Hell bound with you

Soldier's demand

It had been seven long, grueling days since the king’s men had begun their attempts to invade the forest. The once-confident soldiers now stood on the verge of despair, their spirits battered by the frosty winds tearing through their ranks.

The tree barrier shielding the forest was unlike anything they had ever encountered. Thick, gnarled trunks twisted together, forming an impenetrable wall, their roots anchored deep into the frozen earth. Every attempt to tear it down had ended in failure, their axes bouncing off as if repelled by some unseen force.

The bitter cold seeped into their bones, while their rations dwindled to almost nothing. Their breaths puffed like smoke as they huddled around meager fires, their strength drained by hunger and the weight of an impossible task.

General Alrick, a man of iron will and unwavering resolve, stood near the barrier, his piercing gaze fixed upon the wall of trees. He had led countless campaigns and triumphed over cunning and brutal foes, but this was different. His men were close to collapse.

With a heavy heart, Alrick turned to his second-in-command.

“Send word to the villagers,” he ordered, his voice gruff but tinged with desperation. “We need food and other supplies—anything they can spare. If we lose the men to this damned cold, we won’t stand a chance.”

Messengers were dispatched through the snow-covered paths to nearby villages. Wary of the king’s men but fearing the crown’s wrath, the villagers reluctantly agreed to provide aid. Still, their offerings were meager and barely made a dent in the army’s needs.

Meanwhile, a missive was sent to the king, bearing grim news. The task was impossible. The barrier was unnatural and unyielding, and the soldiers were in no condition to continue the siege.

When the message reached the king, it was met with a thunderous roar of rage.

“Impossible?” he spat. “I will not hear of it! Prepare my escort. If my worthless men cannot handle a wall of trees, I will see to it myself.”

Soon, the king’s retinue began preparing for the journey.

Meanwhile, his men arrived at River Field Village. The quiet paths, lined with modest homes, suddenly filled with armed soldiers. Villagers peeked through their curtains as the men went door to door, demanding provisions.

At the head of the group was Christof, a young soldier whose sharp eyes scanned every corner. Behind him walked Agnar, quieter and troubled by what he saw.

As villagers struggled to comply, those who could not meet the soldiers’ demands faced brutal consequences. Shouts, breaking furniture, and muffled cries echoed through the village.

Agnar finally turned to Christof.

“Christof, this isn’t right. We shouldn’t take what little they have by force. If the General hears about this—”

Christof laughed. “The General? Who’s going to tell him, Agnar? You? Or perhaps one of these peasants? Anyone who dares open their mouth against me will find themselves tongue-less.”

“Don’t make things complicated, Christof,” Agnar warned. “All of us will suffer because of you.”

Christof stopped and glared at him.

“What are you even saying? We’re already suffering!” He gestured toward the desolate fields. “Look at us—soldiers of the king, reduced to this! Do you think the King cares whether we live or die?”

He stepped closer.

“He sent us here with nothing. No proper rations, no support, just orders to survive. Now we’re begging for food like dogs. We’re going to die here, Agnar. Maybe from hunger, maybe from cold. The King won’t send help. We’ll be forgotten, rotting in the dirt of some godforsaken village.”

He stared into Agnar’s eyes.

“Why die alone and sad? Take what you can. Enjoy the little moments we have left. If not for yourself, then for the men who depend on you.”

Agnar exhaled. A part of him hated to admit it, but Christof was right about one thing: the King treated them as expendable pawns.

Still, honor and duty rebelled against him.

“You speak the truth about the King,” Agnar said. “But that doesn’t give us the right to become the monsters we fight. We’re soldiers, not thieves. We’re meant to protect, not destroy.”

Christof stared at him before shaking his head.

“You’re a fool, Agnar,” he muttered. “A fool who’ll die with nothing but regret.”

Agnar sighed and followed him. He had no reply that could change Christof’s mind. Instead, he carried the weight of his doubts and convictions, knowing that in this grim reality, there were no easy answers.

⸻

The soldiers marched toward a small, modest house perched on the edge of the village. It belonged to Mr. Eric Risberg, but he was nowhere in sight. Instead, his daughter, Amelia, knelt in the garden, her hands coated in dark soil as she tended to the blossoms her mother cherished. The flowers’ vibrant colors stood in stark contrast to the soldiers’ somber, menacing presence.

Amelia’s long, dark hair shimmered in the waning light, loose strands escaping her braid to frame her delicate face. She worked with quiet focus until the crunch of boots against gravel drew her attention. She stood, wiping her hands on her apron as she caught sight of them.

Leading the group was Christof, a tall, imposing figure whose sharp features carried a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze lingered on Amelia, his expression twisting into something predatory. He slowed his pace, his dark eyes scanning her.

Amelia straightened her back, a mixture of defiance and unease flashing in her eyes.

Her mother, Alexis, emerged from the house, her face tight with worry.

“Good evening, sirs,” she greeted.

Christof’s voice was smooth, almost too polite.

“We’re here under the king’s orders to collect food and supplies. Bring us what you have.”

Alexis hesitated, glancing between the soldiers and her daughter. She disappeared into the house and returned moments later with a small bundle of provisions—bread, dried meat, and a few apples. She held it out to Christof with trembling hands.

“This is all we have,” she said.

Christof’s lip curled as he examined the modest offering.

“This?” he scoffed. “This is barely worth our trouble. Surely, you can do better than this.”

Alexis faltered, desperation creeping into her voice.

“Please, sir, it’s all we can spare. Times have been hard.”

Christof turned his attention back to Amelia, his smile widening. But there was no warmth in it—only cruel amusement.

“Perhaps,” he began slowly, “you can offer us something… more.”

His gaze fixed on Amelia with unnerving intensity.

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked, his voice low and commanding.

Amelia didn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightened, and she stood rooted to the spot, her hands still clutching her soiled apron. The silence stretched between them, tense and unyielding.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she met his gaze.

“You have no business with my name. So why do you want to know?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Christof’s face, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

“Oh, I have plenty of business with you,” he said.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the gravel, the space between them shrinking with every deliberate stride. His voice dropped, his tone laced with a chilling promise.

“Do you want to know what business I have with you? I could tell you the detail—if you dare to ask.”

Amelia held her ground, refusing to flinch beneath his piercing gaze. Her silence spoke volumes, a quiet rebellion in the face of his veiled threat.

Sensing the tension crackling in the air, Alexis stepped forward, her voice trembling as she interjected, desperation sharpening her tone.

“Forgive her, sir. She doesn’t know her place. We’ll gather more supplies tomorrow, I promise.”

Christof turned his head, casting a cold glance at Alexis. His smirk returned, but there was no humor in it, only a dangerous edge. He let out a soft chuckle, his focus never fully leaving Amelia, as though her defiance intrigued him more than her mother’s desperate plea.

“Tomorrow?” he echoed. “My dear lady, tomorrow doesn’t exist. Besides…”

His gaze drifted back to Amelia, lingering on her face.

“Your daughter is so beautiful she’s stolen my heart. Would you mind if I took her with us tonight?”

Alexis’s eyes widened in horror.

“What madness is this? She’s our daughter, not some possession to be taken!”

Christof smirked, ignoring her protest.

“I know exactly who she is, my lady. But worry not—I’ll return her to you tomorrow. In one piece.”

Amelia’s mother fell to her knees, her voice trembling with despair as tears streamed down her face.

“No, sir, please… have mercy. Don’t do this to us. She’s just a girl!”

Her hands clutched at the fabric of her apron, her body shaking under the weight of her plea.

Christof glanced at Amelia, his smirk deepening as though her mother’s words only amused him. His dark eyes lingered on Amelia’s face, studying her with unsettling intent.

“I promise,” he said, his tone laced with mock sincerity. “I’ll be very gentle. I won’t harm her. You have my word.”

Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest. She stood still, her face a mask of defiance even as fear crept into her eyes.

Before Christof could step closer, Agnar raised a hand in a silent but firm gesture. The movement was subtle, but it carried authority.

Christof paused, his smile faltering as he turned to look at Agnar. A brief, tense silence passed between them.

“Christof,” Agnar said, “We have what we need. Let it go. This isn’t the right time.”

Christof’s smirk slowly returned, though a hint of irritation had entered his expression. He turned back to Alexis, who was still kneeling, her face pale and streaked with tears.

“Well,” he said, his tone suddenly light and casual, as though the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “Thank you for your kindness, madam. We’ll be leaving now.”

As the soldiers began to retreat, Christof’s gaze lingered on Amelia one last time, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.

When he spoke, his voice was softer now, almost intimate, as though the words were meant only for her.

“I will never forget you,” he said, his lips curling into a sly, unsettling smile.

There was something in his tone—a promise or perhaps a threat—that sent a cold shiver down Amelia’s spine. She stood still, her expression blank, though her heart raced wildly. She said nothing, her gaze steady and unyielding, though inside, her thoughts were a storm of fear and anger.

Then, without another word, Christof turned and followed the others. The sound of their boots faded into the distance, leaving behind a silence that felt heavy and oppressive.

Amelia rushed to her mother, helping her to her feet. Alexis clung to her daughter, her tears falling freely. She stared at the path the soldiers had taken, her jaw tightening.

“I don’t think this is the end.”