Snow clung to the inside of Auren's tent.
It had been three days since the failed breach at Elthemar's west gate, and still, the smell of scorched canvas and broken bone clung to the air like a second skin. Auren couldn't shake it. The wind howled, the fires hissed, but the war was eerily quiet now — not from peace, but from the aftermath of too many screams.
He sat at the edge of a cot, hand trembling as he tried to lace his boot.
Across from him, Tessan nursed a cracked rib and stared into the dirt like it was something sacred.
"They say Rhoen wants to try again tomorrow," Tessan muttered. "But from the east this time."
Auren nodded slowly. "Of course he does."
"They also say the sickness started in the medics' row. Four dead already."
Auren finally looked at him. "What kind of sickness?"
"Fever. Coughing. Rot, maybe. Something bad."
Auren exhaled. He thought of the chaotic retreat — the wounded dragging themselves over each other to reach food and shelter, tearing open sacks of whatever was left. He remembered the bread he'd seen passed around, loaves of it caked in frost. One bag had reeked of mold, but no one had cared.
Hunger was stronger than caution.
Later that morning, Auren walked the perimeter trench, keeping his head down. The men barely greeted him now. Not out of disrespect — but fatigue. Eyes sunken. Lips cracked. Some whispered about Dareth sorcery. Others blamed the northern wind.
But most said nothing.
In the far northern ditch, Auren found Lieutenant Drea Vael shouting over a pair of junior officers.
"They've started launching bolts again," one reported. "Messages this time."
"Messages?" Auren asked, stepping closer.
Drea didn't look at him. "Propaganda. Rolled notes tied to arrowheads. Mostly empty threats."
"What do they say?"
She handed him one.
Auren unrolled it.
You are not forgotten.Volgrin burns in your name.Hold, and reinforcements will come.
– Dareth High Command
He read it twice.
Then looked up. "Reinforcements?"
Drea gave a dry laugh. "Probably a lie."
"Or worse — the truth."
They stood there for a moment, wind snapping the parchment in Auren's hand like it wanted to be rid of it.
"Do we respond?" he asked.
"No," she said. "We silence them."
Inside Elthemar, Governor Larian Avel sat with a half-burned message on the table before him.
He hadn't spoken in over a minute.
His aide, Mira, folded her arms. "It's him again. The Volgrin soldier. The one who sent the warning before the breach."
"He's not official," Larian said. "His words… read like they come from someone outside the war. Someone watching it die slowly from the inside."
"Do you believe him?"
Larian was quiet.
Then: "I believe someone out there doesn't want us all buried."
"What do we do with that?"
He reached for the candle and let the flame touch the edge of the letter.
"Nothing. We keep holding."
Back in the Volgrin camp, a quiet conversation bloomed between tents — started by medics, whispered by smiths, and eventually passed into the hands of messengers.
Why haven't we taken the city yet?What are we doing here, really?Why are we building towers for men who never fight with us?
And:
Why are we dying in the snow while the officers warm their fingers over silk-gloved maps?
Auren heard these rumors everywhere now. In the way the latrines went unshoveled. In the way soldiers stopped saluting. In the growing refusal of cooks to ration the stew into anything but uneven lumps.
Something was unraveling — and no one dared name it.
That night, he returned to the forge.
"Ilenna," he said to the old forgemaster, "do you still have that seal stamp? The one for anonymous correspondence?"
She looked up. "You finally writing to someone who might listen?"
"I'm writing to the only person who might care."
The letter Auren penned that night wasn't diplomatic.
It was a confession. A crack in the wall.
To whoever reads this,
The snow rots our boots. The food is turning. The wounded cry out with no one to hear them, and still we build more towers. Still we dig graves for boys who wanted names etched on banners, not stones.
We are not righteous. We are not precise. We are tired men hammering at tired stone, hoping the noise drowns out the shame.
You are not alone inside those walls. But I am alone out here.
– A man with red on his boots, not on his flag.
He folded it. No seal. No rank. He gave it to a scout who owed him a favor and watched her vanish into the dark.
On the third day, the fever hit Tessan.
Auren found him pale, vomiting behind the latrine trench.
He dragged the boy to the medics, who wiped their hands clean with rags already soaked in blood. One of them shook his head. "It's in his gut. Mold-sick, maybe. We've had ten more cases."
"How many dead?" Auren asked.
The medic didn't answer. Just reached for a bottle of diluted vinegar.
Tessan reached for Auren's hand, whispering, "Don't leave."
"I won't."
But he had to.
He stepped outside, hand to his face, and looked to the distant walls of Elthemar.
He couldn't see them clearly anymore — just vague shapes beyond the smoke and fog.
It was all beginning to blur.
The war. The city. The reason.