look up. "I used medicine to stop the bleeding and slow infection."

She pressed a vial into the wound and gritted her teeth. "But if he ever wants to walk again... he's gonna need Virella's magic."

I looked down at the boy—unconscious, pale, chest rising in short, trembling breaths.

He still lived.

The chief did not.

And just like that—

The mountain had finally broken open.