• There would be no celebration this winter.

    Roger hugged his torn coat closer, bracing himself against the bite of the northern gale. He stepped carefully over the frozen forms of his countrymen, tears flowing and freezing against his pale cheeks as he wandered through the heart of his once thriving town. They had thought themselves safe, dwelling this deep in the heart of their tiny empire, away from the battles and wars that had split their land apart. Roger’s feet fell hard against the packed snow. His blurry red eyes could barely make out the deep prints left by the invaders’ boots, filled to the brim with the now icy blood of slain townsmen. He stared emptily around him, taking in the havoc left behind. Houses ruined, doors slammed to the ground by brutish hands. The beautiful windows which had made the town famous lay muted in the snow, their vibrant colours bleeding into the red patched ground.

    It was easy to tell what had happened after he had been knocked out. The town militia had really only been set up for show, to help the war-weary men and women of the village sleep peacefully at night. They had no chance of beating the well formed raiding group that had stolen through their scarcely watched barricades, deep in the pitch of night. Regardless, the Commander of the Watch had certainly tried - swords clasped in broken hands paid testament to the Guards’ desperate defense of their home. Roger had stood among the woman and children at sixteen, months off combat tutorage from one of the elders who lent guidance to the town. They had waited with wide eyes and muffled sobs as they heard the outer ring of heavily barricaded houses fall to the raging horde, unable to contain the fear they felt. Roger had clasped his borrowed sword clumsily, wondering desperately how he would wield the heavy weapon against creatures feet taller than him, with years of ruthless conflict behind them. He was sweating- the cold, unrelenting sweat of dread he had grown so used to in his short years. He tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach by concentrating on the children, reassuringly stroking the head of a child who was huddled by his leg, a bloodstained toy clasped in his limp hand; his questioning eyes far too much for Roger to bare.