They arrived at an open space—a battlefield still soaked with the aftermath of a massacre. Rivers of blood stretched across the vast expanse, the carnage so extensive that even a full battalion could maneuver among the corpses with ease.
A nauseating stench clung to the air, thick and putrid, carried by the occasional breeze that drifted across the blood-soaked land.
At the center of the field stood a monstrous throne—crafted grotesquely from the bodies of the fallen, freshly slain in battle. Surrounding it were tall, jagged spikes, each adorned with severed heads that still dripped warm blood, painting the ground beneath in sticky crimson.
Abigail was dragged into the center of the carnage. Her eyes locked onto the throne—and terror flooded her. But even more horrifying than the throne itself… was the man who sat upon it.
He was massive, broader and taller than most, clad in his primitive garb that looked as though it had been forged in the depths of some abyss. Around his neck hung a necklace of severed fingers—a gruesome trophy of his won wars that only added to his dreadful aura. Yet, his face was almost shockingly handsome, a sharp contrast to his savage appearance—like beauty cloaked in brutality.
He grinned, amused, as his eyes fell on the approaching figures.
The battlefield wasn't empty for long. Men began spilling from the nearby tents, drawn by the disturbance. Curiosity burned in their eyes as they gathered at the edges of the bloodied field, whispering among themselves.
"What's going on?" one asked.
"I think it's Abigail," someone murmured.
"Hm? Abigail? What about her?" another of them questioned.
"She gave birth," said a stern-looking man, his beard thick and his gaze hard. Not looking behind him to the little group that had just gathered, he strapped a sword to his back as he spoke, the weight of his words silencing the others for a beat.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, their ears leaned closer and their mouths murmured.
"Gave birth? Are you serious?" said one.
"But I've seen her—she never looked pregnant. Her belly was never swollen like them other ladies, it was flat just like them other days." another spoke with an accent.
"Yes! We all saw her! She looked fine. No one saw her with a swollen belly," others agreed.
The stern man remained unbothered by the disbelief. He shrugged. "Believe what you want. She gave birth."
As he finished saying, he turned and strode toward the field, while some men followed and some others lingered behind for certain reasons.
One shorter man stayed behind, a puzzled look on his face. He turned to a skinny man beside him and whispered, "Do you think… one of us is the father?"
The skinny man's face twisted into a glare, his side-eye sharp and accusing.
The short man cleared his throat. "I mean… we all had her, didn't we?" His voice was laced with guilt and defiance.
A sharp crack echoed as the skinny man smacked him hard across the head.
"Are you mad? Do you want your head on a spike next?" he hissed, storming away without another word.
The short man winced, rubbing his head. "I'm just saying," he muttered to himself. "It wasn't a secret… the lord gave her to us one time and we all had fun. What if… the baby is one of ours?" he really felt wronged.
—---
"Heh… Abigail! How have the recent days been—or should I say recent months?" The man sitting atop the throne chuckled maliciously, his voice echoing as Abigail was dragged forward and forced to her knees before him. The sound of his voice made her shiver uncontrollably, and she struggled to comprehend the meaning of his words. Instinctively, her arms tightened protectively around her baby.
Observing her reaction, the man smiled with cruel satisfaction and let his gaze settle on the child in her arms. A roaring laugh burst from his throat, so powerful it scattered the birds perched on the lettered carcasses strewn across the field. He abruptly stopped laughing, his left hand pounding the throne's armrest crafted from human remains, while his right hand supported his chin.
"You had a baby?" he asked rhetorically.
Abigail shook her head frantically, sweat streaming down her face, her breath short and ragged with anxiety.
"No, I didn't," she denied unconsciously, seemingly forgetting the child in her arms that stood as proof.
The man frowned slightly before chuckling once more. He had seen this many times before—despair so profound it eroded the mind.
"You don't?" he mocked as he was entertained.
"No!" Abigail cried, continuing to shake her head.
Behind her, Maria gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down," she said softly. "You're not in your right mind right now."
Abigail met Maria's gaze, soft and steady, and clarity began to return to her anxious mind. Seeing this, Maria nodded approvingly.
"Good," she said, then turned to face the man on the throne. "Uncle Talon," she greeted with a curtsy and a bow.
The man was her father's brother. He had taken her in after her father's death when she was still very young. Since then, her life had been one of isolation. Though she never truly suffered, she was never treated kindly either. Her only moments of happiness came when war relics—particularly scrolls were brought back as spoils. She would sift through them in solitude, eventually teaching herself the healing arts.
Then Abigail came.
Maria lifted her head and spoke with deliberate politeness. "Abigail was fortunate enough to safely deliver her child this evening, with me assisting. She had been troubled that she had not informed you of her pregnancy earlier and had planned to come here and deliver the news herself. But as fate would have it, word travels faster than feet, and so you have heard already."
Talon snorted in irritation, his gaze darkening with wrath. "And who are you?" he asked, his voice dripping with barely contained rage.
Maria's heart skipped a beat. "I—I'm…" She tried to speak, but her voice faltered and stuck in her throat.
"Dare to interfere again!" Talon snapped.
In an instant, a wave of murderous intent exploded from his body, slamming into Maria and sending her stumbling backward until she collapsed to the ground.
Talon turned back to Abigail not bothering with Maria anymore, his expression flipping to one of twisted amusement, contradicting the icy rage he had just displayed. He rose from the throne and started to walk down, each step cracking the bones beneath his feet, and he stopped inches from her. Abigail couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. Her body was slumped on her knees in defeat, yet her grip on her baby remained firm.
Talon grinned, a wicked smile curling his lips. He bent forward slightly, lifting her chin with a finger.
"May I ask who the father is?" he whispered softly, his voice slithering into her ears.
He actually did not care about who might be the baby's father and didn't wait for a reply.
Before she could react, he reached forward and ripped the baby from her arms.
"No!" Abigail's sudden scream echoed, lunging forward, but his abrupt movement had caught her off guard. Any resistance she could offer would only risk harming the child. She flung herself at him in desperation, but a powerful force slammed her chest to the ground.
Her cheek scraped against the dirt, and the rising dust stung her eyes and filled her lungs. She coughed violently, her vision blurred, but she could just make out the hands of the two men who had brought her here, now holding her down.
"Please… Talon… that's my boy," she rasped through clenched teeth.
"Oh!" Talon exclaimed, as though he had just heard something delightful. He suddenly turned the baby upside down, holding the infant by the leg as the baby's head and small body dangled downward helplessly.
The baby cried, stripped from the warmth of his mother's arms and exposed to the cold evening air.
"Yes, it's a boy," Talon confirmed with a laugh, bringing the baby closer to his face. He flicked the boy's tiny, undeveloped genitals and cackled.
"Ha ha ha! Barely the size of my little finger!" he mocked, his words driving Abigail to the edge of madness.
She screamed and thrashed, but the guards held her fast. Her cries harmonized with her baby's wails, creating a chorus of agony that rippled across the land.
Talon's expression darkened.
"What a pity—the wailing, the sobbing. I detest it all," he sneered. "You and your child won't stop until my ears bleed. I suppose… I'll have to silence you both."
From the corner of her eye, Abigail saw Talon draw a dagger from the sheath at his side.
Terror surged through her.
"No! What are you doing?!" she shrieked, struggling with all her might. Pain exploded across her body, but she no longer noticed. Her mind focused only on saving her child.
"Please, let me go! He's going to kill my baby!" she cried to the men restraining her.
They exchanged glances. In their eyes, sympathy flickered, but only briefly. They knew better than to act on it.
"Even if we let you go, what can you do? He's the Lord. Your struggle is futile," one of them said flatly, the most he dared offer in compassion.
But Abigail was desperate.
"If you release me, I will serve you—my body, my will, all yours," she pleaded. "Anything you desire, I'll obey without hesitation."
The men froze. Despite her tattered clothes, Abigail's beauty could not be hidden. Their minds drifted to the one time they had each tasted her, and how deeply they had longed for more. But desire was not enough. They could not help but trace their eyes to the back of her body where it was more womanly.
One of them shook his partner from his daze. "Idiot. You really think we'll live long enough to enjoy her? She belongs to the Lord. If he doesn't permit it, she's untouchable."
The second man snapped back to reality, ashamed of his weakness.
Maria, still seated behind them, had heard Abigail's plea and felt a sharp pain pierce her heart. She thought, This was once a proud, noble woman… and look what desperation has done to her. She lowered her head in defeat. She didn't know what else to do.
Abigail continued to struggle, while the two men sighed deeply.
Talon, of course, had heard everything—and was thoroughly entertained.
"Struggle all you want," he said, smirking. "That despair in your eyes… the hatred… the madness… I savor it. But even so, your baby's fate will not change. He dies."
As the last word left his lips, the dagger plunged into the baby's stomach. In one smooth motion, it tore upward through his chest and into his throat. The child's cries stopped abruptly.
The entire field fell into silence.
Even the hardened warriors standing by—men who had slaughtered countless others in battle, including women and children—stood frozen. Never had they witnessed savagery of this magnitude.
The baby's inner organs spilled from the wound, dangling toward the ground. Blood gushed like a ruptured pipe, painting the evening sky in crimson. The breeze carried the scent across the horizon, blanketing the land in chilling stillness.
"Nooooo!" Abigail's shriek split the air, a scream so primal and raw it seemed to echo through eternity. Veins reddened across her forehead, her eyes widened with such force they seemed ready to burst from their sockets.