A dozen soldiers loitered near the tree line, their swords catching the sun with a glint that mirrored their leers.
Their armor hung loose, scuffed and dusty—not with the honor of war, but with the grime of chasing terrified women through thickets. There was no formation, no discipline in their stance. Just laughter. Smug, filthy laughter.
One of them, tall with greasy hair slicked back and dried blood crusted on his cheek, scratched lazily at his scalp, the edge of his blade resting on his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"Tch… we were just having some fun with those beauties," he muttered, his voice coarse. "Break them a bit, soften them up. Then maybe… see how much they can beg."
The one beside him chuckled, dragging the tip of his sword in lazy arcs across the dirt. "They should have cracked by now. They've got fight, I'll give them that."
