The boy huddled in a trembling heap in the corner of the wardrobe. His short sword, broken and stained with offal and blood, lay useless to one side and his pistol nested, out of bullets, in his shirt. His hands covered his mouth, trying to contain an inevitable scream, while tears and mucus stained his face. He bit down on his own tongue hard, drawing blood as an arrow thudded into the wall behind him, no further than three inches from his head. Scrambling to the other side of his room, he pressed his eyes to a small hole that led to the outside.

The sight he was greeted with was burned like a brand into his brain.

Bodies, all bearing the badge of the Estian Volunteer Strike Company, were piled up in the far corner. Not a single one was in one piece. Legs, arms and other extremities were cruelly crushed, twisted or hacked off. The boy started as he caught one body, left for dead, twitch and open its mouth in a weak mockery of a scream. The face was so viciously mashed, nose gone and eyes squished like bags of goo, that it was impossible to tell the gender. The boy decided to think of it as male.

A screaming young brigadier, no older than fourteen, was dragged into the center of the room by a man whose head was obscured by a black helmet. Staring up fearfully into the sightless eye-slits, the boy howled as a heavy bastard sword came crashing down, slicing off one leg. The other one was crushed like an egg, hanging limply by a few pitiful strands of muscle and sinew. Down came the sword again, and the sound of agony that escaped the boy’s lips was best described as a screech-gasp. “My legs! My legs! Oh Gaia, my le—” The boy’s wails degenerated into a gargling scream as the man reached down and grabbed his tongue. “You put too much energy into screaming, boy.” With abnormal vigour, the black-clad demon twisted his arm and the boy came crashing down to the ground—minus his tongue. His screams become gargling rattles as he choked on his own blood, blood and foam flicking his blue-tinged lips. The boy’s eyes shrunk into pinpoints. By the time he had returned to his senses, he felt a warmth in his crotch.

He had pissed himself. The puddle spread and his bladder emptied in pure terror. He put an eye to the hole again and he saw the soldier duck to the ground as shots buried themselves in a wall. "Fucking gunners..." The boy jerked in shock as another arrow thunked somewhere near him, accidentally kicking the door. Oh no please no no no no...

The soldier turned, attracted to the noise. Like a hunting dog sniffing for prey, he turned, slowly and purposefully, leaving the corpse behind him. A choked cackle rose from the bottomless depths of his headgear and he strode slowly to the door the boy was huddling behind.

As he heard the footsteps thump towards him, the boy laced his hands, opened his lips, and in a trembling voice, began to pray.