Chapter 2 THE WORLD GOES TO WAR

ETHAN'S POV

The sword nearly took my head off.

I ducked just in time. The blade whistled past my ear so close I felt the wind. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Dead!" Father shouted. "If that was real combat, you'd be dead right now, Ethan!"

I stumbled backward, gasping for air. We'd been training for three hours straight in the yard behind our house. My arms felt like they were made of lead. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

"Again," Father commanded, raising his practice sword.

"I need a break," I panted.

"The enemy won't give you a break!" He swung at me.

I barely blocked it. The impact sent shocks up my arms. Father was holding back—I knew he was—but even his gentle strikes felt like getting hit by a hammer.

"You're thinking too much," he said, circling me. "Stop analyzing and just react. Your body knows what to do if you let it."

"My body wants to run away and hide in the library," I muttered.

Father's expression softened for just a second. Then it hardened again. "One more round. Then we'll look at the attack reports."

That got my attention. "The reports about the orc villages?"

"The ones that were sent to all regional commanders this morning." He lunged at me.

This time I was ready. I sidestepped and swung my sword at his exposed side. He blocked it easily, but he nodded.

"Better. You're learning."

Twenty minutes later, we sat in Father's study. He spread papers across his desk official military reports stamped with royal seals. My eyes devoured the information.

"Millbrook was the first village attacked six months ago," Father explained, pointing to a map. "Thirty-seven people killed. Everything burned."

"Six months?" I looked up sharply. "But the draft notice said the attacks just started."

"The attacks have been happening for months," Father said quietly. "The king only just decided to call for troops."

Something about that felt wrong, but I couldn't figure out what.

"Then Riverdale was hit three months ago," Father continued. "Twenty-two dead. Then Oakshire last month. Forty-one dead. And just two weeks ago, Thornhill. Sixty-three dead."

The numbers made me sick. Real people. Families. Children.

"The reports all say the same thing," Father said. "Orc raiding parties attacking at night. Killing everyone. Burning everything. No survivors left to tell what happened."

"No survivors at all?" I asked.

"None."

I stared at the reports. Something nagged at my brain. "If there were no survivors, how do we know it was orcs?"

Father paused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if everyone died and nothing was left, how do the reports know exactly what happened? How do they know it was orcs and not bandits or—"

"Ethan." Father's voice was sharp. "Don't start with the questions. Not about this."

"But it doesn't make sense!"

"War rarely does." He gathered up the papers. "Tomorrow we ride to Thornhill. The village is only a day's journey from here. You need to see what we're fighting against. What the orcs are capable of."

That night, I couldn't stop thinking about those villages. About the families who died. About the missing pieces that didn't fit together.

The next morning, a loud knock woke me before dawn.

I stumbled downstairs to find a young man at our door. He was my age, maybe a year older, with perfect blond hair and a smile that seemed too bright for someone who'd just been drafted.

"Ethan Blackwood?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Marcus Brightshield!" He stuck out his hand. "We're in the same draft group. I heard you live in Ashford, so I thought I'd ride with you to the training camp when the time comes. My father knows your father from the old military days."

I shook his hand, still half-asleep. "Nice to meet you."

"This is going to be amazing!" Marcus practically bounced with energy. "We're going to be war heroes, Ethan. We'll push back the orc invasion and earn glory for our families!"

I stared at him. "You're excited about going to war?"

"Of course! Aren't you?" He looked genuinely confused. "This is our chance to prove ourselves. To do something that matters."

"People are dying, Marcus."

"Exactly! That's why we need to fight. To stop the orcs from killing more innocent people." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, don't tell me you're scared?"

"I'm terrified," I admitted.

Marcus laughed like I'd made a joke. "You'll feel different once we start training. Once you understand what we're fighting for."

Father appeared behind me. "Marcus Brightshield. I remember your father. Good soldier."

"Thank you, sir!" Marcus stood straighter. "Father says I should learn from the best, and he says you're one of the best."

"I'll be taking Ethan to see Thornhill today," Father said. "The burned village. You're welcome to join us if you want to see what the orcs did there."

"Absolutely!" Marcus nodded eagerly. "The more I understand the enemy, the better I can fight them."

We rode out an hour later. The journey to Thornhill took most of the day. Marcus talked the entire time—about battle strategies he'd read, about famous warriors from history, about how we'd probably get medals and promotions.

I barely heard him. My mind was stuck on those reports. On the questions Father didn't want me to ask.

We smelled Thornhill before we saw it.

The stench of burned wood and something worse hung in the air like a sick cloud. My stomach turned over.

"Stay alert," Father warned as we approached. "Sometimes looters come to scavenge after attacks."

The village was worse than I imagined.

Every building was destroyed. Not just burned—completely demolished. Walls knocked down. Roofs caved in. Nothing left standing.

We tied our horses and walked through the ruins. My boots crunched on ash and broken glass. The silence was horrible. No birds. No insects. Nothing alive at all.

"Look at this," Marcus said, voice tight. "The animals are right. They're monsters."

But I was looking at something else. Something that made my blood run cold.

The buildings weren't just burned. They were knocked down in a pattern. A deliberate pattern.

I walked to what used to be the town square. From there, I could see the whole village laid out like a map. Every structure had been destroyed in a specific order, starting from the outside and working inward.

Raiders didn't work like that. Raiders grabbed what they wanted and ran. They didn't waste time being organized.

This looked military. Strategic. Planned.

"Father," I called. "Come look at this."

He joined me in the square. I pointed to the pattern of destruction.

"See how the outer buildings fell first? Then the next ring? Then the center?" I traced the pattern in the air. "It's too organized. Too methodical."

Father's jaw tightened. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying this doesn't look like a raid. It looks like..." I struggled to find the right word. "It looks like someone wanted to make sure the entire village was destroyed. Every single building. Nothing left standing. Nothing salvageable."

"Orcs are thorough," Marcus said, but he sounded uncertain.

"Are they?" I moved to a collapsed house. "And look at this. The walls didn't burn and then fall. They were knocked down first, then burned. You can see the char patterns—the fire came after the structure was already demolished."

Father knelt beside the rubble. His face was grim. "You're right."

"About what?" Marcus asked.

"This wasn't done by raiders," Father said slowly. "This was done by soldiers. Trained soldiers with demolition knowledge."

"But the reports said it was orcs," Marcus protested.

"The reports might be wrong." Father stood up, his expression dark. "Or they might be lying."

The words hung in the air like poison.

"Why would our own military lie about orc attacks?" Marcus's voice rose. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"I don't know," Father admitted. "But something is very wrong here."

I walked to the edge of the village, my mind racing. If soldiers did this, not orcs, then why blame the orcs? Who benefited from starting a war?

That's when I saw it.

Half-buried in the ash was a piece of metal. I picked it up and wiped away the soot.

It was a badge. Military issue. But not regular army.

The design showed a crowned serpent coiled around a sword. I'd never seen this symbol before.

"Father!" I held up the badge. "What military unit uses this symbol?"

He took it from me. His face went pale. Actually pale.

"Where did you find this?" he demanded.

"Right here. In the ashes."

Father looked around like someone might be watching us. "We need to leave. Now."

"But"

"NOW, Ethan!"

The fear in his voice scared me more than anything I'd seen in the ruined village.

We mounted our horses quickly. Father set a brutal pace back toward Ashford. Marcus kept asking questions, but Father wouldn't answer any of them.

When we finally stopped to rest the horses, I cornered Father.

"What was that badge?" I asked. "Why did it scare you so much?"

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he sighed.

"That symbol belongs to a group called the Silver Covenant," he said quietly. "They're supposed to be a special military unit that handles sensitive operations for the crown."

"Then what were they doing destroying a village?"

"That," Father said, "is exactly the question that could get us all killed for asking it."

My blood turned to ice.

"Listen to me very carefully, Ethan," Father continued. "You found nothing in that village. You saw nothing unusual. The orcs destroyed Thornhill just like the reports said. Do you understand?"

"But that's a lie!"

"It's survival!" Father grabbed my shoulders. "There are forces at work here that we don't understand. Forces with enough power to burn entire villages and blame it on orcs. Forces that won't hesitate to kill anyone who asks too many questions."

"So we just ignore it?" I felt sick. "We just let them start a war based on lies?"

"We stay alive," Father said. "And we watch. We listen. We wait for the right moment to act." He pressed the badge into my hand. "Hide this. Tell no one about it. Not even Marcus."

I looked at the crowned serpent symbol. This tiny piece of metal was proof that the war was built on lies.

Which meant thousands of young men like me were being sent to fight and die fo

r something that wasn't real.

The question was: why?

And more importantly: who was pulling the strings?