The dawn seeped like blood through the broken windows of the ruined schoolhouse. Elias sat on the cold floor, fingers curled tight around a cracked leather-bound book — a relic from a life he barely remembered. Around him, the children shifted quietly, faces pale and hollow, eyes too old for their years.
Outside, the wind carried the smell of ash and decay, the metallic tang of dried blood lingering in the air. The village lay silent, broken beneath layers of snow and ruin.
"Gather up," Elias's voice cut through the stillness — rough, commanding, but carrying a fragile thread of care. The salvage battalion was restless — a ragged group of half-starved children pressed into a mission no child should ever know.
He rose slowly, bones aching with the weight of the coming day. The book slipped from his hands, falling open on a faded line of poetry he could no longer recall. Memories offered no refuge here.
The children obeyed without hesitation, clutching scavenged rifles and rusted knives. Elias counted their faces: twelve. Twelve ghosts he was meant to lead into the jaws of a nightmare.
Their task was brutal yet simple — retrieve what could be taken from the dead: boots, coats, bullets. Anything to keep the living from freezing in this endless cold.
They moved out silently, a thin line threading through the shattered village. Elias's eyes never left the horizon — every shadow held danger, every silence whispered death.
A frozen body lay half-buried near the broken fence. Elias knelt, his fingers trembling despite the cold. The man's face was frozen in a grimace — a soldier, no doubt, but to Elias he was just a boy, younger than some of the children he led.
One of the boys, no older than ten, stepped forward. "Should we...?"
Elias nodded once. "Take what we can. Be quick."
The boy stripped the boots with numb fingers. Elias's throat tightened. Survival tasted like betrayal.
Distant gunfire cracked sharp then faded into silence. Elias's heart hammered. War clung to the air like smoke.
He glanced at the children. Their faces were masks of dirt and exhaustion, but their eyes burned with a quiet steel. Broken, yes — but not yet defeated.
A twig snapped nearby. Elias froze, hand moving to the pistol at his waist. Shadows shifted between trees. He raised his weapon, voice low but steady. "Hold."
A lone militia fighter emerged, rifle raised, face twisted in suspicion. For a moment, they faced each other — predator and prey — before the fighter lowered his gun. "Leave. Now."
Elias nodded. "We're leaving."
They retreated through the ruined village, the weight of death trailing behind.
Back at the broken schoolhouse, Elias sank to the floor, head bowed. The children gathered close, shivering, silent.
He reached for the book again, tracing faded words. The war had taken everything — home, hope, humanity. Yet he remained, still fighting in this hell.
Outside, the sky darkened, red as blood.