The sun had already set, but the sky was still burning with fire.
The sun had set, but the sky was still burning—but with fire, not the type spoken of in bedtime stories—the kind that danced and roared with hunger.
"Mama..."
A small voice escaped a ten-year-old Aali's throat. It was barely a whisper, lost under the screams and the roar of flames.
The ground trembled under her feet. Around her, her village was in ruins. Houses were burning. People were running, crying. Smoke curled up towards the dark sky like dying prayers.
Bodies lay everywhere. Women clutched crying children. Men with nothing fought soldiers in armour. Their blood painted the earth.
Aali stood frozen in the middle of the chaos. Trembling, barefoot, her eyes wide with shock. People rushed past her. Screams filled the air. A soldier charged past her, dragging a girl by her hair. Another pushed a man to the ground and stabbed him without even looking.
Still, she didn't move.
Her eyes fixed on a small house across the dirt path—one of the few not yet touched by flame. The door was shut.
A shriek tore as the door burst open. A woman staggered out—naked, bruised, bleeding. Her skin was scraped, her hair tangled. Her legs shook, blood running down them.
"Aali!" she cried.
Aali took a step forward. Her lips parted. "Mama?"
A half-naked man stepped out behind the woman, laughing. He buckled his belt, holding a bloodied knife. The woman screamed, trying to push him off, but he grabbed her.
Aali stood there, her tiny hand reaching out.
Aali watched, helpless, as her mother was pushed face-first into the mud. Her screams were muffled. Aali couldn't understand it all, but she felt it—felt her mother's pain, heard it in her cries.
"Mama… stop hurting her!" Aali screamed.
Man pulled a dagger and slit the woman's throat as if swatting a fly. She dropped, face-first into the dirt.
"No—Mama!" Aali screamed and ran to her mother's body, sobbing.
Before she could reach.
Then came a sting. Cold steel. She gasped—not from pain, but from the sudden coldness. She didn't feel pain. Just cold.
A sword slid cleanly through her back.
She looked down. Blood spilled from her belly. It stole her voice. Her breath. Her name.
The world tilted.
Fire rose.
Aali fell.
Her mother's face swam before her eyes, twisted in pain, eyes open but empty. Their eyes met one last time. A tear rolled down both their cheeks.
Darkness fell.
"Drag them away," a voice growled. It was the man who killed her mother. "Burn them."
Two soldiers grabbed their legs and dragged their bodies toward the riverbank. Aali's limbs dragged lifelessly, leaving streaks of red across the dirt.
Bodies already lay in piles by the water—men, women, children. More were brought in. Some twitched weakly. Others were gone. Soldiers walked between the dead, checking if anyone was still breathing. They slit the throats of those who moved.
Soldiers poured oil over the bodies. Some kicked limbs to make space. Others laughed.
One soldier leaned on his spear. "I heard these people worship animals. Where are their so-called gods now?"
"Probably watching from the trees, scared shitless."
Behind them, laughter echoed as another group of soldiers defiled corpses. One kicked open a dead woman's legs.
"She's still warm," he smirked.
One soldier lit a cigarette, sitting beside a pile.
"This one's wearing gold," he said, pointing to a dead woman. "She'll mind if I take it?"
"She won't," another laughed.
Two soldiers laughed while dragging a man's body, his eyes still open.
"Poor bastard," one of them said. "Had a stick in his hand like he was gonna stop a sword."
"Bunch of idiots"
They laughed again. Then, they went back to work.
Hours passed.
Just before sunrise, two horses arrived. A man and woman dismounted. Both wore royal colours. The woman had long dark hair, tied with golden bands. The man wore a crown that was carved from bone.
The man who had killed Aali's mother dropped to his knees.
"Your Majesties," he said with a bow. All soldiers followed. They bowed low, faces to the dirt.
The Queen's eyes scanned the piles. Blood and ash were everywhere. She walked slowly, like she was admiring art.
"Did anyone escape?" she asked.
"None, Your Highness," the kneeling man said. "We made sure."
"Good." Her voice was soft, but it sliced like ice.
The King stood beside her. "Burn it all from its existence."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The Queen turned to her husband and smiled. "Soldiers worked hard. They deserve a reward."
The kneeling man stood and nodded. "I understand."
He waved at a group of men, who brought barrels of alcohol and a wine bottle. They filled glasses and handed them to the King, the Queen, and the man
The King raised his glass. "For your hard work."
The Queen sipped and smiled. "For the Sagnik."
The man lifted his glass. "To serve them is our honour. Long live Your Majesties, sovereigns of heart and throne."
"Long live Your Majesties!" the soldiers shouted, raising their mugs.
They drank. They cheered. Laughter echoed. Moments later, one soldier dropped his mug. He clutched his throat. Another screamed. One by one, they all fell. Blood spilled from mouths.
Three stood still, watching them die.
The Queen licked her lips and smiled. "Loyalty is best without witnesses," she whispered.
The King chuckled. "Too many voices spoil the silence."
The commander dragged the dead soldier's bodies near the piles. The Queen snapped her fingers. She lit a torch and threw it.
Flames rose. Screams from earlier echoed again in memory.
The Queen, the King, and their loyal man stood there, watching every body burn to ash.
When it was done, the King turned his back to the fire. The Queen followed.
The sun rose to witness silence, and the wind carried nothing but ash and screams too old to be heard.