The sacrifices of the fallen

The village of Blackthorn burns. Smoke chokes the night sky as you crest the hill, your heart sinking. These people sheltered you once when you first fled with the sword. Now they pay the price. Screams and clashing steel rise from the streets. Raiders swarm like locusts, swinging axes at fleeing villagers and hurling torches onto thatched roofs. Their lean horses and mismatched armor mark them as desperate men driven to violence by hunger and need. At your hip, the strifeblade pulses with an eager warmth. It could end this slaughter, make you the hero these people need. But each life it takes only hastens your pursuers. Save this village, and you might doom a dozen more. As you creep through the shadows past a burning house, a shrill cry pierces the night. "Please! No! Someone, help!" Rounding the corner, you see her: Aibell, the innkeeper's daughter who once tended your wounds. She struggles in the grasp of a raider, a rusty blade at her throat. Her eyes widen as she spots you. The raider looks up, gaze darting to the sword at your hip. "That's a fine blade you've got there," he growls. "Hand it over, and maybe I'll let the girl go." The strifeblade thrums against your leg. One swing could free Aibell, a woman who once risked everything for you. Aibell's face twists in terror at your hesitation.