A Village Targeted By Barbarians //free\\

Then came the beat. A low, guttural thrumming of war drums that vibrated in the teeth of the villagers.

Silence returned to the valley, though it was a different kind of silence now—heavier, broken by the sobbing of survivors and the hiss of rain beginning to fall on the smoldering ruins of home.

By midday, the air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and iron. The village green, once a place for festivals, had become a chaotic battlefield. Yet, the very layout of the village—its narrow alleys and familiar shortcuts—began to work in favor of the defenders. A blacksmith knew the weight of his hammer better than any raider knew the swing of a foreign sword. Every doorway was a choke point; every roof was a vantage point for a desperate archer. a village targeted by barbarians

The blacksmith, a burly man named Joren, stood before the narrow bridge leading into the village square. He hefted a heavy hammer, his stance wide. "You shall not pass!" he bellowed, a desperate act of defiance.

The lead raider, a giant of a man wearing a skull helmet that obscured his face, didn't even slow down. He surged forward, his stride eating the ground. Joren swung the hammer with all his might, but the barbarian was faster, slipping inside the arc of the blow. A flash of steel, a wet sound, and Joren crumpled into the mud. The line was broken. Then came the beat

The Vale would be rebuilt. It always was. But no one there would ever again mistake a distant drum for thunder. And the children learned a new word for the mountains to the north, whispered before sleep: target .

The targeting was not random. It was a science of cruelty. By midday, the air was thick with the

He didn’t finish. Everyone knew.