Screams were stifled by thick, loud hacks and the air was rank with the smell of burning bodies. A young boy gripped his lance and pointed its tip towards the man under his foot who had tripped in a failed attempt to escape the slaughter behind him. The lance shook in the boy's hands as the child peered into the eyes of his victim. They were so full of fear; he didn't want to die.
"Hurry up, Frederick! No son of mine will spare one of these dogs quarter. Stick him and we can return to camp!" barked the tall, imposing general behind his shoulder. "The Plegians would see Grima awakened given the chance. Finish this now."
He could feel the heaving of the man's chest under his boot as his breaths became erratic with fear and he tearfully began to beg for his life. The boy's nostrils stung with the smell of the bodies of the townspeople burning behind him and he knew that insubordination would cost him dearly.
"Yes, father…" said the child as he tried to stay his shaking hands. His arms brought the blade closer to the man's neck and his vision was distorted by the tears forming in his eyes. "I… I'm s-sorry… I don't want to die either."
Closing his eyes, he plunged the point down and heard the guttural sound of steel piercing flesh as the breaths underneath his foot grew frantic and began to spasm before stopping entirely. His eyes were still clamped shut when he withdrew the spear and received a spurt of hot blood against his cheek.
"It is about time, boy. Your first kill marks your first step into manhood." the general said as he dismissively turned away to climb atop his steed. "Keep up. We're leaving now."
The third year of the war was drawing to a close and the land was soaked in the blood of Ylisseans and Plegians alike. The crusades sought to wipe Plegia off of the face of the planet in a desperate bid to prevent the return of the Fell Dragon, but the casualties numbered in the thousands on the Ylissean side because the crusaders were ill-suited to survive in Plegia's arid sands.
By his seventh year, Frederick had been on the Ylissean front with his father for almost ten months. His father was the Field Marshal of the Exalt's Holy Army and oversaw the Ylissean obliteration of Plegia's countryside and coastlines while the Exalt himself led the assault on the capitol. In order to prove his loyalty to his lord, Frederick's father brought him into the war to fight and kill in the name of the Exalt.
"My son tastes his first blood and weeps like a babe…" grumbled the general from atop his horse. "Bah, I should have prayed harder for a son. The gods have cursed me with a whimpering kitten... Keep up, boy!"
Behind him, Frederick marched on with his lance perched upon his shoulder. He never wanted any part of this. Was this knighthood? Nothing about what his father had ordered him to do seemed chivalrous or gallant at all. He stared vacantly ahead as he followed his father back to the barracks.
"So our little Freddy Bear's become a man?" exclaimed one soldier. "Good on you!"
"Atta boy! It's about time you made yourself useful!" shouted another.
These men who had hazed the boy for his youth earlier that morning, now lauded for finally making his first kill. They heaped praise and validation upon him, trying to encourage him to keep it up. To continue killing.
"You've finally earned your place among your brothers-in-arms, boy," said a large Cavalier as he patted Frederick's back, nearly knocking the boy off of his feet. "Just watch: you'll be a knight before you know it!"
Knighthood. The prospect inspired him before the war, but he was beginning to hate what it had become to him. Mead was passed around and the soldiers roared songs of riches and victory into the night sky. The day had been a complicated and terrifying experience for the young boy. Through the shooting pain in his temples, Frederick realised that childhood was over for him; he would have to continue to kill and grow stronger if he wanted to survive. This was the reality of the world. This was war.
Sitting at the campfire with a few of the soldiers who remained sober enough to stand watch on guard duty, Frederick stared into the flames and remembered his home. He missed his village in the hills. He missed the cool air that wisped through the trees of the forest that surrounded it. He missed his mother most of all. She would sing him to sleep when he was weary, hold him tight when he was afraid, and encourage him to be better than his best. She taught him how to ride and to start campfires of his own using what he could find in nature. As he stared into the flickering flames of the campfire, it was almost as if she were there in front of him, comforting him with her warmth. Remembering her last words to him, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine her voice.
'Find your own path in life and to walk it with all that you are. What lies ahead will be so very hard and you will see so many things that you will not understand, but never stop learning. Those lessons will keep you safe where I cannot. Live for something precious to you and never let go of it.'
His contemplation was broken by the clacking of hooves. Frederick noticed a page from the east bearing the colours of Ylisse's Royal Family arriving at camp before being guided to his father's tent. The boy tried to ignore the man, but found it rather difficult. His father was the recipient of many messages from the Exalt, but something seemed off; the messenger's face seemed frightened.
"I suppose it's none of my business," Frederick murmured with a sigh as his eyelids began to grow heavy. The soldiers around him were the ones on duty, so he was free to sleep. "Tomorrow is a new day… I'll find what I'm looking for then."
"The Exalt is dead!? How?" boomed Frederick's father as he knocked over a chair and picked the messenger up by his collar before tossing him to the ground. "Give me that scroll; you're a useless excuse for a courier."
"A-at once, sire," said the shaken man, extending the message to the general. Unravelling the parchment, the marshal read the report quietly before heaving a great sigh of exasperation, setting his chair back on its legs, and sitting down.
"She's to take the Exalt's crown on the morrow…" he groaned slumping down in his seat. Dismissing the messenger with a wave of his hand, the general called his lieutenants and officers to his side and weighed where the scales of the war would tip next. "That brat's been spouting nonsense about peace for years and now she has the power to actually do something about it. She doesn't realise the importance of this mission; she only sees what's in front of her. She'll try to bring the war to a swift end unless something is done about it."
His men tried to keep their composure, but what he was suggesting seemed mad. Eventually, a thin, bearded officer chirped in, "Sir… are you proposing treason-"
"Of course not, you lummox; as daft as the girl is, her bloodline is the best weapon we have against the Fell Dragon should we fail," the general interrupted. "We have allies in the nobility. With their help and the proper leverage, we may buy ourselves another decade to finish things up here. Send word to the heads of Ylisse's noble houses that we must be allowed to continue; the fate of the realm depends on it."
"At once, sire," said the officer with a stiff salute. "Do you believe that a decade will be enough?"
"Yes, but only just," he said as his temper subsided. "We shall wipe our enemies off of the face of the planet and future generations will thank us for doing so. The Exalt gave his life to see to it that the Grimleal would never succeed in their twisted designs. It's our duty to see this mission through and I vow that I shall die long before that dragon ever tastes the freedom it craves."