The water of the river was flowing red, and bodies could be seen floating. The sound of the water was deafening, so no one could hear what their father was telling them from a few meters further forward as he was, but they followed him when he waved at them. They turned right, towards the outskirts of Kleir, where the nearest exit was. In that direction, taking the main road, in a few hours they would reach Torretorta, a small village built around an important crossroads. It was one of the unusual places where they could find some kind of military aid.

They did not advance too far, however, as they stopped petrified. In front of them two soldiers in their leather armor and swords were fighting a man who was clumsily brandishing a wood-cutting ax. Luckily for the family, they were too captivated by what they were doing to realize their existence. The three of them, with Nayla in the arms of her frightened brother, turned around and ran in the other direction.

The ground, muddy and muddy, made it difficult to run and they ran the risk of slipping. When they saw the arch of the stone bridge that crossed the river, they noticed that there were people fighting; the inhabitants of the village had set up a barricade to correct and tried to stop the attackers.

Nayla, very frightened, had a hard time breathing and her eyes were wet, about to cry, but a lump in her throat prevented it. The brother was breathing hard and their mother seemed to be having an anxiety attack at any moment. All but the father had their eyes wide open in panic.

He could not afford it. He had no idea what was going on and was as scared as the rest, but he knew that if he died of panic, they would not get out of it. And that could not be allowed. It was his responsibility to keep his family alive, and he thought so.

He pointed in the direction of an alley next to the house next door. It broke in an "s" shape and allowed them to hide momentarily. They took the opportunity to catch their breath. It had not been a minute since they had left the battlefield that the village had become, but they had the feeling of running for hours.

The brother whispered, trying to appear, stubbornly, calmly, words of consolation to his sister. The mother unconsciously grabbed the knife so hard that the knots in her hands turned white. The father watched the corner, making sure no one approached them, and that they had a clear way to advance.

They all had a lot of questions and they all wanted to say a lot of things to each other, but no one came up with the words. The tension in the atmosphere, the catchy atmosphere of the screams and noises of the fights and the adrenaline rush in their bodies made it impossible for them to focus on anything other than surviving.

They remained expectant, waiting for what the father would give them the signal to continue. Unconsciously, they placed their hopes in him.

With a wave of his hand, he motioned for them to follow him, now walking cautiously. They turned into the alley at the back of the inn, but a soldier surprised them. The buildings muffled the deafening noise of the river, so they could hear the soldier.

“Hey! You!”, he called to them as he ran towards them, his sword drawn.

Not knowing how to react, the father stood guard, grabbing the knife with both hands, at the level of his stomach, pointing at the soldier, trying not to shake his hands. The mother stepped back, frightened, and the brother hugged his sister tightly, without looking away from what was about to happen, with a clear expression of suffering.

Before the soldier could catch them, however, the back door of the inn suddenly opened and the innkeeper came out, jumping on the soldier, tackling him, and knocking him to the ground.

“Get out of here!”, he shouted to the family. “All this has nothing to do with you! You have to survive!”, he kept shouting as he unsheathed a small knife, similar to the ones they were carrying, which he wore on his belt. He then nailed it under his armpit, piercing the coat of mail.

The soldier let out a scream of pain and stabbed him in the face with the hilt of his sword and got rid of the prey. He sighed, and as the innkeeper did the same, he stabbed his sword in the abdomen. The mother let out a choked cry, and the father gritted his teeth. Everything had happened too fast and they had not had time to do anything.

Took a slightly undecided step forward, to go and help him, but in the final effort, the innkeeper jumped again against the soldier, his sword still nailed, and they fell to the ground again.

“I said…”, he was trying to scream while coughing up blood and struggling with the soldier, “that you leave! That…”, he was punched in the face and had to stop talking to immobilize the soldier again, “that it is none of your business! Get out!”

The father, moved by his sacrifice, turned around, took his wife, who was paralyzed, by the hand, and they continued on the only path they could follow.