The war had lasted so long that most people no longer remembered why it had started. Children were born into it. Men grew old and died in it. Whole villages had vanished beneath its shadow. Year after year, the Kingdom of Ardan and the Empire of Velkris fed countless soldiers into the meat grinder of battle. Some returned wrapped in cloth. Most never returned at all.
Akren's village lay far from the front lines, nestled among rolling hills and golden wheat fields. It had once been a peaceful place. Now it was a village of widows. Every month brought another letter, another funeral, and another home swallowed by silence.
Akren understood this grief better than most.
His father had been a blacksmith—not a famous one, nor a master whose blades were sought by nobles. He was simply a hardworking man who stood before the furnace from dawn until long after dusk, shaping iron into tools, plows, and horseshoes. Akren loved watching him work: the bright dance of sparks, the ringing rhythm of hammer on metal, the sweat tracing lines down his father's soot-streaked face. To the boy, it was pure magic.
"One day," his father would say with a warm smile, "you'll hold this hammer." He would press the heavy tool into Akren's small hands. The boy could barely lift it. His father would laugh, his mother would laugh, and for a fleeting moment the world felt whole and safe.
Then the war reached their doorstep.
The kingdom's demands grew insatiable. More weapons. More armor. More supplies. Every blacksmith was ordered to support the military effort. Akren's father worked without rest. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. The forge burned endlessly.
At first he only forged weapons. Then the kingdom demanded more. When soldiers grew scarce, even craftsmen were conscripted to serve near the front lines. Blacksmiths were needed to repair broken blades and battered armor on the spot.
Akren still remembered the day the soldiers came for his father. The man remained calm. His mother wept. Young Akren stood frozen by the door, saying nothing.
That evening they shared a quiet final meal. No one spoke much. Afterward, his father placed a rough, calloused hand on Akren's shoulder.
"Protect your mother," he said.
Akren frowned. "I will."
"I'll come back," his father promised, smiling. But sadness lingered behind his eyes.
The next morning he left. Akren watched until his father's figure disappeared beyond the hills. It was the last time he ever saw him alive.
Letters arrived for a time—short, simple messages: *I'm safe. Work is hard. Take care of each other.* His mother read them over and over, sometimes smiling, sometimes crying. Then the letters stopped. At first they told themselves it was only because fighting had intensified. But months passed, and fear took root in their home like frost.
One rainy afternoon, a military rider stopped before their door. Both Akren and his mother knew before the man even spoke. The soldier removed his helmet, his face grim. "We regret to inform you…"
The words became noise. Akren's ears rang. His mother's knees buckled. The soldier left behind a folded flag, a small pouch of personal effects—a broken glove, a family photograph, and his father's old blacksmith hammer.
That night, his mother cried until dawn. Akren sat beside her in silence. He wanted to cry too, but the grief felt distant, unreal, as if his father might still walk through the door any moment.
He never did.
Life grew harder. The forge went cold. Without a skilled blacksmith, the shop closed. The kingdom offered a meager compensation that barely lasted a season. Food prices soared. Taxes rose. Merchants turned ruthless. Their savings vanished.
Meals shrank from three to two, then to one. Akren often caught his mother pretending she wasn't hungry. "I ate earlier," she would say, or "You need it more." The truth was plain: she was starving herself so her son could eat.
Guilt gnawed at him. He took any work he could find—harvesting fields, hauling goods, cleaning stables. The pay was pitiful, but he gave every coin to his mother. Still, it was never enough.
Winter came with a poor harvest. Food grew scarce. The village changed. Neighbors who once shared bread now locked their doors. Hungry children scavenged the streets. Old men spoke openly of death.
One evening Akren returned with a small loaf of bread—his entire day's wages. They split it in two. As they ate, he noticed his mother's trembling hands, sunken cheeks, and hollow eyes. She was dying slowly, consumed by the same war that had taken his father.
That night, Akren lay awake staring at the ceiling. If nothing changed, they would starve within months. His mother would waste away. The solution came to him before dawn: cruel, simple, and inevitable.
The kingdom provided rations to the families of active soldiers—enough to survive. Even after a soldier's death, support often continued for years.
By sunrise, his decision was made.
The next day he walked to the recruitment station. The hall was crowded with young men, some eager, others terrified. Akren felt only exhaustion. When his turn came, the officer barely glanced up.
"Name?"
"Akren."
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
"You understand the risks?"
"Yes."
The man laughed. "No, you don't." He stamped the paper anyway.
Akren was now a soldier.
He returned home as evening fell. His mother was stirring a thin soup—mostly water with a few floating vegetables. The sight hardened his resolve.
They ate in silence. When the bowls were empty, he spoke.
"Mother… I enlisted."
The spoon slipped from her fingers. For a long moment she simply stared at him.
"No," she whispered. "No."
"I have to."
"You don't."
"I do."
Tears welled in her eyes. "We'll find another way."
"There isn't one."
The words came out harsher than he intended. She flinched. Guilt flooded him, but he could not take them back. They both knew the truth: no miracle would save them.
"If I'm a soldier," he said softly, "you'll receive rations. You'll have food."
Her tears fell freely. "Your father died for this war. I can't lose you too."
Akren looked away. He could not promise he would live. No soldier could. Instead he forced a smile.
"If I live, I'll come back. And if I die… at least you'll have enough to eat."
She cried then—not loud, broken sobs, but quiet tears that cut deeper than any scream. Akren sat beside her. There was nothing more to say.
Three days later, he stood at the edge of the village with a small bag over his shoulder. His father's heavy blacksmith hammer hung at his belt. It was impractical for battle, but he refused to leave it behind. It was all he had left of the man.
His mother stood a few steps away, trying and failing to hold back her tears. Akren memorized her face: the lines around her eyes, the weary sadness in her smile, the quiet strength she still tried to show.
He wondered if he would ever see her again.
Finally, he bowed his head. "I'll return."
She nodded. "I'll wait."
The morning sun rose over the hills as Akren took his first step beyond the only world he had ever known. Behind him lay his home and everything familiar. Ahead lay war, suffering, and likely death.
Yet somewhere in that uncertain future waited a path that would transform the son of a humble blacksmith into something the world had never seen before.
Akren kept walking.