Flint in One Hand: Sparks and Kindling Chapter 1 - By Dale de Kock

Written By: Dale de Kock

Category: Book Chapter

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Dale de Kock brings us "Flint in One Hand: Sparks and Kindling Chapter 1." This captivating book chapter introduces the quaint village of Shepherd's Rest, nestled in a serene landscape with its peaceful rhythm disrupted by the distant rumble of impending conflict. Participating in the Creative Writing category, Dale transports readers to a world where family bonds and community spirit face the trials of external threats.

About the Work

The chapter paints a vivid picture of pastoral life, juxtaposing the tranquility of Shepherd's Rest with the looming shadow of an approaching army. Dale de Kock's narrative is rich with detailed imagery, capturing both the warmth of familial interactions and the ominous tension of looming danger. The writing style blends atmospheric description with character-driven storytelling, exploring themes of resilience, love, and the struggle between peace and conflict.

Flint in One Hand: Sparks and Kindling Chapter 1

Original Submission by Dale de Kock

Chapter 1

Flint in One Hand…

A peaceful afternoon. The sun sets ever lower in the sky, casting golden rays over the rolling hills and vast plains of the Countryside. A gentle breeze tugs at the long grasses, carrying the sounds of grazing livestock. Lit by the setting sun, a cluster of thatch-roofed mud houses lays nestled in half-shade. This village, called Shepherd’s Rest in a not-so-subtle nod to its constituents, is encircled by a winding river, the river then surrounded by crops of various yield. There is a small smattering of people working the fields and tending to the herds, even as the sun’s waning light raises hands to shade screwed shut eyes from the glare. Shepherd’s Rest is nestled in the bosom of east-facing knolls, which the village’s namesakes say is perfect for forcing a stubborn young’un out of bed in the morning. There exists here a rare and quaint peace, fiercely protected by its elders and their compatriots.

Rycan Mah-Risan, one such elder, sits on a reed mat in the gathering room of his house. Hazel eyes rest on his son's torn lilac-coloured tunic, slender and calloused hands deftly moving over thread, needle and fabric. His pair of bronze bracelets glint in the setting sun, seemingly the only things of value on his person. Lithely muscled arms extend from a sleeveless grey smock, tugging at his work, making sure the garment can withstand his son's relentless need for physical activity. His legs, clad in thick but breathable woollen pants, are crossed, elbows resting on his knees. Despite his lean appearance, toiling in the fields and clanging away at the forge have hardened Rycan's body, crafting bronzed skin and iron muscles. His skin is a shade lighter than the bracelets, with pinkish-white pockmarks and scars scattered across his entire body. A particular gash splits his left eyebrow at an angle, forming a crude serpent looming over his eye. His dark brown, shoulder length hair, shot through with streaks of grey, is loosely tied back with a scrap piece of twine, and his close-cropped beard seems to sparkle with aged grey and sun-bleached red.

Cooing and rustling fabric pull Rycan’s eyes from his handiwork. A loving grin spreads across his face as he gazes into the cradle to his right. Sannah, a tiny thing with jet black hair and piercing green eyes, reaches up for her father with a giggle. Setting down the garment and needle, Rycan winks at his youngest, eliciting squeaks and squawks of happiness as he tickles her neck. He lifts her onto his knee and kisses her head, wrapping an arm around her belly. Her little fingers curl into the coarse hair on his forearm.

“Well, little one, what do you think?” Rycan says, holding the tunic at arm’s length with his free hand. They inspect his work rigorously for any fraying or missed sections. This lasts for approximately five seconds, before Sannah uses the end of the garment to soothe her itching, teething gums. Her father chuckles, pulling the fabric gently from her stubbornly firm grasp.

Gentle footsteps and gentler humming bubble across his ears, along with the faint smell of figs and holywood trees. Smiling serenity floats over him as his wife, Dimelia, walks into the house carrying her holywood basket, filled to overflowing with fish, leeks and carrots. Her curly oaken hair catches the setting sun, turning gold and red as her azure eyes squint against bright light streaming through the doorway. Her pale red tunic is coloured with clay and oxion blood, her skin slightly paler than her husband. The tunic extends over her graceful frame until just above her knee, meeting the same woollen pants her husband wears. Her movements are fluid, precise, like her body memorized the air around it. Her figure is impossible to ignore: broad hips, a dancer’s waist, thighs that could crush a man if he was so inclined. There is a quiet weight to her presence, soft curves coiled around steel, like silk wrapped over a blade—power dressed as desire. She returns his smile and winks at him before setting the basket down.

She skips over, bending to kiss the top of her husband’s head before lifting her daughter into her arms. A flurry of kisses is planted on her tiny cheeks, as Dimelia spins around with Sannah clutched tightly to her breast.

"Ah, my little raven! Have you kept your father busy today?” she sings. She squeezes Sannah briefly before laying her back in her cradle. The little one protests for but a moment before her mother hands her a small carven butterfly. Her little fingers grip the polished wood and raise it to her mouth, gums gnashing against the toy.

“My rogue seems to have discovered a love for tailoring,” Dimelia jokes, sultrily walking behind Rycan. She crouches, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I wouldn't have to be a tailor if our son hadn't inherited your love of tumbling, my dearest,” Rycan counters his wife's jab, her fingers running lightly through his beard. “And don’t try to distract me with your devilish ways, you seductress…”

Their eyes meet, necks craned to either side. The smallest quiver of the lip, and they break into shared, uncontrollable laughter.

“Ooh, my bread!” Dimelia starts, hopping to her feet, trotting to the wood oven in the far corner. Opening the oven unleashes a wave of heat, wafting the smell of charcoal and fresh bread over their senses. Dimelia stabs the bread with an iron spike, the tip coming out clean. Wrapping her hands in a thick scrap of fabric, she pulls the clay platter from the heat, setting it on a high table next to the oven. Closing the oven door again, she turns and smiles down at her beloved.

"Come, my rogue of the needle and thread. It's time to prepare dinner," she says, beckoning to Rycan with her outstretched hand. He laughs softly, laying his son’s repaired garment over a small wooden bench. He takes Dimelia's hands and she yanks him skyward, feet coming off the floor completely at the apex of the pull. They share a giggle before their lips meet, arms wrapping around each other in the embrace of love forged and nurtured. Their lips separate, but their eyes stay clung to one another, enjoying the certainty of the other's presence.

Shouts echo, and they look to the open window and the garden beyond. Their older children, Hila and Maryun, are outside playing with Lyon, the family cat. Their dark brown hair flows in the breeze as their bare feet slap against the hard packed earth and puff atop the soft grass.

"Go Marmar, catch him!" shouts Hila, her voice cracking with joy, running after her older brother. Maryun, barechested, stoops over to grab Lyon, whose running and skittishness is merely an act for the children's amusement. His mewls turn to purrs in the boy's arms, and Maryun plants a kiss on Lyon's head before handing the scruffy feline to his favourite human. Hila giggles as Lyon stretches in her arms, his spine curling up and his fur tickling her chin.

She turns to see her mother beckoning from the doorway, and skips into the house, Lyon now curled into a ball of tabby fur in her arms. Maryun grabs a basket and runs to the apple tree, leaping up off a rock to grab the sturdiest branch in sight. Basket between his teeth, he grabs the apples with one hand, the other gripped like a vice around the branch above. Six, seven, eight, nine apples tumble around in the basket as he plops to the ground and runs to meet his mother, dusting his feet off before walking through the doorway.

Outside, as the sun spreads its final rays across the darkening skies, the rest of the village is preparing to turn in for the evening. Carts are being packed for early trade journeys, cooking fires are being started and curtains are being drawn. Animals low gently in their pastures and paddocks, their young snuggling up to them as the last tickles of sunlight graze their eyes.

Greyla, the doctor's adoptive daughter, is out gathering herbs for her father's tinctures and oils. Her seed bag, an ingenious piece of stitchwork, rustles as she works, different wild and domestic bundles of potential tumbling in their special pockets. Her slight, green-tinged fingers deftly pull plants up by their roots, stripping the leaves, flowers and seeds in quick, practiced motions. Her strawberry blonde, pin-straight hair falls over her shoulders and around her face as she works. Wiping her brow with her forearm, she looks up to drink in the colours of the sky in the waning hours of daylight: pinks, oranges, purples and blues blending like swathes of paint on a giant's canvas, illuminated by the orange orb sinking ever lower into the horizon.

Suddenly, her eyes catch something amiss in the dusky distance. A cloud not of moisture, but of dark purpose. Dust and smoke creeps over the hills, accompanied by a thunderous rumbling of the earth. Greyla blanches, her already pallid skin losing all remaining colour. She stumbles to her feet, sprinting towards her father's house, herbs and flowers tumbling as she hastily stuffs them into her bag. Other villagers raise their hands in greeting but quickly notice the look of abject fear on her face. Murmurs spread in her wake, like ripples following a boat’s passage. Then, the rumbling catches their ears, and they turn to see the dust cloud growing over the hills. Eyes widen, children are rushed indoors, and fires are stamped and snuffed out with sand.

Greyla bursts through the doorway of her house, hair wind-wild and face streaked with sweat and soil. She nearly bowls her father, Ara, over in her haste, and he looks down at her, his smile fading as her arms wrap around him, hands clawing for safety.

“Oh, my! Leaf, my darling, is –“.

A frantic stream of words cuts him off.

"Da'! Somethin's wrong, I saw smoke comin towards us and there was sounds like an earthquake and I think it might be bad people again and I'm scared, da' please don't let them take me…" Greyla splutters, descending into uncontrollable sobbing.

Ara, a stern man in all situations not involving his daughter, returns her embrace and kisses her head. She clings to his chest with hands balled, white-knuckled in her fear. He shushes her gently, one hand stroking her sun-bleached head, the other bracing her back, half holding her upright.

He looks down at her as they separate slightly, attempting a soft smile to keep her calm.

"Shh my sweet girl, it'll be alright. Now run and get elder Rycan," Ara says, patting his daughter's head. She reluctantly peels herself away and bolts out of the door. He watches her speed into the growing twilight, leaning against the doorframe of his house.

A tall, rail-thin man despite his voracious appetite, Ara has been the doctor of Shepherd’s Rest for over a decade, and Greyla’s adoptive father for half of that. Their matching aprons, his streaked with dried blood and hers with soil and chlorophyll, are the physical manifestation of their connection. She may not be his child, but Ara would defend her with anything and everything at his disposal, and Greyla adores and idolises him in ways that would turn a lesser father green with envy.

His memories assault him, gripping his walking stick hard enough to make his knuckles crack. Flashes of screeching cattle set aflame, naked bodies piled in the streets like waste, Greyla's screaming face, torn from her home as her mother is bludgeoned to death. He buries his face in his free hand, legs quaking as he tries to steady himself against the tide of sorrow and pain. He whispers a prayer to the Earth Womb for his daughter's safety and drags a stool towards himself with the hook of his walking stick. He sits in the doorway: his deep-set eyes stuck fast to the growing dust cloud inching ever closer.

A vast grid of black-armoured soldiers marches across the plains to the north of Shepherd’s Rest. Their armour is angular and thick, their formation a wall of darkened steel bristling with armaments. All manner of grey steel weaponry hangs from their belts and backs, some soldiers opting to brandish their arms in hand. The crest of the Empyre, a gauntlet holding a severed hand in a morbid parody of a handshake, flaps and flows on banners in the wind above the procession. The standard bearers, clad in light armour with hints of grey, carry the banners stretched high, their spear tips glinting and sparking off one another. The soldiers march in step, their cacophonous footfalls echoing against the hills. Their motivation: indoctrinated devotion to an Empyre bent on continental domination.

The War Titans, towering suits of steam-powered armour, stomp forward in a long row, twice the size of the nearby soldiers, massive feet leaving tree-trunk sized divots in the earth. Piloted by specialised Machine Wardens, they can wield weapons that would take the strength of ten men to raise. Slate grey and black hammered metal plates cover pistons and pipes, with colossal steam furnaces welded to their backsides. Great domes of tempered glass cover the cockpits like clear helmets.

A certain condition affects the procession, however. A condition brought about not by maladies of flesh and bone or the relentless passage of time, but a lack of knowledge. The movement of the Titans appears laboured, their chassis chipped and worn down. Some have forgone the use of weaponry, as their joints have become too unstable to withstand the force of their own swings. Cracked glass casts splintered rainbows into the Wardens' eyes, and overworked pipes could scald them with boiling steam at any moment. The din they raise as they move is piercing to the ears, forcing neophyte Wardens to plug their ears with wax or damp rags.

Down below the gaze of these tarnished titans, the soldiers experience their own maladies. Armour is cracked and dented, egregious holes and splinters hastily repaired with no regard for properly marrying the metals again. The soldiers drip with sweat from their march, but more so from the effort of moving their stiff, unoiled armour. Spear shafts sport splintered sides, swords swing with cracked cross-guards and pummelled pommels, dull daggers don't deign to dent flesh. Their blades are visibly rusted, with blood or rainwater, and great chips and gouges have been battered into already blunted edges.

At the head of each phalanx is an officer, scarlet laurels across the brows of their helmets. These men, with their pristine armour and perfect weaponry, belie the clear deterioration of their main forces. They glint in the sunlight atop their steeds of various shape and species, armour embellished with gory and gaudy trophies. Shrunken heads hang from belts, swaying with the gait of the mount below. Mismatched weapons, ornately bejewelled or unmistakably shaped, stolen from great leaders and warriors of conquered peoples stick out like precious metals in dark ore. Disgust is smeared across their faces as they screech orders at the soldiers under their command. They are merely concerned with measures of glory, too focused on greatness to care about the peons below them. With the Empyre’s relentless march across the Continent, they have at their disposal an uncountable number of bodies, and they make use of them to the last man. Many survivors of battles with the Empyre’s forces tell stories of the veritable tide of soldiers, flooding through enemy lines like a stream cutting through cracks in the mountains. Their sheer manpower alone is enough to almost guarantee victory in all but the harshest of terrain, and their superiors formulate their every move to account for the sheer bulk of their forces.

At the head of this procession rides a man as broad as a tree and half as tall, his mount below him an armoured oxion of complementary magnitude. General Garn Kaibellus, veteran of almost forty years of war and Chief General of the Grey Armies. His gleaming, pitch-black armour is accented with red, in battle blending with the crimson that so often splatters against his massive frame. His alabaster hair and lavender-tinged skin seem to radiate cold light against the colossal slate-grey axe at his back. Lovingly named "Vision's End" by the wielder, the two heads bear no sign of ever rusting, of ever seeing use, even. His eyes, one purple blue, the other pale-purple, blind and scarred almost shut, scan the landscape. He raises his arm, halting the entire army with a single movement.

“Whoa, Betta. Halt, girl,” Kaibellus says, tugging the reins. This elicits a low grumble from the oxion as she stops, shaking her colossal horns. Huge, clawed feet covered in chestnut brown fur churn the dirt as she comes to a halt. Her oxen head is unarmoured around the eyes and mouth; the rest of her body covered in overlapping leather sheets. Where an oxen’s muzzle would be, jagged teeth almost seem to pierce through her gums at random angles.

"Garlon!" Kaibellus shouts, his cavernous, grating voice tearing away the near silence.

“Yes, sir?” comes the reply over his shoulder. A barrel-chested man, armour tinged with midnight blue, spurs his screin to his mentor's side. Belts of throwing knives cross his chest, a pair of short swords on his back. Daggers clang against his calves and thighs, and he carries a poisoned dagger in a sheath on the small of his back. His blue-grey eyes are also fixed on the hamlet in the distance, and his squat frame and jet-black hair starkly contrasts the gargantuan, icy superior to his left.

Screins are a nightmarish amalgam of equine and insectoid features. They bear the neck, flank and back of a horse, but as the limbs and head form, chitinous plates replace the short, sleek hair. The legs sport backward-facing barbs, the back pair bearing a slightly nauseating resemblance to a grasshopper’s hindquarters. Split-toed feet pad across the long grass, and horrifying mandibles snap up the longer blades as they wave across its face. Garlon’s screin is a combination of dappled grey hair and off-white exoskeleton, its twitching antennae waving in front of its iridescent, multifaceted eyes.

"Signal the troops to stay here. This mission requires precision, and Betta and I will be like a needle piercing skin," Kaibellus rumbles, the faintest hint of excitement in his voice. A small smirk forms on his face, and he urges his mount forward, leaving Garlon and the rest of the army behind. Behind him, drums echo his orders with a series of beats in the military code of the Empyre. Alone and uninhibited, the General allows a shrill giggle of malice to escape from his lips as Betta trots slowly towards Shepherd’s Rest.

"Mr Rycan!"

Greyla bursts forth, panting and tinged pink with exertion. Her eyes dart around the room before resting on Rycan and his family in a circle on the floor. Hands raising food to mouths and dishes being exchanged halt in surprise and apprehension.

"Mr Rycan, I think there are bad men coming. My da' said to get you," Greyla says, her throat dry.

"Thank you Greyla, I'll be right there," Rycan says, smiling warmly at her.

His eyes, however, stare past her, through her, into the distance. His ears catch the faintest whispers, but he cannot be sure if they are within his mind or without. Lights like flaming torches veer behind his eyes, and he pitches forward suddenly, grabbing Dimelia's hand for stability. She starts and casts her eyes toward her husband; a look of surprise etched into her soft features.

"My rogue? Is everything alright?" she asks, her worried eyes boring through her husband's defences. Rycan stays silent, nodding his response. He stands slowly, a dark cloud hanging over his eyes. Shaking it away, he smiles at his wife and squeezes her hand, kissing her head as he steps around her.

Hila and Maryun stay enamoured with the young greenlass in their doorway. They watch her chlorophyll-tinged hands as they wring at her belly, her bloodshot eyes oozing salty, fearful tears. Sannah herself is not concerned with the happenings of those around her and contentedly chews on a carrot stalk while bouncing herself on Maryun’s knee. Jumping as their father kisses their heads in turn, the older children grab at his tunic with arms stretched taut.

"But Paps, we're eating dinner," Hila whines.

"I know, my dearest faces, but Paps has something that he has to do," Rycan replies, winking at his son and daughter. He tousles Maryun’s hair while tapping Hila on the tip of her nose, their pouts dragging a huge grin across their father’s face. He leans over to kiss Sannah’s forehead before he straightens and walks to the door. His hand rests on Greyla’s shoulder for a moment before his shape fades into the dusk outside. Greyla leaves next, and Dimelia stands, hearing the pitter-pattering of small feet behind her. Turning quickly, a knowing and gentle smile on her face, she kneels to meet her children's eyes.

"Stay here my doves, your father and I will be back soon," Dimelia says, her arms wrapping around her children.

“Everything is fine. We won't be long," she coos between kissing their foreheads. They, in turn, squeeze their mother with all their might, as if imprinting her essence onto their bodies so she can never truly leave.

Like Rycan and Greyla, Dimelia fades into the sun-splattered evening. The children run to the window, Hila stretched on her toes to peer over the wall, Maryun clutching their baby sister against his hip.

"Mamma and Paps are going to be okay, right?" Hila asks in a small voice, taking her brother's free hand as she gazes up at him. Maryun nods and winks at her, their fingers lacing together as they wait for their parents to return. Sannah whines, her tiny arms doing their best to embrace her brother. Their eyes, adjusting to the waning rays of sun and waxing swathes of dusk, pick out their parents and Greyla as they stride to the centre of the hamlet.

As golden hour wanes, the day’s final honey-coloured light illuminates the courtyard. Rycan stands, arms crossed over his chest, watching the small black mass creep ever closer. His left foot taps the dirt, clouds of silt lapping at his sandals. Dimelia stands slightly behind him, her left hand bracing her beloved's spine, as if keeping his resolve from oozing out of him. He glances back, stress momentarily breaking away, eyes softened and pleading for safety. He only just manages to tear his gaze away, his emotions ricocheting off each other in their frantic dash to be noticed.

"They've found you, boy," a gruff whisper scrapes across his mind.

"Can't run forever with dead weight dragging behind you," his own voice sneers at him.

Screams rage from behind some twisted visage, clouded by black and grey smoke. Discipline, half-forgotten and unconscious, slams into his spine, yanking him to attention. His jaw clenches, hands shaking as his pipe raises to his lips. Taking a small stick from the pocket of his tunic, he holds the pitch-soaked scrap of cloth to the torch to his left. The glow of the crude match carves crags into his face, a tired man indulging in his vice. Acrid smoke coils over his eyes as he breathes in with force and need, the bowl of his pipe empty in a blink.

"Ry, we’re with ya," a gruff voice says, startling Rycan out of the spiralling caverns of his mind. He looks to his left and down a bit, more than the owner of the voice would care to admit. Standing at his side is Skiv Gan'Darii, his signature thick wooden staff in his hand. A slim and short stature, bald head, copper-coloured skin, green eyes and a knack for sliding between members of a crowd has garnered him the nickname 'Cotton', after the cottonhead snakes roaming the fields around the hamlet. He stands just below Rycan’s shoulder, but his strength and dexterity more than compensate. His dark blue, long-sleeved work shirt is tight across his chest, and his woollen pants stop just below his knee. His feet are bare despite the growing dusk. Behind Skiv stands Imsai Tuja, an incredibly tall woman with deep ebony skin. She raises her hand in greeting, a tight smile across her face. Imsai towers over her fellow hamlet dwellers, with cloth wrappings around her chest and billowy emerald-coloured pants. Her arms and legs are covered in thin blue tattoos curling around each other in ripple-like spirals. Her feet, like Skiv’s, are bare, with cloth wrapped around the arch and ankle. She wears a knee-length goatskin cloak, made for her by Skiv and Dimelia upon arriving at Shepherd’s Rest.

"My friends," Ara calls out to the crowd as he approaches the courtyard. His walking stick tinks steadily against the ground. The gathered neighbours stand aside to allow the five Elders of Shepherd's Rest to stand between themselves and the danger. They stand in silence, cool evening wind whipping at their clothes. Flame-cast and sunlit shadows fight for dominance, turning the ground into a swirling mass of light and shade. Rycan steps forward slightly, pipe returned to his pocket.

His squinting eyes pick out a dark mass approaching the hamlet gates, swimming through light and shadow. A shock of white appears, bobbing above the mass. Eyes wide, Rycan feels a wave of terror wash over his entire being, terror for his family's safety and the serenity of Shepherd's Rest. As quickly as they widened, his eyes snap back into their usual dark countenance, masking the fear roiling beneath his skin. The shape comes into focus, the day's final shine catching black armour, glinting harshly off a polished blade behind the shoulders. A smirk sits fastened to the General’s face as his mount trots through the gates. Betta snorts and snaps at the shadows, coming to a stop several paces away from Rycan.

“Grand Engineer, my dear friend. It has been a long time,” Kaibellus greets, grit and depth vibrating the air about the courtyard.

“Captain,” Rycan greets, his face unmoving. “Why are you here?”

The General laughs softly.

“Chief General, now. Times have changed. Your skills, however, are still needed, my old battle brother,” he says, swinging his leg off his mount and dropping to the dirt. Small clouds of dust erupt around his weighted boots. He turns to face Rycan, smirking, walking closer with hands clasped behind his back. Whispers erupt behind the Elders, wafting "Grand Engineer?" and "this man knows Elder Rycan?" across the gathered mass. Kaibellus’ gauntlet-covered hand thuds onto Rycan’s shoulder. The former half expects the latter to buckle under his weighted grip.

“The war effort has declined terribly since you left our service. I’m sure the creaking and groaning of my War Titans announced my arrival, hence this…great and terrible force you have mustered,” Kaibellus sneers.

“I left fifteen years ago, when your men slaughtered everyone in Jalla, all for stealing food to feed their families. Families your Empyre starved when you marched over the village’s crops and scorched the land behind you. The ‘war effort’ you cling to, is as good as ash and dust to me,” Rycan snarls through gritted teeth.

He slowly lifts the General’s hand off his shoulder with his fingertips, dropping it like a particularly pungent bit of rotten food. Kaibellus’ gauntlet rings off his thigh as he clasps his hands behind his back again. The General’s purple-tinged eyes sweep over the gathered villagers. Hunger, wild in its freedom, flickers behind a face calm and arrogant. The villagers bristle with unease, the implication of Rycan’s part in the Empyre's expansion all too contradictory to consider. Rycan clenches his jaw until his teeth ache, trying and failing to outweigh the pain in his chest. The crackle of searing flesh and stench of burning hair drag his subconscious back to those vile memories of his time serving the Empyre.

"Your pitiful need for conquest will not make a complete man of you, Garn. Deep down, you must know this," Rycan growls, pleading with a man he once respected. The General cracks his neck, rage rearing up within his features. Rycan keeps his dark eyes fixed on those faded purple orbs, defiance roaring in silence in his heart. The General drags in a deep breath, and he chuckles, taking a step backwards to pace in front of Rycan. Skiv's hand tightens around his staff, Imsai tenses her legs in preparation to leap at their enemy. Dimelia fiddles with her silver rings, one on each index and ring finger, chilling worry and boiling venom shifting behind her eyes as they dart between her husband and the Chief General.

“Well then, the years certainly have not dulled your spirit," Kaibellus begins, his eyes wandering as he paces back and forth. "I remember when we used to be on the same side, fighting for the most noble of causes. Oh, the sheer genius you wrought as Grand Engineer of the Empyre. Your inventions were, are a marvel, my friend!" Kaibellus bellows, startling the less steely villagers present.

"You helped us quell resistance all over the continent with precision. We trampled over the weak and ineffectual to achieve unfettered power. Such is the way of the Empyre: to grow and prosper unchallenged, and to crush those who oppose us." He stops pacing, once again scanning the crowd and the dwellings behind.

"I cannot fathom the resolve it took to defy the Empyre and scuttle away to this…place,” Kaibellus says, gesturing to his surroundings with disgust he doesn’t care to mask. “And to burn your work? How petty of you, Grand Engineer. Or should I call you something more fitting of your current position?” he snickers, his eyes turning back to Rycan.

"Do you remember when we took Skrafrech? We lost a paltry twelve men sieging a frigid mountain fortress, because your genius allowed us to scale the valley walls and appear in their courtyard before the horns even sounded. This axe..." he unclips Vision's End from his back, the blade reflecting Rycan’s face in the flickering torch light.

"You made this axe for me, when we still shared some brotherly affection. When you still had a fucking spine, you worthless, stinking..." he stops abruptly, gauntleted fists clenched around the handle. He looks down at his reflection in the blade before returning it to the hook welded into the back of his breastplate.

“You could have all that back,” he resumes, a honeyed tone oozing from his lips. He spreads his thick arms, attempting to appear the magnanimous saviour General despite his outburst.

“You could have a life where you never have to toil in fields again, where your children could get the education they need, instead of playing in the dirt like mongrel pups. Your village friends could have high-ranking positions in the Grey City with all the wealth that comes with it. Your wife would have the power to match her…delicious beauty. Beauty I’m sure your daughters will inherit,” he stares lecherously at Dimelia, licking his lips.

She rears forward; delicate hands curled into claws to rip the General’s eyes from his face. It takes both Skiv and Imsai to hold her back, soliciting a low chortle from Kaibellus. He continues, unaware of how ready she was to blind his remaining eye. If she would even stop at his eyes.

“You could once again be known as the great visionary you were born to be. Not soiled and uncouth but gilded and revered for your near-perfect service. Come back to us, brother. Why turn away from your friends, your sons, your Empyre?” the General concludes his speech, arms still stretched wide, as if beckoning for Rycan's embrace.

The two men stare at each other, neither one budging an inch. If one were able to see some other plane beneath this one, one might see Rycan and the General’s battle of will. One measured and flowing, one fanatical and restless, sparking and coiling around each other. Then, the General chuckles, shaking his head as his hands drop down to his sides. No words were uttered, and yet Rycan’s refusal seems to echo off the low walls. He remembers the look of sorrow on Rycan’s face as the village of Jalla burned in the wake of their battalion. His laugh is shrill despite his deep voice.

“Perhaps my men and I should converse with the little laddies and lassies hiding in your homes. It seems they require some re-education, which I will personally undertake,” Kaibellus says, his voice dripping with malice.

Rycan's eyes harden, seething rage further darkening his features. Dimelia claps her hands together, spiked bands of gleaming silver stretching over her knuckles. Skiv points his staff between Kaibellus’ eyes, growling with bared teeth. Imsai pulls her pant legs higher and cracks her knuckles. Ara slides a rapier from within his walking stick; his face twisted into a grimace of murderous intent. All four step forward, bent on rending the General’s flesh from his bones. A metallic ping echoes through the hamlet, stopping them dead. A bronze javelin materialises, seemingly out of thin air, in Rycan’s hands. The tip draws a thin trickle of blood from Kaibellus’ neck. Rycan glares down the length of the shaft, face twitching uncontrollably, as if the adrenaline coursing through his muscles chose to spill out of his head. His white-knuckled grip vibrates the entire length of the weapon.

“You will take your paltry offers and meaningless threats, you will take your wretched beast, you will take your pathetic army of slaves and mercenaries, and you will leave my family and our village alone,” Rycan responds, barely audible.

Kaibellus’ eyes dart back and forth between Rycan and the weapon at his throat. His demeanour hasn’t changed, but Rycan knows the anticipation that grips him now. The memory of that day in the barracks, of young boys playing at war. Rycan’s bloody hands, a broken sword point between his fingers. Kaibellus laying in the dirt, one hand staunching the blood from his ruined eye. The General turns on his heel and remounts. He digs his heels into Betta’s sides and steers her to the gate, claws throwing up dirt as she wheels around.

“Have a good life, Grand Engineer,” Kaibellus shouts over his shoulder. “I hope your future is abundant and fulfilling.”

His manic laughter fades slowly into the dusk. The air vibrates, still thick with tension, as the javelin folds back into the bracelets on Rycan’s wrists. He turns to the other Elders, face drawn tight as his past threatens to break free from its chains. Dark thoughts, and even darker memories, flit this way and that. A white-knuckled grip digs his nails into his palms. Dimelia lays a hand on her beloved's cheek, consoling him, protecting him from the ravages of his regrets. Rycan’s eyes raise, her face his only bastion against an unrelenting red tide. He smiles, turning to address the crowd before him.

"My comrades, all is well. I assure you, your Elders shall not bow to these Empyrean slave drivers and murderers. We will protect you and the lives you have built here. Now, please, retire to your homes, your families. Eat your fill, dote on your beloveds, and rest easy," Rycan calls out, heated whispers trailing off as the gathered flock acquiesces to his request. Dimelia laces her arm around his, pulling him close.

"Come, my rogue. Our children, and our dinner, are waiting."

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, provides a platform for writers worldwide to showcase their literary talents. Embracing diverse voices and stories, the competition celebrates creativity and the power of the written word. It serves as a beacon for aspiring authors to share their unique perspectives and narratives with a global audience.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Dale de Kock for sharing "Flint in One Hand: Sparks and Kindling Chapter 1" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the tapestry of storytelling, and we are grateful for the opportunity to feature your work.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.