Plague of the Black Heart

Swords to Plowshares

The blades were rusted, yet the arms that wielded them were powerful enough to make them remember their purpose. The raiding party thought that they would catch the seemingly sleepy farming village unaware. Their broken and shattered remains scattered across a fallow field were evidence of their over confidence.

They did not know that the villagers had easily detected their scouts. It wasn’t as though their scouts were inept, the villagers were just far more experienced.

They could never have known the occupants were the displaced elite guard of the old king. Soldiers and their families each given their own expanse of land in honour of their loyal service to the crown.

Their muscles, much like their blades, had seen a decade pass since they were called to purpose, yet they still remembered the years of intense training.

The dance of grim circumstance of dispatching an enemy was never an enjoyable act and efficiency had always been of the utmost importance.

A movement never wasted, an opportunity never ignored.

A life never spared.

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