Atlas

I marched into the city with my army.

The people poured out of their homes to witness victory—

a victory built on fear and blood.

I was the Supreme Commander of this nation’s army.

Our armor was crusted with dried blood and filth as we advanced toward the fortress.

The smell of death still clung to us.

That was when a girl stepped before me and offered a flower. She 15 or 16 maybe.

I took it.

With a hollow smile, I gently pinched her cheek and walked past her.

Only then did I see her face fall—

the brief spark of hope in her eyes collapsing into something familiar to her: disappointment.

Her mother rushed forward, seized her arm,

and dragged her away without a word, her grip harsh, unforgiving.

That night, while the entire kingdom drowned itself in celebration,

I sat alone at the edge of the crowd.

Drums thundered.

Laughter rang out.

But inside me, there was only silence.

The city stood empty—

everyone had gathered to celebrate victory,

everyone except me.

Something inside my chest felt rotten.

Without warning, I rose, mounted my horse,

and rode into the forest.

Since the war had begun, I had never returned there.

Yet whenever my mind broke under its own weight,

that forest was where I searched for peace—

though I knew I no longer deserved it.

After riding a short distance, near the riverbank,

I saw a small figure sleeping on the cold earth.

A little girl.

Beside her lay squirrels and a rabbit, curled close to her body,

unafraid—

as if they sensed she was wounded in ways claws and teeth could never cause.

When I stepped closer, my breath caught.

She was the same girl who had offered me the flower.

While the city laughed and drank in false glory,

she had fled into the forest—

choosing loneliness over the home that broke her.

I noticed then what the crowd had not.

Her hands trembled even in sleep.

Her body was curled tightly, as though bracing for blows that never came.

Old bruises hid beneath dirt and cloth,

and fear clung to her like a second skin.

This was not the first time she had run away.

This was not the first time she had learned that silence hurt less than crying.

Her parents had taught her fear before the world ever did.

Harsh words.

Cruel hands.

Punishments disguised as discipline.

I did not wake her.

I did not touch her.

I sat beside her, my sword resting against my thigh,

still dark with the memory of war.

Then I saw it.

Tears slid down her face, even as she slept—

tears that had learned to fall without sound.

In that moment, something inside me finally shattered.

I had destroyed enemy armies.

I had burned cities.

I had commanded death itself.

But the deepest wound I had ever witnessed

was carved into the mind of a child

by the very people meant to protect her.

And for the first time since the war began,

I knew—

This was not a battle my sword could win.