The fragile peace of Oakhaven broke on a humid Tuesday afternoon.
It didn’t start with an explosion or a pirate raid.
It started with a ship.
A heavily modified merchant vessel docked in the harbor, its sails patched and its hull scarred by recent cannon fire.
The sailors who poured off the ramp weren’t the usual boisterous traders looking for ale and a warm bed.
They were pale, jumpy, and desperate to offload their cargo as quickly as possible.
Elian was sitting on the edge of the docks, pretending to untangle a fishing net while keeping his ears sharp.
Tomas was negotiating with the merchant captain, a scarred man who kept glancing nervously at the horizon.
“I’m telling you, Tomas, you need to pack up and take your family into the mountains,” the merchant captain whispered harshly, wiping sweat from his brow.
“The Oykot Kingdom and the Roshwan Empire. The cold war is over. It’s total, absolute war.”
Tomas crossed his massive arms, his jovial face hardening into a rare expression of serious concern.
“They’ve been bickering over borders for twenty years. What makes this any different?”
“It’s not about borders anymore,” the merchant hissed, grabbing Tomas by the forearm.
“It’s a holy war now. Oykot is preaching ‘Absolute Justice’ to cleanse the islands, and Roshwan is flying the banner of ‘True Freedom.’ They aren’t just fighting armies; they’re drafting everyone they conquer. They are burning non-believers. The casualties are in the hundreds of thousands.”
Elian’s hands stopped moving.
The heavy fishing net slipped from his fingers.
“We’re neutral,” Tomas said firmly, though his voice lacked its usual booming confidence.
“Oakhaven belongs to no king. We pay no tribute. We just fish.”
“Neutrality doesn’t mean squat to a starving army of a million men, Tomas!” the merchant pleaded, his voice cracking.
“Look at a map! You’re positioned right between their naval supply routes. This island is the perfect staging ground. If either vanguard lands here… God help you.”
The merchant ship didn’t even stay the night.
They traded their goods at a massive loss just to restock their fresh water, and set sail before the sun dipped below the horizon.
They left behind a heavy, suffocating blanket of dread that settled over the village.
By nightfall, Oakhaven was completely transformed.
The usual sound of music and laughter from the tavern was replaced by hushed, panicked arguments.
People started hoarding grain and salting every piece of meat they could find.
The village elders gathered in the town square, shouting over each electrostatic other in useless, circular debates about whether to fight, flee, or surrender to whoever arrived first.
Elian sat on the roof of his house, his knees pulled to his chest, staring out at the pitch-black ocean.
The static in his mind was no longer a dull hum.
It was buzzing like a disturbed hornet’s nest.
A continuous, agonizing stream of tactical data flooded his brain, completely beyond his control.
*’Strategic analysis: Island topography offers zero defensive chokepoints.
Harbor capacity: Large enough for dreadnought-class warships.
Civilian combat capability: Negligible.
Probability of hostile occupation: 98.7%.
Casualties in event of occupation: Total.’*
War wasn’t an abstract tragedy to Elian.
His cursed soul didn’t process fear or sorrow; it processed math.
And the math was screaming that everyone he loved was already dead.
The island wasn’t a home; it was a stepping stone for monsters playing at being gods.
He dug his fingernails into his arms, trying to ground himself.
He was a ten-year-old boy in a world where men could shatter mountains with their fists.
What could he possibly do against an army of a million men?
*’Kill them first,’* the static whispered, chillingly clear.
Elian shuddered, burying his face in his knees.
“Shut up,” he whispered to the empty air.
“Just shut up.”