5 years later

  "In war, there are no unwounded soldiers."

  Max wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the midday sun pouring through the open window of the leather workshop. The familiar scent of tanned hide and the rhythmic sound of tools striking leather filled the air with a sense of comfort. He was nestled between rows of racks filled with leather goods, each piece a testament to his father's hard work and skill.

  "Max, pass me that piece over there, will you?" His father called from the other side of the workshop. He was hunched over a large table, expertly cutting out intricate designs from a thick hide, his strong hands moving with practiced precision.

  Max quickly moved to retrieve the piece his father requested—a vibrant shade of brown, thick and durable, perfect for crafting a nice set of boots. He handed it over with a certain pride, admiring the craftsmanship that went into each item they made. His dad looked up, giving him a warm smile that lit up the room.

  "Good job, lad. You're getting better each day," his father praised, and Max felt a swell of warmth at the compliment.

  "Thanks, Dad! I’ve been practicing more," Max replied, glancing around the workshop. "Do you think we might finish that order this week?"

  Aymon chuckled, shaking his head as he continued to cut. "We'll get it done. But remember, quality over speed, son. Every stitch and cut matters."

  Max nodded. His dad always had a piece of wisdom for him.

  As the afternoon wore on, Max felt the familiar tug of boredom creeping in as he completed his chores. “Dad, can we train for a bit?” he asked, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. Ever since his father had introduced him to the art of swordsmanship, Max found an exhilarating rush in each practice session.

  His father paused, considering his son's request. "All right, we are ahead of our orders." he said, finally standing to stretch his legs. "Then meet me out back with the wooden swords."

  Eagerly, Max hurried to gather the wooden training swords they kept propped against the wall. He could feel the familiar thrill bubbling inside him as he stepped outside his fathers workshop into the warm sunlight, where the yard provided ample space for practice.

  Max tossed his dad a practice sword who then gave the blade a few experimental swishes "You've been working hard here, Max. Let's see that focus and energy translate to your movements."

  "Yes, sir!" Max responded, raising his wooden sword with enthusiasm.

  “Remember the stance.” his dad adjusted his grip, demonstrating the proper foot positioning. “Keep your body light and nimble. You need to be able to move quickly.”

  Max took the position to face his father, mirroring him as best he could. It felt right; this was where he wanted to be, sword in hand, training under the watchful eye of the man he admired most.

  "Good. Now, let's see some footwork," his father instructed. “Advance, retreat or sidestep. Your feet will take you where your sword cannot.”

  Max began to practice the movements. He advanced toward his dad, then retreated, sidestepping to the left with measured precision. The sun streamed down on him, making him feel alive, connected to his purpose.

  His dad observed closely, nodding as Max continued to refine his movements. “That’s it! You’re getting the hang of it. Now, let’s simulate an opponent. I’ll attack, and you defend.”

  Max braced himself as his father swung the wooden sword toward him, the blow ringing through the air. He parried instinctively, feeling the impact reverberate through his arms. He held his ground, then swiftly swung his sword, aiming for his dads head.

  The two engaged in an exhilarating exchange of strikes and blocks. His father attacked with deft precision, pushing Max to react quickly. Max felt a sense of pride igniting within him with every lithe dodge and counter he executed.

  "Very good! You're faster than before!" his dad cheered, and Max couldn't help but beam at the praise. Just then, he lunged forward, swinging low to attempt a strike.

  But his father was prepared. He sidestepped smoothly, delivering a gentle tap against Max’s side. "Not so fast, son. Watch your angles, and keep your weight centered," he advised, stepping back to reassess Max’s stance.

  “Right,” Max replied, regaining his composure. He took a moment, allowing the lesson to settle as he adjusted his foot positioning and breathed deeply.

  They resumed sparring, and a blend of focus, effort, and determination poured through him.

  "Remember, Max, the sword is an extension of your will. It’s not just about physical strength—it’s about strategy, timing, and understanding your opponent,” his father said, his voice steady and encouraging.

  Max nodded, allowing his father's wisdom to sink in deeper. He lunged forward again, this time with more control. He blocked the strike effortlessly, then aimed a thrust toward Max’s midsection. This time, Max anticipated the attack. He pivoted, using his footwork to evade it while simultaneously bringing his sword around for a counterstrike.

  “Good thinking! But remember to keep your movements fluid. It’s all about maintaining the flow!” his dad exclaimed, visibly pleased.

  Max took his father’s advice to heart, channeling his energy into the rhythm of their sparring. He concentrated on each motion, transitioning his weight and angling his sword to deflect his dads blows while planning his next strike.

  His Father’s attacks became stronger and quicker as he pushed Max to his limits. Max found himself panting lightly as he fought against exhaustion, sweat trickling down his brow. In a moment of adrenaline-fueled clarity, he remembered what his father had taught him about reading an opponent.

  Just as Aymon swung his sword wide, Max feigned a retreat, baiting his father into following. As he advanced, Max quickly shifted his weight, turning back to face him and launching a swift, precise strike toward his father's side.

  His dad managed to bring his sword down in time to block the blow, their wooden weapons clashing with a decisive thud. For an instant, the two stood locked in the clash, breaths heavy and faces inches apart.

  “Impressive, Max!” his dad grinned, and for a moment, the his stern demeanor softened with pride. “You’re learning well. That’s exactly the kind of thinking you need! Press the attack!”

  Encouraged by his father’s praise, Max sprang back into action, eyes focused and adrenaline surging. He pushed forward, executing a series of swift combinations—a thrust, a cut, a parry—flowing into one motion after another. The sparring became a dance, each move guided by a mixture of instinct and training.

  As they continued to spar, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, bathing the training area in a warm, golden hue. Max felt a profound sense of satisfaction wash over him; each moment spent honing his skills with his dad only deepened the bond they shared, one forged in both love and discipline.

  But it wasn’t just about the sword. It was the lessons, the values, and the strength of character his father was imparting that Max cherished most. “Remember, success in battle relies on both mind and body,” Aymon reminded him. “Control your emotions, stay calm, and think strategically.”

  Max nodded, internalizing the wisdom. This was his training, his life, and he was determined to honor his father's legacy with every swing of his sword.

  As the afternoon came to a close, his dad finally called for a break, his posture relaxing as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Well done today, Max. You’ve shown great improvement since we started. I can truly see your potential blooming.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Max said, feeling a swell of pride within him. He knew he still had much to learn, but hearing his father’s praise fueled his motivation to continue pushing forward.

  As they sat down together, catching their breath, Max thought back to all the lessons and stories his dad had shared about honor, courage, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. He envisioned the day when he would wear the knight's armor, wielding his power sword with confidence and pride.

  “Someday, I’ll be as strong as you,” Max declared with determination.

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  Dad smiled, the warmth in his eyes shining through. “And you will be, son. Just remember, strength isn't just about your body. It's about your heart and mind, too. Dedication to your craft, compassion for others, and the will to never give up will define the warrior you become.”

  With that, Max was ready to embrace the challenges that lay ahead, ready to train harder than ever before and to forge his own path as a warrior in the years to come.

  Max jolted awake, his heart racing as the sound of piercing screams echoed through the night. He bolted upright in bed, the fog of sleep morphed into panic as he struggled to understand what was happening. The air felt thick with tension, heavy with the scent of smoke and chaos.

  He rushed to his window and flung it open, only to be met with a nightmarish sight. The sky was alive with flickering flames, molten orange and raging red casting eerie shadows across the land. Buildings were ablaze, their wooden frames crumbling as the fire devoured them hungrily.

  “Max! Get down!” a voice shouted from below.

  He leaned out of the window, spotting figures running through the streets, their faces etched with terror. His heart dropped as he recognized Mrs. Clara’s shop, the familiar wooden structure engulfed in flames. “No!” he cried, instinctively wanting to rush to her aid.

  “Get away from there!” came another urgent shout. It was his father, running towards the path leading to their home.

  “Where’s Mum?” Max yelled, his voice cracking. Fear gripped him like a vice, squeezing the breath from his lungs as he recalled the warmth of her embrace just hours before.

  “Stay inside, Maxi!” his father pleaded, urgency lacing his tone. “We’ve got to find a safe place!”

  Desperate and confused, Max hesitated, hearing the cacophony of chaos escalating outside. The sound of boots crushing debris and the unmistakable clang of armor blended with the gut-wrenching cries of his neighbors. The Empire had come, and their presence felt like a dark cloud swallowing everything he held dear.

  “Max, listen!” his father continued, urgency thick in the air. “There’s no time! We need to hide!”

  Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream echoed from somewhere close, and then he spotted it—a figure, cloaked in dark armor, stepping into the light of a burning building, wielding a weapon that glinted ominously in the flames. Max’s stomach turned as he realized the figure was an empire knight even larger and scarier than his fathers stories the knight stood well over 7 ft tall and was nearly 4ft wide covered in gray armour with red streaks pulsing through.

  Max felt a chill of terror coursing through him. He didn’t know if he could stay in his room any longer. “Dad, I—”

  But before he could finish, a thunderous crash came from downstairs, the sound of splintering wood reverberating through the air, knocking him off balance.

  “Go!” his father shouted, his voice distant as he pushed Max toward the back of the house. Max barely had time to process the urgency of the moment before being ushered down the hallway.

  “Where’s Mum?” he repeated, the question tumbling from his lips like a chant. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, a deep sense of foreboding wrapping tightly around his heart.

  “Run!” his father replied, determination laced with fear. “You just have to get to safety.”

  As he reached the back door, a flash of flame illuminated a figure that made Max freeze—a shadow passing across their path. It was Mrs. Clara, her figure silhouetted against a wall of fire, desperately trying to escape the chaos. But, before he could call out, her scream cut off, a sword emerging from her chest.

  “No!” he cried, as the reality of their fate hit him like a tidal wave. Mrs. Clara—kind, warm-hearted Mrs. Clara—was gone, cut down in the chaos without a moment to say goodbye.

  “Keep moving!” his father urged, appearing behind him with his sword in hand as they burst through the back door and out into the rain-soaked night. The world around them was a maelstrom of fear, each step treacherous as the ground crumbled beneath them.

  Max’s heart raced, confusion clawing at his mind. He could hear the distant sound of torment—echoes of people being uprooted from their lives, their cries lost among the sounds of devastation.

  Then came a thunderous boom, shaking the very earth, the sky itself seeming to fall. As they dashed through the dark streets, glimpses of burning buildings illuminated their path.

  A hollow ache blossomed in Max’s chest, deepening with every step. The village that had always felt like home was now a scene of nightmares. Each corner they turned unveiled a new horror—families torn apart, neighbors fleeing, the laughter that once filled the air now silenced in the face of terror.

  “Dad, what if—” he started, but lost his voice in the storm of emotions churning within him.

  “There’s no time for doubt!” his father shouted back, urgency fueling his movements. “We’ve got to keep moving. We’ll find a way to safety! We’ll find—”

  But just then, Max heard it—the unmistakable sound of boots marching closer, just as they prepared to escape, the unmistakable sound of heavy boots approached through the debris-strewn streets, and the shadows of armored knights of the Empire emerged from the fire-lit chaos. Max’s stomach twisted as he recognized the insignia on their armor—a dark emblem signifying their malicious intent.

  “Max, stay back!” his father ordered, moving protectively in front of him. Max felt helpless as terror gripped him; he had never witnessed such brutality.

  A group of Empire knights rounded the corner, their weapons gleaming as they spotted his father. “Sir Aymon!” one of them hissed, recognition flashing across his face.

  Max felt a rush of confusion. His father was Sir Aymon? He had heard his fathers tales but it wasn't just his father everyone knew of Sir Aymon. Now, confronted with the truth, he felt his heart race for a different reason—fear for his father's safety.

  “Leave this place!” Aymon demanded, stepping forward with fierce resolve as he drew his sword, the blade activated flickering with blue energy that promised protection, fierceness, and a legacy. “You will not threaten what is mine”

  The Empire knights brandished their own weapons, their confidence mounting. “Sir Aymon, our quarrel is not with you” one knight said “the republic is no more, it has been centuries you do not need to fight us, step aside so we may purge this world from all threats” stepping forward to challenge Aymon’s bravado. My father had a look of confusion on his face.

  With a swift and decisive motion, Aymon raised his sword high. “I will not let you claim innocent lives!” he shouted, his voice echoing with conviction and strength. The knight just shook his head “We are not here for innocents. Unfortunately Sir Aymon the Emperor has demanded this of us, you do not have your power armour, you will not be able to challenge us”

  Max’s heart surged with a mix of fear and pride as he watched his father confront the intruders. He had always looked up to Aymon for his bravery but witnessing it firsthand brought on newfound admiration. But the odds were against his father; he could see the numbers piling up, the Empire knights surrounding him like wolves closing in on prey.

  As the first knight lunged at Aymon, he deflected the attack with a metallic clash, returning with a powerful strike that sliced through his armor and the knight collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. “Max, listen!” he shouted without looking back. “You must go now! Hide!”

  Max was torn between obeying his father and wanting to help him fight. Instead he just stood there frozen. The knight where moving faster then he could comprehend they seemed to be just a blur his father keeping up.

  The chaos escalated as Aymon struck down another adversary, drawing on all his skill and experience, but one knight managed to land a blow on his side, throwing Aymon off balance leaving a long red gash along his side.

  “Father!” Max shouted, fear gripping his heart as he watched the scene unfold. Aymon was fighting valiantly, but more knights converged, and they began to swarm around him, striking with relentless force.

  “Run, Max!” Aymon yelled, turning with all his might to fend off attackers, but Max felt the weight of helplessness pressing down on him.

  Aymon’s resolve did not wane, even as he stared down countless foes. “I will protect this village, no matter what!” he declared, slashing his sword with renewed vigor.

  Yet, the sheer number of knights began to overwhelm him. Before Max’s eyes, his father fought bravely, but inevitably, he took another glancing blow from a knight on his leg; he cut down another knight but was sent tumbling to the ground by a shield bash.

  “Dad!” Max screamed, rushing forward, instinctively ignoring the danger surrounding him. He needed to be at Aymon's side, needed to help him fight against the approaching doom.

  Max’s stomach dropped as he saw the heavy axe swing down, its razor edge gleaming in the flickering light of the flames. The sound of impact was horrendous, a sickening crunch that seemed to echo in the depths of his mind. Time slowed as he watched his father fall, lifelessly crumpling to the ground, and a grief he had never experienced before washed over him like the deluge of rain from the skies above.

  “Dad!” he screamed, the word clawing at his throat. His body moved as if propelled by instinct, and he charged forward, desperation flooding his veins. He could hardly comprehend the scene unfolding in front of him—the darkness of loss overpowered everything else.

  Before he could reach his father, rough hands seized him from behind, yanking him away from the horror that unfolded. The largest of the Empire knights, his armor glinting with menace, held onto Max's arm with an iron grip. “Grab the kid!” the knight barked, and Max’s vision blurred as shock consumed him.

  He was dragged through the chaos, leaving behind a world that felt familiar and safe, now warped into a nightmarish landscape of destruction and despair. His heart pounded in his chest, the sounds of the Village—the nightmarish screams, the crackling flames, and his father's valiant last stand—echoing in his ears. Where was he being taken? What would happen now?

  They moved quickly through the streets, where shadows darted and buildings burned brightly against the darkened sky. The knight shoved him roughly toward a troop transport parked nearby, where other children, wide-eyed and trembling, were being ushered inside. Max felt like he was moving in slow motion, each step dragging a weight of dread behind it. The faces of the other children mirrored his own fear and pain.

  “Get in!” the knight commanded, voice sharp and devoid of empathy. Max was shoved into the transport, hitting the cold metal floor hard. He looked around wildly, desperate for something—anything—to cling to.

  The doors clanged shut behind him, sealing him inside a cage of metal and despair. Max turned to the other children, their eyes hollow and lost, afraid to make eye contact. He could see their fear reflected in their expressions; they all believed they were being taken to a fate worse than death.

  “Where are we going?” a girl with tangled hair whispered, her voice shaking.

  Max opened his mouth to reassure her, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could think of was his father... the fierce knight who had fought to protect them. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he fought to hold them back, unwilling to let the other children see his weakness amidst the fear.

  As the transport rumbled to life, the metallic roar drowned out the remnants of chaos outside, and the world he once knew fell away. Max pressed his forehead against the cool metal wall, trying to block out the reality of what had happened. His mind raced with thoughts of his father’s laughter, of the warmth of his embrace.

  Would he ever see his mother? Would anyone survive the onslaught? The questions spiraled through his head, sharp and piercing like the teeth of a predator, clawing at his sanity.

  The transport lurched forward, and the journey felt endless. The children sat in silence, uncertainty hanging heavily in the air. Max couldn't shake the feeling of being swallowed by darkness, the isolation creeping into his heart like a relentless shadow.

  Moments turned into minutes as the transport carried them away from their village. Finally, with a grinding halt, the doors swung open, revealing the stark, cold lights of a massive hangar filled with enormous starships, the hum of machinery drowning out the echoes of their last home.

  “Out! Move!” barked the knight, pushing them toward a waiting ship. Max stepped out into yet another world that felt alien and terrifying, the metallic scent of the spacecraft mixed with the faint undercurrent of fear.

  As they were herded toward the ship, Max glanced back, one last look at his home world, small flames on the horizon rising into the sky. In that fleeting moment, he felt a fire ignite within him—a tiny spark of resolve amidst the unequalled despair. He would not forget; he would carry his father's legacy and fight for those he loved; he would find his mother and ellie.

  A final wave of determination surged through him. He knew he would find a way to survive, to escape whatever fate lay before them. As he stepped onto the ship with the other children, he clenched his fists, ready to face whatever came next.

  “I will remember,” he thought fiercely, and though he felt small and frightened, he vowed; one day, he would have revenge for his father and the people who he loved.