I wiped the grime from my brow as I trudged through the cobblestone streets of Vienna, the heart of the Middle Nations of Germano-Hungry. The summer sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the bustling factories that lined the riverbanks. At twenty-eight, I was a sturdy man with calloused hands and a perpetual squint from years spent hunched over assembly lines at the engine factory. My job was simple: bolting together the massive steam engines that powered the Empire's growing fleet of mechanized vehicles—tanks, haulers, and the rumbling behemoths that hauled freight across Europa. It was honest work, paying just enough to keep a roof over my head in a cramped apartment on the outskirts of the city.
I pushed open the door to my modest flat, the hinges creaking in protest. The air inside was stale, laced with the faint scent of yesterday's stew. Dropping my lunch pail on the scarred wooden table, I sank into my armchair and flicked on the radio—a bulky contraption I'd saved months to afford. Static crackled to life, then cleared into the crisp voice of the announcer from the state broadcasting service.
"...breaking news from Sarajevo. Great Duke Francis, heir to the throne of our Middle Nations and steadfast ally of the Great Empire, has been assassinated. The perpetrator, a radical from Sarbiane, struck down our beloved Duke in a cowardly act of terror. The Empire mourns, but we stand united..."
I leaned forward, my heart pounding. The Duke? Assassinated by a Sarb? I'd heard whispers of tensions along the southern borders, where Sarbiane's nationalists stirred trouble, but this... this was unthinkable. The broadcast continued, the announcer's tone shifting to one of grave urgency.
"In response to this heinous crime, a national emergency has been declared. The Emperor calls upon every healthy man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five to report to their nearest recruitment center. Our alliances demand swift justice. The Sarbs must be held accountable. Join now—defend Germano-Hungry and the Great Empire!"
The radio droned on with patriotic marches, but I switched it off, staring at the wall in stunned silence. Join the army? I wasn't a soldier; I was a factory hand. My life was routine: work, eat, sleep, repeat. I had no family to speak of—parents long gone, no wife or children tying me down. But war? That was for the hot-blooded youths or the career officers. I rubbed my temples, the weight of the announcement settling like a fog. For now, I pushed it aside. Tomorrow was another shift at the factory. Life had to go on.
The next few days blurred into a haze of normalcy laced with unease. At the engine factory, the air buzzed with heated conversations. Posters sprang up overnight on every street corner: bold letters proclaiming "Avenge the Duke! Crush the Sarbs!" Whispers turned to shouts as workers shared stories—true or not—of Sarb spies infiltrating the borders, poisoning wells, and sabotaging railways. I noticed the shift in my colleagues: eyes narrowed with suspicion toward anyone with a southern accent, even if they were loyal citizens.
One evening, after a grueling shift, my friend Karl clapped me on the back in the locker room. "You heard the call, Franz? I'm signing up tomorrow. The Sarbs think they can strike at us and walk away? Not on my watch."
I nodded vaguely, wiping oil from my hands. "It's madness, Karl. What do we know about fighting?"
"Enough to know we can't sit idle," another worker, Josef, chimed in, already half-dressed in civilian clothes. "My brother's in the reserves—he says the magic divisions are gearing up too. Enchanted bullets that track a man like a hound on the scent. We'll smash them before they know what hit 'em."
I forced a smile, but doubt gnawed at me. The magic divisions were the stuff of legends: elite mages who commanded ethereal flying machines—great winged constructs of arcane energy, not like the clunky aeroplanes the Island Nation boasted—and wove spells into ammunition, making bullets explode in fiery bursts or veer unerringly toward their targets. But that was for the gifted, not ordinary folk like me. Still, as the days wore on, more of my mates vanished from the factory floor, replaced by wide-eyed apprentices. They returned briefly in crisp uniforms, urging me with tales of glory and easy victories. "Come on, Franz," they'd say. "Don't be the last one left behind."
The pressure built like steam in one of my engines. On the eve of what the papers called the inevitable declaration, I found myself at the recruitment office. The line snaked around the block, filled with men of all ages—farmers, clerks, laborers like me. My hands trembled as I signed the papers, the recruiter's stamp thudding like a gavel. "Welcome to the Imperial Army, son," the grizzled sergeant said, handing me a bundle of olive-drab cloth. "Change in there. Training starts at dawn."
In a dimly lit barracks room, I stripped alongside a dozen other recruits, the air thick with the smell of sweat and anticipation. Modesty was forgotten amid the shuffle of boots and belts. I pulled on the uniform—rough wool trousers, a tunic with the Emperor's eagle embroidered on the sleeve—and felt a strange mix of pride and fear. It fit awkwardly, but it marked me as part of something larger.
Dawn broke with the bark of drill sergeants. My battalion—raw recruits from Vienna and the surrounding provinces—gathered on a muddy field. We learned the basics: how to march in formation, clean and load our rifles, bayonet drills that left arms aching. The instructors demonstrated the gear: gas masks against potential poisons, entrenching tools for digging in, and the standard-issue ammunition. "And if you're lucky," one sergeant growled, "you'll fight alongside the mages. Their enchanted rounds turn a skirmish into a slaughter. But don't count on magic to save your hide—it's your wits and your trigger finger that'll keep you alive."
I absorbed it all, my mind racing. The training was brutal but brief, cramming weeks of knowledge into hours. By evening, exhaustion claimed me, but sleep was fitful.
The next morning, the declaration came via booming loudspeakers: War on Sarbiane. The Great Empire and its allies mobilized. Cheers erupted, but I felt a knot in my gut. My battalion boarded trains southward, rifles slung over shoulders, packs heavy with supplies. High hopes filled the cars—talk of quick occupation, parading through Belgrady by week's end, the Sarbs surrendering at the sight of our mechanized might.
As the train rattled toward the front, I stared out at the passing countryside, the horizon swallowing the tracks ahead. The war had begun, and I was in it now.