The rhythm of splitting wood was a familiar one, as well as the weight of the axe. Wood smoothed over by years of use was molded to his hands as he hefted the axe for the next log.

"James!" his sister called, coming around the cabin to the woodshed.

He let the axe lodge in the stump as she rounded the corner. Long, raven hair, much like his own, was in a braid that draped over her narrow shoulders. Ice-blue eyes set in a long, pale face, were fixed on him. Her brows were furrowed in frustration, but the tightness around her eyes belied a hint of fear.

"They came again," she said, voice tight. She dropped a scroll into his waiting hands. "You need to make a choice, James. Either go with them so they stop bothering us, or tell those old men to stop, once and for all. If I see another one of their disciples knocking at our door, or nailing a message to our door with a dart, I will retaliate, consequences be damned."

"How would you even retaliate," he mocked, unrolling the scroll. "You don't have soldiers at your beck and call. Even if you did, what would you pay them with? The Greyfield family is gone, Catherine."

The message on the scroll was like all the others. But what they didn't know was that he didn't want to change the world. All he wanted was to keep his family safe.

His sister grabbed him by the shoulders, using her greater height for leverage.

"You're ten. What do you even know?" she hissed. "If Father were still here, he would have razed their little temple to the ground the moment they came for any of us."

"Father is dead, Cat." he said, jerking away from her grip. Her hands, pink and cracked from the laundry and looking like the hands of the maids who used to serve them at their manor, clutched at the air. "I know that Father and Grandfather and all of them were executed. Grandmother told me before she and Mother…"

His sister squeezed her eyes shut, fighting a wave of grief. It was a familiar sight to him after his mother died. Like the last piece that connected them to their past life was gone.

The execution and exile of their family were why they were out here, hiding in a forest at the edge of no-man's-land, fighting for survival. James didn't know exactly what had happened, only that there was some sort of conspiracy that named his father a traitor to the throne. He had just turned six when it happened, so he remembered a little of what their life before was like. His sister had lived in wealth and luxury for sixteen years when, on a cloudy, autumn afternoon, imperial soldiers had broken down their gates and rounded up every living soul in or belonging to their family.

All the men, from the oldest to the youngest, were executed. His cousin was younger than him by a year, but his head still went on the chopping block because they weren't going to leave a single male child alive. Just in case he might grow up and decide he wanted to come back for revenge. But James - he was out in the countryside when they came, hiding away with his friends because he didn't want to come home.

The women were exiled, and on their way to the Scorned Lands, they found him. And just a week later, his mother realized she was pregnant. Initially, his grandmother, now the de facto head of the family, was overjoyed that a male heir to the Greyfield family still remained, with a potential spare on the way. But as his aunts and cousins and servants abandoned them, seeking refuge with warlords and rebels, that hope faded too. What use was an heir when there was nothing left to inherit?

James knew that. Had known that since his mother found him and told him exactly what his existence meant. But his sister? She still lived as though the Greyfield family could miraculously be reinstated any day now.

He picked the axe back up. And then set it back down. The sun was beginning to set over the treetops. He ought to check the traps before it was fully dark.

"At least answer me, James," his sister sighed, resigned.

"I don't care," he said, tossing his head to get his bangs out of his eyes.

"James…"

He turned and walked into the forest.

He liked it in the forest. There were no people around to tell him what to do (He knew what he was supposed to do. He didn't need someone to tell him.), and the soft rustle of the leaves, coupled with the chirps and calls of the animals in the forest, made him feel at peace. Sure, there were predators in the forest - he knew that well enough by now because sometimes, the rabbits in his traps would be half-eaten when he found them. But they left him alone, so he was more than happy to do the same.

The dense foliage blocked out most of the sunlight, but it was enough to navigate with. Dead, dry leaves crackled underfoot as he methodically checked his traps. Three rabbits today, more than enough for a meal.

As he raised his head from the last trap, he found himself nose-to-sternum with an older man, dressed in black. He stumbled backward, pressing his back against the tree trunk behind him.

"Who the heck are you?" James asked, shaky.

The man's eyes curved into little crescents as he smiled. Though he wore a piece of cloth over the lower half of his face, his eyes were very expressive.

"Who do you think I am?" he said.

James narrowed his eyes. Ah.

"Here to kidnap me instead of just asking?" he snarked, picking himself off the ground.

"We would never force you to come with us," the man replied. "You must come willingly, or they will not accept you."

"Well, then tell your masters that I'm not willing," he said, with an air of finality.

The man only watched him as he turned to head home.

The smell of smoke wafted to his nose as he left the forest. Was his sister already cooking? But no, there was no smell of food in that smoke. Alarmed, he began to walk faster.

The sunset is awfully bright today, he thought at first.

But the sun was behind him. A wash of red and yellow and orange a distance from him, and as he got closer, the crackle of burning wood and dark, choking smoke. The woodshed was on fire. Was it the man? But there was no way that man could have run between the forest and the shed fast enough for that to be possible.

It wasn't the only fire he could see. A dozen soldiers were surrounding the house, each carrying a torch. He was too far away to make out what insignias they wore, but it could be anybody. Quietly, he put the rabbits down in the grass. He skirted along the edge of the forest, hiding in the shadow of the flaming wreck that was the woodshed.

As he got closer, he could hear voices. The low growls of the soldier's voices, punctuated by harsh laughter, were undercut by a quiet, intermittent whimper that he would have missed if he hadn't been listening. There was a thump, a soft cry, and then more laughter. He pulled his trusty axe out of the stump he had left it in, hefting it over his shoulder.

He rounded the corner, behind the soldiers. Their voices were crystal clear to him, from here.

"Do you think the princeling will let us have a turn with her when we're done?" one said, to more riotous laughter.

His blood ran cold. His sister was inside the house. And someone these soldiers answered to was in there with her. Surely there was an unlocked window he could get to? As he thought about it, the fear in his stomach spooled up tight and morphed into something he thought might have been anger.

Then-

"No, please," a small voice whimpered.

The anger in his gut flared into rage. It was his brother's voice. Little Henry, who had never known life outside of this little cabin by the woods.

"Shut up, mutt," a soldier barked, aiming a sharp kick at the curled-up form on the ground between them.

The flame of rage inside him roared into an inferno. Before he could stop himself, his feet were taking him forward, raising his axe over his head. As if splitting a log, the axe cleaved through leather armor and skin and muscle as easily as cutting grass. It caught against knobs of bone on its way down, stuttering. As the soldier fell to the ground, the others drew swords and levelled spears, their surprise overridden by their training.

He swung at the next closest soldier, his own movements a blur. Blood spurted from his arm, cleaved off at the elbow. James hadn't even seen the axe cut through the soldier.

The axe slipped from his hands, its worn handle slick with blood. Without missing a beat, he dashed forward, scooped up his brother, and ran.