Page 270 of Emylia

Loud. Choking. A noise that scraped out of my chest like it was ripping skin with it.

I grabbed the next child. Then the next.

Each one colder.

Each one heavier.

Each one?—

Gone.

My body collapsed beside them. I didn’t even feel it. My fingers tangled in fabric and skin, trying to shake someone awake—anyone.

I clawed at the dirt like I could dig the truth out of it and make it something different.

“This isn’t real,” I gasped. “It’s not real—it can’t?—”

But it was.

The smoke lifted for one breathless second—just enough to reveal them.

All of them.

Dozens of tiny bodies, strewn like offerings at the feet of something merciless.

Limbs twisted. Faces slack. Still warm.

So many.

Children. Babies.

Their bodies strewn like discarded rubbish.

Blood streaked across the ground, pooling in grotesque smears—a mural of innocence, ripped apart mid-stroke. The stench of copper and burnt flesh clawed its way up my throat, thick with smoke and something worse.

I gagged, choked it down.

They’d had no time.

No chance.

Butchered where they sat.

Some remained alone, half burned trinkets now turned grave markers. Others had fallen curled around each other—siblings, maybe—locked in final embraces. Trying to protect one another.

It hadn’t mattered.

Their eyes—Gods, their eyes—wide and vacant, frozen mid-question. Waiting. Hoping. Capturing the heartbreaking moment they realized no one was coming. Like they couldn’t understand how death had come for them so fast. Still waiting for someone to stop it. To save them.

So was I.

A broken sound tore out of me—raw, animalistic. My tears weren’t silent anymore. They came hot and helpless, streaking down my soot-stained cheeks, my sobs muffled by the smoke and the weight of the small body still cradled in my arms.

This wasn’t war.

This was slaughter.

And the Gods-damned monsters who did it hadn’t even flinched.

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