On a makeshift watchtower, two young men in their twenties stood side-by-side, observing the horizon with boredom.
"Did you hear what happened to the day squad?"
The flame of their single torch hung over the side of the fortifications. At rare moments, their faces became visible in a faint orange glow before being swallowed by the endless celestial light.
Orien frowned.
"I've heard rumors. Are they true, do you think, Bran?"
"You already know my sister joined the alchemists as soon as we arrived in Syllan. You have to keep it to yourself, but she told me a few days ago that our bleeders have had more and more work over the last ten rotations. She's also coming home less and less often, it's..."
Without warning, the trapdoor opened violently, and the chief officer stepped onto this section of the ramparts. Once on his feet, he brought his own greased stick closer and let it catch fire from the two young guards' torch.
"My respects, Chief Soren!" the two startled youths shouted in unison. Their arms struck their opposite chests firmly, not daring to move an inch.
He looked at them for a moment, then spat forward, taking a position facing the empty expanse that stretched into the unknown of the night.
"You should know we're no longer in the Empire; you don't have to stand at attention like that." He sighed, his gaze lost in the distant night.
Behind him, the two soldiers remained straight as sticks, still in position.
Soren sighed. He already knew they wouldn't listen. These young boys would forever remain Kalvorians. Whatever their reasons for ending up in this rat-hole, they were still members of the Empire. Like everyone, they had each lost a lot in this damn war.
Turning around, he spoke again.
"At ease, soldiers."
As Soren started to walk toward the next sections of the rampart, he stopped next to Bran.
"You said you wanted to be considered a soldier, so prove you're worthy of it. In front of these walls is death. Behind them is your family. You have a sister, I hear? Try to keep her safe for as long as possible. The next time I come across an act of such carelessness, you'll be taking a little trip to see Lord Terran."
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The bell of the north wing rang out.
"Stay at your post!" Without a second's hesitation, Chief Officer Soren jumped from the south rampart toward the great central tower. Crossing the muddy streets, the agitated inhabitants in the roads ran to their homes. Lights turned on all over the town as a suffocating silence settled in.
Soren quickly found himself in the center of the village. A dozen men in gear were already waiting for him at the guard post. All seemed experienced, each bearing their own internal and external scars.
"Report, second lieutenant."
Soren addressed one of the men who stepped forward with an indifferent look.
Once exposed in front of everyone, Silvan turned his fixed gaze on a discreet boy of about fifteen.
"From what I could understand from the northern runner, some kind of filth coming out of the forest appeared about five minutes ago. The abrupt description doesn't match an apostle. I recommend an outing with the day squad. That will be all." He finished his report, then calmly fell back into line.
"You're saying it's not a demon of the Apostle? That's a risky opinion; most of our soldiers have never seen one in their lives." Soren remained pensive for a moment. "I'll trust your instinct. You, runner, join the night guard and tell them to take position to reinforce the north wing. The rest of you, finish your preparations. We're going out in five minutes."
Once the instructions were given, Soren took his weapon in hand and headed toward the main gate. As he walked toward the massive structure, a group of young warriors overtook him. Both scared and excited, they all saluted him abruptly before trotting on to the northern ladder.
The minutes passed quickly with all the sudden commotion.
All his comrades from the day squad were in position barely past the third minute. An unsettling silence settled among the group of eccentric veterans, which clashed with the noisy environment.
The majority of the young guards occasionally looked at this dozen silent men secretly, with curiosity and respect.
As agreed, after the five-minute wait had passed, a young runner joined Soren and informed him at attention that the main gate was ready to be opened. Without wasting any more time, the order to open it was given.
"Silvan, have your men deploy in a funnel formation to cover us. At the slightest doubt, use the alchemical solution and we will retreat. We'll take care of going to the source of the movements."
Shortly after, Soren arrived with his team. When they arrived on site, they came across the body of an adolescent in his twenties, just like the majority of the other children the camp sheltered. A large bleeding trail was visible behind him.
Turning around, Soren spoke once more.
"Does anyone recognize this kid?" No one spoke. The answer was clear; no one recognized him.
Suddenly, the faces of a few veterans darkened.
An unknown young man, emerging alone from the forest in old, strange clothes.
"A Torsadian?" one of them whispered under his breath.
A rare smile appeared on Soren's face before disappearing just as quickly when he noticed a detail on the body, hidden by the night.
"He has six claw marks on his back. Check if he's still alive. Prepare an orange alchemical solution. As soon as the mount arrives, we'll fall back." He affirmed, letting a faint trembling of weariness show in his voice.
The other men looked at the body again. Their coldness had disappeared after they learned he had those claw marks on his back.
Only pity remained in their eyes as they looked at this foul-smelling and destroyed body.
It was obvious for each of them to deduce all the difficulties this poor kid had lived through. After all, he had survived a demon's apostle...