The general looked up as the ship doors twisted open and La Mort’s men rained down from the sky, crashing into the ground with bone-shattering force that shook the soil beneath the Zorinion people’s feet. Smoke and dust rose in great waves as the soldiers stood tall, weapons drawn, their visors flashing purple through the haze.

  The men stood completely still, silent as they waited.

  Then— he came.

  Dropping through the clouds like darkness falling from the light, his chest plate flashed with streaks of bright silver before he slammed into the ground. His right foot and left knee struck first, his left hand following after. The impact sent cracks shooting through the earth like branches tearing through dirt. Dust burst outward in every direction, engulfing him for a split second before the smoke cleared. Slowly, his head lifted, his eyes catching the chaos as the screams of the Zorinion people echoed across the village.

  His face lit up with joy, their pain a soothing balm to the madness that was La Mort.

  He rose to his feet slowly, brushing the dust from his armour. One flick across his chest with his left hand, then his right, as if their soil offended him. His men stood behind him, ready and waiting for their king’s command.

  But La Mort was in no rush. He saw beauty in the chaos and destruction, and as his eyes scoured the land, his lips curved into a brief smile. He breathed it in—the fear, the pain, the desperation. It was everywhere, feeding the dark hunger inside him that craved bloodshed.

  Don’t worry, he thought. It will all be over soon. He sniggered at the very thought of ending their lives.

  “Fan out,” he commanded. “Kill them all, but the general—leave him for me.”

  “You heard our king! Fan out! Kill every single one of them! No one leaves here alive!” shouted one of the soldiers.

  In perfect sync, the soldiers echoed their response. “Sir, yes sir!” Then they moved, fanning out, guns at the ready.

  Ezra wandered forward helplessly as La Mort’s men marched, raining down fire on the Zorinion people. As he looked on at the people screaming and begging for their lives, he didn’t see them as the Zorinion. They appeared to him as all the people he couldn’t save.

  The pain in their eyes was an all-too-familiar sight that plagued his dreams and now his waking hours. He stumbled forward, tears flowing freely down his face, and uttered just one word as his head hung low.

  “Why?”

  Cane rushed forward, and in his excitement, he accidentally bumped into his brother’s shoulder as he passed. When he turned, his eyes caught the tears running down Ezra’s face. He stopped, disbelief freezing him where he stood as he stared at his brother’s lifeless, zombie-like state.

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  “You cry, brother?” he said quietly. “Death is the only inevitable promise that comes to us all.”

  He gave a small chuckle under his breath, almost amused by his brother’s weakness. Then he skipped off with a smile that couldn’t be contained even if he tried. His father’s men were slaughtering them, no compassion in their eyes as they pulled back on their triggers. With every body that hit the ground, a wicked smile curled at the corners of their mouths as they carried out their king’s bidding. But they weren’t fooling anyone. These men loved the violence, the chaos, the taste of blood as much as he did—animals let out of their cage, released to feast on the Zorinion people. The power, the control, the rush of deciding who lived and who died, it was intoxicating. They were playing gods on a planet that was foreign to them.

  The chorus built and built, the screams edging closer to the general with each passing moment. He knew it was only a matter of time before they came through the fog and he finally met his end.

  But he didn’t run. He stood there, waiting, accepting his fate. His people, however, had other ideas. Men and women gathered beside him, clutching makeshift weapons.

  “Go, leave!” he shouted, urging them to save themselves.

  But they refused to abandon their leader to die alone.

  “General, where would we run? Who would we run to? Our homes lie in ruins, and most of our people are dead. I refuse to run anymore.”

  He paused, shoulders sagging, his voice lowering as his eyes met the general’s. “I’m tired,” he said, the pain in his eyes clear for the general to see. “I’m sick and tired of living in fear. We’re staying put, and if it’s here we take our last breaths, let it be with honour and with our people!” He raised his weapon, ready to fight.

  The general cast his arm out, urging them back. “Stupid,” he said, then softer, “You're all going to die, you need to listen to me. I’ve already condemned enough of my people to death. Please, leave. Please.”

  But they would not listen. His words fell on deaf ears as they raised their makeshift weapons and took their fighting stances, ready and waiting for whatever was to come.

  The footsteps grew closer, and through the fog, silhouettes began to appear. But it wasn’t La Mort or his men who came first. A zoronian woman burst through the haze, her eyes red and her cheeks stained with dry tears, her young son stumbling at her side. Panic was etched into every corner of their faces.

  Others followed, and a sea of limbs stretched toward the general. Their breaths came heavy, their pleading frantic.

  “General! General!” they shouted. “Help us, please!” they cried and begged.

  The general extended his arm toward his people, but it was too late. Thick beams of light burst through the fog, lighting them up. Heads snapped back, chests torn open with surgical precision. The boy fell first, and the woman’s knees buckled soon after. She folded over him as if her body could cover the wound and give the heart beneath it a reason to keep going.

  As the general’s eyes widened in panic, more gunfire erupted. Bodies dropped like dominoes in front of him, close enough that their warm blood sprayed across his face like a fountain.

  Silence followed. The general stood there, hands trembling before his face as he stared at the blood staining his skin. Then, through the smoke and debris that masked them, La Mort appeared.

  “General, it’s good to see you again,” La Mort said, his words laced with sadistic sarcasm, his gloves dripping with the blood of the general’s people. But the king wasn’t done with his mind games. His face twisted into evil itself as he dragged the blood from his gloves across his chest plate, twisting his head and refusing to break eye contact with the general as he did it, mocking him with every movement.