Hero Of Broken History

The rain hadn't stopped for three days. It turned the war camp into a swamp of mud and misery, where the only difference between soldiers and drowned rats was that the rats had better sense than to be here.

Dex sat in his command tent, staring at maps that might as well have been children's drawings for all the good they did. Another village burned. Another defensive line that existed only in some noble strategist's fever dream. Another day of pretending this war was winnable through conventional means.

"You look like shit."

Brick ducked through the tent flap, bringing the smell of rain and blood with him. His massive frame somehow made the spacious command tent feel cramped. Water dripped from his armor, adding to the puddle that had been growing for days.

"Feel like it too," Dex muttered, not looking up from the useless maps. "Lord Commander Thaine wants us to hold the northern pass with two hundred men. Against an estimated three thousand demons."

"Tactical genius, that one." Brick pulled up a camp stool that groaned under his weight. "What's the real plan?"

"The real plan?" Dex laughed, ugly and sharp. "The real plan is I take fifty volunteers and hit them from the side while they're focused on slaughtering the defensive line. Maybe we kill enough to make them pull back. Maybe we all die. Probably both."

"Dex—"

"Don't." He slammed his fist on the table, making the maps jump. "Just... don't. I know what you're going to say. That I'm pushing too hard. That I can't save everyone. That I need to rest."

"Actually, I was going to say you're being a moody little bitch, but sure, those things too."

Despite everything, Dex's lips twitched toward a smile. "Fuck you."

"There he is." Brick leaned back, studying his oldest friend with eyes that saw too much. "Talk to me. What's really eating at you? And don't give me the noble sacrifice bullshit. I've known you since we were stealing bread. I know when something's really wrong."

Dex was quiet for a long moment, listening to rain hammer against canvas. When he spoke, his voice was low, tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

"You know what Lord Corvel said to me yesterday? After I saved his worthless son from a demon patrol?" He didn't wait for an answer. "He said I should learn my place. That my 'common blood' was showing in my 'crude methods.' His son is alive because I 'crude methoded' three demons to death, and he's lecturing me on propriety."

"Nobles gonna noble," Brick said. "You knew that when we signed up."

"No, it's more than that." Dex stood abruptly, pacing the small space like a caged animal. "Yesterday it was Corvel. Last week it was General Mareth questioning my strategies because they weren't in any military manual. Before that, Lady Ashford suggesting I was getting 'above my station' by sitting at the war council."

"They're assholes. This is news?"

"You don't understand, Brick." The words came out harder now, edged with months of frustration. "I have a job. A duty. A fucking responsibility to save humanity. But every step I take, it seems like the people I'm trying to save are pushing against me."

He stopped pacing, hands clenched into fists.

"Do you know what it's like? Having the power to make a difference, knowing what needs to be done, and watching people die because some inbred fuck thinks his bloodline knows better than experience? It feels like I've been a fucking hero for a thousand lifetimes put into one with my 'duty.'"

"Dex—"

"I'm so tired, Brick." The admission came out cracked, broken. "Tired of fighting their war and their prejudices. Tired of smiling when they spit on me for saving their lives wrong. Tired of pretending their approval matters when all I want is for humanity to fucking survive."

Brick stood, crossing to his friend in two strides. His massive hand landed on Dex's shoulder, grounding him.

"You think I don't see it?" Brick's voice was quiet but firm. "The way they look at us? Like we're tools that learned to talk? I see it every damn day. But you know what else I see?"

Dex looked up at him, and Brick's expression was fierce.

"I see the soldiers you've kept alive. The villages that still exist because you held the line. The kids who'll grow up because Dex the commoner didn't give a shit about proper protocol when demons came calling." His grip tightened. "Fuck the nobles. Fuck their approval. You're not doing this for them."

"Then who am I doing it for?" The question came out raw. "Because I'm starting to forget."

"For them." Brick jerked his head toward the tent flap, toward the common soldiers huddled in the rain. "For the poor bastards like us who never asked for this war but are dying in it anyway. For my sister back home. For every person who doesn't have a bloodline to protect them or gold to buy safety."

He turned Dex to face him fully.

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"You're doing it because you're the only one who can. Not because of duty or destiny or any of that mystical bullshit. Because you're too stubborn to let us all die just to spite the assholes in charge."

"What if I'm not?" Dex's voice was barely a whisper. "What if I'm just... done? What if I let them have their noble war their noble way and see how long they last?"

"Then I'd knock your teeth in for being a selfish prick." Brick said it matter-of-factly. "But you won't. Because you're Dex. You'll bitch and moan and threaten to quit twice a day, but when the demons come, you'll be there. Not for the nobles. For us."

"You have too much faith in me."

"Nah. Just the right amount." Brick released him, stepping back. "Look, I'm not saying it's fair. It's shit. Complete, absolute shit. But fair doesn't win wars. You do."

A horn sounded outside - the call to assembly. Another crisis. Another battle. Another chance to die for people who saw him as barely human.

"Northern pass?" Brick asked, already checking his weapons.

"Northern pass." Dex grabbed his sword, feeling its familiar weight. "Fifty volunteers against three thousand."

"Suicide mission, then."

"Probably."

"Good." Brick grinned, and it was all teeth and stubborn loyalty. "Was getting bored anyway. Let's go show those demon fucks why common blood is scarier than blue."

They left the tent together, stepping into rain that seemed determined to drown the world. Around them, soldiers prepared for what might be their last battle. Common men and women, following a common-born hero into hell because he was the only one who gave them a chance.

"Hey Dex?" Brick said as they walked.

"Yeah?"

"When this is over - when we've won and the demons are gone - we should open that tavern we always talked about. Call it 'The Stubborn Bastards.'"

"Terrible name."

"Perfect name. We'll water down the ale and overcharge the nobles."

"Now you're talking." Dex managed a real smile. "First round's free for anyone with calluses."

"See? Already a better lord than most of them."

They reached the assembly ground where their volunteers waited. Fifty soldiers who'd chosen certain death over comfortable cowardice. Dex looked at each face, memorizing them. These people believed in him. Not his blood, not his station, but him.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe that had to be enough.

"Listen up!" he called, voice carrying over the rain. "I won't lie to you. The odds are shit. The plan is barely a plan. Half of us probably won't see tomorrow."

The soldiers straightened, eyes hard with resolve.

"But if we do this right, the rest of the army lives. Your brothers and sisters get another day. Another chance. And maybe, just maybe, we remind these demon fucks that humans are too stupid to know when we're beaten."

A few rough laughs. Hands tightened on weapons.

"I can't promise you glory. Can't promise you'll be remembered. But I can promise this - you die with me today, you die heroes. Not because some noble says so, but because you chose to stand when you could have run."

"With you to the end, Commander!" someone shouted. Others took up the cry.

Commander. Not lord, not sir. Commander. From soldiers who saw what he was, not what he wasn't.

"Then let's go make some demons regret being born."

They marched out into the storm, fifty against three thousand. Impossible odds for an impossible war.

But they marched anyway.

Because sometimes, that's what heroes did.

Not for glory or recognition or proper bloodlines.

But because someone had to.

Avian jerked awake, sheets soaked with sweat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The taste of rain and blood lingered in his mouth, phantom sensations from a life that had ended five centuries ago.

"Fuck," he gasped, pressing palms against his eyes. "These old fucking memories. I wish they would just disappear."

But they wouldn't. They never did. Every time he closed his eyes, another piece of his past life bled through. Another reminder of what he'd been, what he'd done, what it had cost.

Brick's face haunted him most. That last conversation before the northern pass. Before everything went wrong. Before a conscript's spear took his best friend's life in the chaos of battle.

"Give 'em hell, little brother."

The last words Brick ever said to him. And Dex had. He'd given them hell. Saved the world. Became the greatest hero humanity had ever known.

And they'd made him the villain for it.

"Duty," he spat the word like poison. "A fucking hero for a thousand lifetimes."

He'd felt it even then - the weight of being the only one who could do what needed doing. The exhaustion of carrying everyone's survival on his shoulders while they criticized how he held it. He'd saved them all, and they'd repaid him with an arrow through the heart and five centuries of lies.

Avian stood, moving to the window. The compound slept peacefully below, built on the bones of his achievements. Somewhere out there, people told their children bedtime stories about evil Demon King Dex, defeated by noble Saint Vaerin. His sacrifice twisted into their propaganda.

"I saved you ungrateful fucks," he whispered to the night. "Bled for you. Died for you. And you made me the monster."

The memories were getting stronger lately. More vivid. As his power grew in this new life, the old one pushed harder against the barriers between then and now. Soon, he'd remember everything. Every battle, every loss, every moment of his past life.

Part of him wanted it. Wanted to remember every detail so his anger could be perfect, crystallized into purpose.

Part of him wished he could forget entirely. Because remembering Brick hurt. Remembering the soldiers who'd believed in him hurt. Remembering that he'd once fought for something more than revenge hurt.

"For them," Brick had said. "For the poor bastards like us."

But those poor bastards were dust now. Their descendants told stories about the evil he'd defeated, never knowing he'd been the one standing between them and extinction.

"Fuck duty," Avian said quietly. "Fuck responsibility. Fuck all of it."

This time, he wasn't fighting for anyone but himself. This time, when he reached the top, it would be for his own satisfaction. To tear down the lies, to reclaim his name, to make them choke on the truth of what they'd done.

Let someone else be the hero. He'd tried that once.

All it had gotten him was a unmarked grave and a legacy of lies.

Never again.