Sea, border of Goa Kingdom, Windmill Town.
The once leisurely sea breeze is now filled with smoke and blood. The wooden windmill burned blazingly on the distant hillside, like a huge torch, dyeing the evening sky a sad orange-red. The once peaceful streets were now filled with rubble, broken weapons, and bodies that were too late to be recovered. The cries of the survivors and the moans of the injured intertwined with the rough shouts of the navy soldiers and the sound of military boots stepping on the gravel, playing a cruel movement called "After the War".
Arnold Craig knelt in front of the ruins of his tavern "The Seagull and the Anchor", holding tightly a burnt black butterfly hair rope with only half of it left in his hand. The fourteen-year-old body was as stiff as a stone, and only the gray eyes inherited from his mother were staring at the two small, already cold bodies in front of him, which were covered by rough white cloth.
