Days Gone By Chapter 4

...it's easy to look back at it now, and pretend that we were anything but a bunch of desperate, exhausted, bloodied men and women covered in the dirt and grime of the battlefield. Later on, they would call us heroes. Sing our songs, tell of how we turned a last stand into a stunning victory, and even stymied the Imperial front, if only for a day. But I remember their faces. All of them. Standing among them, what I saw wasn't elation, or joy, or relief. No, all I saw in the eyes of Welkin and the others was a cold sense of realization, tainted with the sickness of a gutting loss. Bruhl was where they played as children, where their families grew up, and where their parents were buried. It was all these things and more. Leaving it behind was, for them, the darkest moment of the war. They'd won the battle, but they'd lost their home.

-Ch. 1: Red Skies, Days Gone By, A Memoir From the Gallian Front

Chapter 4

It didn't take long for everything to start moving once Alicia brought me to Welkin. He was already planning the retreat, and the last of the refugees had been long since gone by that point. The plan was simple enough, though nobody was particularly pleased with it. Least of all Welkin, I think, but there weren't many options left for us in the end. Despite what it might have seemed, they were desperately underprepared for something like this, and it showed once the pressure started to apply. The cracks were obvious in everybody, and the militia, as stalwart as they'd been, were barely holding together once the adrenaline wore off.

"I'm not any happier than you are, Roland, but I just don't see another option. The last of the trucks left with the refugees and we don't have time to try and scavenge more. The Imperials are already pressing back into the city with their recon forces and the main body won't be far behind after that." I heard Welkin sigh as he and three others were hunched over a map spread over an old crate as we wandered over. It didn't take long for our presence to be noticed, and we, more Alicia than I, were greeted with a round of waves and hellos.

"So I see you managed to convince him, Alicia." One of the men, older, with a greying beard, said as he looked in her direction, eliciting a smile and a nod from the girl.

"Yes. It took some convincing but he's on board. Jerry," She turned to me, "These are Captains Morgan, Pierce, and Sloan. Captains? This is Jerry Finch, the-"

"The Lion himself!" One of the men, younger, with a neatly trimmed mustache and twinkling green eyes said with a start, immediately coming over to grab my hand and shaking it vigorously. "I saw your work from the Last Line, lad! Fantastic! Simply fantastic! I'm Steven Sloan, and so very excited to be working beside you."

"Yes, yes, we've all heard the stories, Sloan. Still, nice to put a face to the tale, as it were. I'm Roland Pierce, and this is Victor Morgan." The bearded man said, offering his hand as well, which I took once I managed to pry mine from Steven. Victor came last, with a grin and a pat on the shoulder no less, as I shook his hand. "We're all glad to hear that you took Alicia up on our offer. Morale is low enough as it is and this might just be the thing we need to get some fire back into the troops."

"So I hear." I said, "But I have to warn you, I don't really have a lot of experience to offer here. Just putting that out there."

"It shouldn't be an issue. At least not enough of one to make me worry." Welkin chimed in, "But I know how you feel. This morning I was just a college student coming to visit his sister, and now here I am running the show. It's a bit daunting." He said with a laugh.

"Aye, I wouldn't worry terribly much about it either, lad. Though I'm sorry to say that the appointment is as political as it is tactical, in this case. Like I said before, the troops aren't in great shape right now. We're abandoning Bruhl and as much sense as that makes strategically, it's still our home." Sloan said to my right, giving me a genuinely rueful look. "Right now they need a hero, and after what you did during the Assault, well, you've become that hero. We're hoping you can inspire them enough to make it through this next bit."

"So I gathered. What's the plan then? How are we going to handle this?" I asked as Alicia slipped around me and stood next to Welkin at the table. The others followed, and so did I, to find myself looking at a crude map of Gallia.

"Essentially, we're going to push to Dillburg, about eighty kilometers to the west of here. At a forced march, it should take us roughly two days to make the trip, give or take, but it's going to be a hard push from here to there." Welkin said with a sigh, marking out the route with a pencil. "The road is relatively flat but we can't discount the possibility of ambush on the way, and we won't have time to stop to sleep. At least, not for the next day. We need to put space between us and the Imps at any cost. Right now they're reeling, but I've been hearing reports of tank divisions and heavy infantry formations up and down the Naggiar line. They're pushing hard and fast and the Home Guard regiments are barely holding." He stopped, giving each of us a complicated look. "If we take too long we're running the risk of getting cut off and encircled, and all of this would be for nothing."

"I'm beginning to see the issue then. This is gonna be rough on the militia, especially after today. Hell, this is gonna be rough on us. Are you sure you aren't pushing too hard? I mean, I see the urgency but speed doesn't do us any good if half the troops die of exhaustion along the way." I stated, more than asked, trying my best to memorize the road Welkin had marked out.

Morgan snorted at that. "Trust me, we've taken that into account, but we don't have much choice. Invasion evacuation protocol says that civilian refugees are to head to Asrein, here." He pointed at a town to the south of Dillburg. "The road splits ten kilos from Dilburg and skims the mountains here. It's safer, comparatively, but longer by half. Our job is twofold. We need to get to Dillburg to grab the military train to Vasel, so we can meet up with the other watch and militia units and head to Randgriz for reorganization and assignment. We also need to keep the Imps from taking that hard left and going after the refugees while the Home Guard regiments fight to stem the push up north."

"Which brings us to the next issue." Welkin pointed out, grabbing our attention, "The bad news is that we don't have transport outside of the Edelweiss here and despite what we've scavenged she's low on shells and ragnoline. If we do get into a fight what we'll be able to do would be... very limited." He looked each of us straight in the eye with a grim look on his face and finished with, "We're already on the clock here. We're low on fuel, food and morale and we have a hard couple of days ahead of us. Still, you all know your jobs. Get your men together, explain the situation and make sure they're ready to go in fifteen. We've already spent too much time here."

There was a chorus of "Yes Sir!" and some salutes, and the three other Watch leaders dispersed. As they left, Welkin then turned to me and Alicia, who had remained quiet in the interim, and, as I looked at her, I noticed she had a notepad in her hand, jotting things down. Smart of her. I made a note to do the same once I got a second.

"Alright, with that squared away, lets deal with what I need you to do. To start with, I am sorry that we're leaning on you like this, Jerry. I can't imagine you're thrilled by the whole dog and pony show but needs must." Welkin sighed, and I nodded.

"I know, and I'm not," I heard Alicia give a snort, and I swore she rolled her eyes at me, "But I get it. Alicia made that abundantly clear to me. I just need to know what to do. I'm guessing you have a plan for this?" At that, the de-facto Commander nodded, scratching at the back of his head.

"I do. I realize that you don't have a lot in the way of familiarity with how Gallian Watch units operate, but I'm hoping that it won't matter much in the long run. Any combat we see will be a fighting retreat, and if nothing else you've proven to have a talent for that. As it is, though, I'm going to assign you someone who should have some background in unit command as your second." Welkin then turned to Alicia, "Captain, could you find Juno for me? She should be with Fireteam Four, if memory serves."

"You got it Commander. Give me a second to hunt her up." The girl in the red scarf nodded, before sprinting away. I blinked. She was very, very fast when she wanted to be.

"Juno is an old friend of mine from school. Very smart, and very well trained. Were the situation different, she would be the one we went to, no offense." I just shrugged and motioned for him to continue. "Unfortunately, it isn't. That said, she'll handle the more technical stuff on your behalf. All you need to do is follow orders and send them down the line. Alicia is going to operate as my Senior Captain for the time being, which means I give orders to her, she gives orders to you, and you give them to Juno. She'll make sure they get done."

"Not a problem." I nodded, before giving a tired sigh. "What a goddamn day, eh?" I gave him a glance and a smirk. He massaged his eyes and nodded.

"It has been. This isn't how I saw my afternoon going, if I'm being totally honest. Not a total loss, though, since I finally got to see the Edelweiss in action." He looked over at the tank, and my gaze followed to see a petite, black haired girl working on something on the side. "And I managed to get my sister out in time, too."

"Yeah? That her?" I nodded over yonder at the dark-haired teen puttering around the tank in question.  She was a lithe thing, small even compared to the relatively short Alicia and despite the shawl covering her figure, skinny as a rail.  She was working with another couple of mechanics, arms deep in the heavy weapons platform and looking more like she belonged there than anywhere else.  Welkin bobbed his head at me, following my gaze.

"That's her. She got the Edelweiss up and running as soon as she heard the first shots. She was just waiting for me when things went sideways. I'll have to introduce you two sometime. She's a real sweetheart." He said, and I gave a chuckle.

"I'd appreciate it.  I owe her a thank you for saving my bacon at the last second there." I said as I spotted Alicia making her way back, a tall blonde with a shoulder-length no-nonsense haircut and pencil glasses following in her wake. Classically pretty, with high cheekbones and fine features, I guessed that this was Juno, and she looked the way Welkin made her sound. Stern, distant, but when she walked up I noticed her eyes drift to my compatriot and her eyes lit up.

"Welkin! Alicia said you were looking for me?" The girl, Juno, asked as soon as she got close. Welkin nodded, and turned to me.

"Jerry, this is Juno Coren. Juno, this is Jerry Finch, the Lion." He said, introducing us. I held out my hand, to which Juno quickly shook with the kind of perfunctory confidence you'd expect from a military woman. "He's going to be acting Captain of Fireteam Five until we get to the Dillburg evacuation point. Unfortunately he isn't very well acquainted with our standard OP, which is why I asked you here. I'd like you to act as his Sergeant."

"I don't have a problem with it Welkin, but it's a little... unusual, don't you think?" She said, putting a finger to her chin in a classical 'thinking pose'. "I'm guessing it's a morale thing, isn't it?"

Welkin gave a laugh. "See, I told you she was sharp." He said to me, before turning back. "But yeah. I figured it might help with morale to have our Watch being led by a genuine hero. The Lion here has something of a reputation already. I'm sure you've heard the stories."

"A few, yes. If nothing else it'll be heartening to see him marching right alongside the rest of them. He's not exactly what I would call a subtle figure." She shrugged with a grin as she looked at me. I admit, the stern gaze made me stand a little taller. "Very well then. Captain Finch, as it is, I look forward to working with you, Sir." She snapped a salute, which I responded, sloppily, in kind, though she blessedly didn't say anything about it.

"And I you, Sergeant Coren." I gave a salute to Welkin as well, and a wave to Alicia, who smiled and waved back in kind. "Commander, Senior Captain, I guess this is where we part ways then. For now."

"For now, Captain. For now. And remember, keep your chin up. The hard part's over. All that's left is a walk in the woods." Welkin chuckled, giving me a salute back, followed by a pat on the shoulder. "We're moving out in ten minutes. Grab any last minute supplies and get acquainted with your Fireteam. There's no looking back once we're on the hop."

"We'll be ready, Commander." I said, as he turned away, followed by Alicia. I turned to Juno, who I noticed was giving Welkin something of a willowy stare. I chuckled, nudging her on the shoulder, sending her into a start.  Despite recovering quickly, I couldn't help but give her a grin as I motioned for her to lead on.  "Shall we?"

"A-ah, yes Sir."  She said, a light dusting of red on her cheeks.  As we walked, she told me about them, about my new squad.  All of them were militia, or more precisely reserve militia.  Folks who were trained enough to know how to shoot and take orders, and had the fervor of patriots, but lacked the conditioning of the regulars.  Good people, but from the sound of it this was going to be hell on them.

It didn't take long to get to the troops I'd been assigned, almost all of them middle aged and wizened, but their faces were hard.  Like me, they'd seen a full day of fighting, of watching their homes and families put to the torch, and it showed.  None of them so much as smiled as we approached, but they did give me a nod of respect as we went past.  Five men and two women, who in another life were craftsmen and homemakers, now soldiers, all of them looking tired and worn.  We did what we could to get them ready in what time we had.  Spare canteens and rations were dolled out, magazines were loaded, grenades were stocked, but in the end it was barely enough.  At least, between Juno and I, we hoped.

The sun was low by the time the last of our boots crunched over the dirt road out of Bruhl, the red sky framed by lines of smoke and ruined buildings.  The image seared itself into my mind, the massive windmill at the center of the town slowly spinning in the twilight, it's broken fans little more than tattered canvas and burned, bone-like frames.  Like something out of a nightmare, one more for the pile to be sure, but this one had a name.  A face.  A memory.

In the distance I could hear the occasional exchange of fire, the sound of an explosion, the roar of an engine and more, even after we crested the hill and Bruhl proper gave way to burned fields and churned grass.  The Stig was heavy in my arms.  Eight pounds of rolled steel and death, and over the course of the day I'd learned it's curves with a kind of sick intimacy, the strength of it's wrath, the roar of it's power.  I'd seen death up close, breathed the last breaths of dying men, heard their screams, took their lives.

I kept my face schooled, though.  Kept my thoughts from showing.  We were, all of us, grim at the prospect of the march.  Eighty kilometers, or just a pinch under fifty miles was doable in two days.  We would march through the night, until dawn, and still more till noon.  Welkin was right in that many struggled.  More than once we passed collapsed bodies in blue, taken by exhaustion.  Some of them tried to help the others, but it was too much.  We piled them onto the Edelwiess like cordwood but of the seven fireteams, we lost one in ten.

Still they marched on.  Each step was gasping and brutal as we clocked the first thirty miles by midday.  It was only then that Welkin called to a halt, and I wouldn't be surprised if more than half of our number hit the ground to catch what little sleep they could.  Those of us that were still awake, half-rations were doled out.  We had enough to feed everyone, barely, but it would be the last meal we would get before pushing on the Dillburg.

My feet ached, my back was sore and my legs shaky by the time I was able to stop.  I wasn't much of a Captain, but my job was to inspire.  That meant hiding my exhaustion, best as I could.  Keeping the discomfort inside, and doing what I could to help keep the rest going.  It meant supporting those that fell, arm over shoulder, keeping them apace.  It meant hauling their gear if they couldn't carry it, to lighten their load.  It meant talking to them, keeping them distracted from the pain in their feet and the long road ahead, and more.

Juno was a godsend, a veritable encyclopedia of regulations and ideas that kept the grumbling directed at her and not the mission.  She played her job as the hardass Sergeant to my inspiring Captain to a T, and it showed.  The griping kept them from burning up without letting them burn out, and somehow between the two of us we'd gotten them to the halfway point intact.

I sighed as I found a felled tree to sit on, a dry, thick oak that looked like it had been split by a cannon shell some time ago, but made for a good chair nonetheless.  My own joints were aching, but oddly enough my bad knee wasn't digging at me.  Small mercies, I guess, but I'll take it.  I had some time to relax a bit, anyway.  Welkin gave us three hours.  Not a lot of time, but enough to eat and maybe get a nap.  Generous, considering the fact that Imperial troops could be closing in from Bruhl as we spoke, but hopefully the pickets would be enough to get us some kind of warning if that was the case.

Either way, there wasn't much I could do now, so instead I busied myself with cleaning my weapon while I waited my turn at the mealpot.  I read somewhere that a good officer always made sure his men ate first, and they had the same fare, so I held off while they grabbed what they could at half-rats.

The woods were peaceful, and despite the bloody day yesterday, the sun was shining, and they skies were blue.  I could hear the chirping of birds and the chittering of small animals in the distance, my seat far enough away from the low chatter that I could enjoy a bit of nature.  It was… it was nice, being able to forget the violence, just for a second.  I felt my eyes droop shut.  Just a moment.

Just one.

My hand shot to my rifle when I felt the shaking on my shoulder.  My mind shot from nothing to panicked awakeness in an instant, but all that met me was a small meep.  I heard some boots on the ground, but before I could really do anything, my eyes focussed in.  Standing a bit back was a familiar, dark haired girl in a shawl, carrying two open ration cans with camp spoons in them, a look of surprise on her face.

"Wha-"  I began, still a bit addled, only for her to give me a kindly smile and giggle.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!"  She said, holding out one of the small tins.  "I just noticed you over here and figured you might want something to eat before we head back out."  She had a nice smile, and warm eyes, but her hands, I noticed when I took the can from her, were the hands of someone who worked for a living.  Tough calluses and a bit of oil under her nails attested to that, but it gave her a kind of rustic charm that teased a smile back from me as I thanked her for the food.

"I appreciate it.  You're Welkin's sister, aren't you?  Uhm…"  The name escaped me for a moment, but she came to the rescue.  Again.

"Isara.  Isara Gunther.  Pleased to meet you Mister Lion."  She said with a bright, almost poppy tone, her face lit up like a Christmas tree.  I chuckled at that, and motioned for her to join me on the log.  She took me up on it, plopping down with her own warm tin of… some kind of meat goo and crackers, now that I looked at it.

"Jerry Finch.  Or Mister Lion, if you want.  I could live with that."  I said with a grin and a shake of my head.  "Glad to finally meet the pilot of that metal beast over there.  You really saved my bacon at the end.  Thanks for that."  I said, before tucking into my lunch.  It was better than it looked, but hunger was always the best spice, right?

"You're very welcome, Mister Lion, though Welkin was the gunner.  It was a team effort."  She shrugged, almost carelessly.  I just nodded, shoveling another spoon of what I assume was some kind of potted meat in gravy.  It was hot, and the fact that I hadn't eaten in days, actually, was enough to improve my mood by leaps.

"Team effort all the same, thanks."  The food disappeared quickly, but it was filling.  Rich was a good word for it, and the company was pretty decent too.  "So how are you holding up?"  I asked as I set my can aside, watching as everyone slowly started to rouse.

"Not terribly.  Not to complain, given how rough it's been on you all."  She said, humble as pie, but I gave her a nudge.

"But…?"

"It's just… it's a little messy in there right now.  And sticky.  And stinky.  I don't know if you heard but we… kind of had a birth in the tank.  It wasn't the cleanest thing, and, uhm, I'm not exactly a midwife."  She mumbled out.  "We tried to wash it out but we didn't really have time to be thorough.  It's not terrible!"  She blurted out.  "Well, not comparatively."

"Hah.  I heard about that, actually.  Right there in the tank, in the middle of a firefight?"  I asked, and she nodded, "And there weren't any issues?"  She shook her head.  "Damn."

"Mmm, damn indeed."  She chuckled, and for some reason the word sounded wrong coming from the girl.  It was adorable, but also kind of made me want to tell her not to repeat that in front of her brother.

"Still, you have my sympathies.  Tough the march may be, at least the air is fresh out here."  I said with a wistful sigh.  The break was about over, and despite the protests in my legs, I forced myself up.  Isara stood as well, and for a moment it dawned on me just how small she was, comparatively.  She barely hit my chest at full height, and that was with clunky combat boots giving her an extra inch or two.

"Mmm.  I kind of envy Welkin.  He gets to sit out the hatch."  She groused, good naturedly, her pouting tone enough to get a chuckle out of me.  "And none of that, Mister Lion.  It really does smell terrible there."

I admit I honestly couldn't help myself then, and before I knew it I'd plopped my hand down on her head.  "Well, we all appreciate your sacrifice, Isara.  You're doing a good job, and we're all counting on you to do your best."  I said, a wry grin on my lips as she shooed my hand away after a moment, her cheeks dusted red.

"I… I will!"  She said with a hurried earnestness that I couldn't help adore, scrappy lil cinnamon roll she was, with her hand all balled up in a fist and a twinkle in her eye.  "I won't let you down, Mister Lion!"  She said, scampering off not a moment later.  I watched her for a moment as she passed Welkin.  He seemed to say something to the girl that got him a whack to the shoulder for his trouble, and it reminded me of my brother just a bit.  It was easy to forget just how young so many of the people here are, and how closely knit.

"Sir?"  Juno's voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I turned to greet her.

"Sergeant."  I greeted with a nod, giving the woman a good once over.  Like me, she wasn't in any fit state, but the food and rest did her some good.  Did us all some good, if I were being honest, but despite the grime and sweat, her eyes were sharp.  "What have you got for me?"

"The squad's getting ready now, and I took the liberty of passing out what little was left of our ration allotment.  I figured we won't need what's left once we get under way.  Darius's ankle is still tender, but a dose of Ragnaid helped get him back on his feet.  Melissa and Yvette are struggling, but that's not surprising.  All in all, I'd give us sixty, maybe seventy percent field effectiveness right now."  She rattled off, and I hummed at that.

"See about getting them an extra dose of Ragnaid.  It might put us in a bit of a pinch if we have an encounter but if I had to choose between having meds and losing troops to fatigue or the opposite, I'd rather they be on their feet to shoot back."  I said, checking my own dwindling supplies, almost more from handing out extras than me using them myself at this point.  "That said, make sure they each keep back at least one for emergencies.  No excuses.  I saw more than a few popping them to stave off exhaustion but too much will bring issues all it's own."

"Yes Sir!"  She snapped a salute, and I returned it the best I could.  "Will that be all Captain?"

I nodded.  "Yeah.  Just keep on the squad, and don't let anyone lag behind.  We don't know how far back the Imps are, or how long those who stayed behind managed to keep them tied up."  I said, the exhaustion nipping at my heels barely managed by the short nap and the meal with Isara.  "Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst."

"Sir."  Juno said, turning on her heel with the dismissal.  I sighed, and shrugged the familiar weight of my rifle over my shoulder, pulling the hammer back to see the gleaming chambered brass inside.  Locked and loaded, I closed my eyes and took a breath, forcing down the sapping exhaustion that seemed to press down on me as I put one foot in front of the other.

The sun was high in the sky as the exhausted militia from Bruhl trudged their way up the last few miles of road, the Edelwiess rumbling ahead as Welkin say aloft the commander-s perch, a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck as he surveilled the woods around them, the dry, hard packed dirt of the country road into Dillburg fortunately dry despite the cloying humidity in the air, the hinted whispers of rain hanging over us as the clouds thickened, and despite the shining sun we could all feel the subtle change in the wind.

There was a stolid, smokey taste to the soft northern front, the cool air almost choking at times with the thick flavor of ash and fire.  It wasn't a good sign, coming from in front of us, but we all knew that the army was fighting to the north, holding a collapsing line so the last few regiments of militia could get to Dillburg, us included.  It would be a futile effort if we didn't get to our rally point in the next few hours, which was a tight deadline for a fresh faced group of young men and women.  These were not them, the truth as harsh as it was absolute, given the number of older folks being almost dragged along by their comrades, weapons and scant armor hanging loose on their aged bodies.  Others simply slowed to a crawl, barely able to keep on their feet, much less march in formation.

It was heartbreaking to watch, exhausted as I was, I did my best to help those who couldn't keep going.  More than a few of the older folks just… couldn't make that last push, even with the rest we'd taken, they were at their limits.  Which, speaking of, I found myself jogging back to a blue lump in the road, another one taken beyond their ability, and not the only one who'd fallen off to the side from their legs giving out.  He was, again, one of the older troopers, a man with probably three decades on me, if not more.  Even before I reached him, I could see he was barely holding on.

"Come on, up you get!"  I gritted through my clenched jaw as the older man groaned, his legs limp as I threw his arm over my shoulders and all but dragged him to the tank, another body to stack like cordwood on the sloped armor of the Edelwiess.  He wasn't the first, or the fifth, of the fifteenth, and he wasn't the last either.  We hadn't lost anyone yet to exhaustion, somehow, but the forced march was taking its toll.

"Put him up with the others, Finch."  Welkin said as he caught sight of me, rapping his hand on the tank's lip before calling down, "Isara!  Full stop!  We need to load another!"

I could hear the "You got it Welks!" from inside as the massive machine came to a halt, and the man himself hopped out to help me drag the boneless elder up onto the chassis, where a few other barely conscious militia grabbed hold of him.  We'd long since filled out the body itself, and had taken to loading anyone we could fit onto the outer frame.  It would have looked ridiculous if things weren't so desperate.

Of the hundred or so we'd set out with, only a third were moving with any kind of haste. The rest were straggling, bodies breaking under the relentless weight of exhaustion. The march was bleeding us dry, and the ragged column crawled toward the last bend before Dillburg.

Welkin's calm command post sat atop the Edelweiss, his binoculars pressed against his eyes as he scanned the dense tree line ahead. Despite the steady voice he kept for the militia, I could see the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight flicker of unease in his gaze.

Alicia stood nearby, her brows furrowed as she watched the horizon. "This spot," she murmured, voice low and tense, "if the Imps wanted to hit us, this is where they'd strike."

Isara shifted her weight nervously beside her, biting her lip. "It feels wrong. Too quiet."

Welkin lowered the binoculars and exhaled sharply. "I don't like it either. The last stretch is ripe for an ambush—dense woods on both sides, perfect kill zone." His eyes met Alicia's, then Isara's, and finally landed on me.

"Jerry," he said, voice firm but edged with reluctance, "I need you to scout ahead. Just half a mile. See what we're walking into."

My stomach clenched, and for a heartbeat, I considered pushing back. Why me? I wondered. I'm no scout. But looking out over the militia, the truth was clear. Most of them were wiped out—spent bodies shuffling forward only because there was no other choice. It wasn't that no one would go with me. They physically couldn't.

Faces pale, legs trembling, weapons dragging uselessly by their sides—I saw no one in any condition to move fast or fight smart.

If I don't do this, who will? I thought, biting down the dread curling in my gut.

I looked back at the Edelweiss, where Welkin's expression was set with grim determination. I knew he wouldn't ask unless it was necessary. He was competent and cautious, never one to throw lives away without cause.

Welkin's eyes locked onto mine, his expression hard but weighed down with regret. "Jerry," he said, voice low but steady, "I don't want to send you out alone. Hell, I wish there was another choice. But you've shown you can handle yourself when it counts. It's dangerous ahead—if we wait, we risk losing everything. I need you to scout ahead. Can I count on you?"

I met his gaze, feeling the heavy weight behind his words. It wasn't just an order—it was a burden he wished he didn't have to pass on. I nodded once, firmly. "You can."

Alicia's eyes flicked to mine, a silent wish of luck passing between us. Isara bit her lip again, but she gave me a small, encouraging nod.

Welkin placed a hand on my shoulder, firm and reassuring. "Be careful. We'll be ready if you need support."

I squared my shoulders and turned toward the shadowed tree line, the weight of every exhausted soldier behind me pressing down—but also pushing me forward. Reaching down, I gripped my rifle and with a practiced flick, cocked the bolt. The satisfying click echoed faintly in my ears, steady and real—a small comfort in the tense silence.

I reached for my canteen, tipping the last few drops to wet my lips. The cold water was barely enough to wash away the dust in my throat, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that I was still alive, still capable.

I slipped the canteen back into my pack, took a steady breath, and stepped into the underbrush. The thick trees swallowed me up, the faint rustle of leaves my only companion now. Every muscle tensed, senses sharpened, and mind ready for whatever was waiting ahead.

I slipped off the road and into the brush, the weight of the MOLL-E carrier settling heavy on my chest, the familiar bulk of magazines and grenades shifting slightly with each step. The blue shirt beneath clung damp and grimy, my cargo pants crusted with mud; nothing fancy, nothing polished. Just me, moving forward.

I wasn't some super soldier. Hell, I didn't even think of myself as a soldier at all. This was just a scouting run, one I didn't want but knew had to be done. My steps were slow, deliberate… more caution than confidence. Instinct took over, a quiet hum in the back of my skull whispering where to place my feet, how to move through the brush without sounding like a goddamn ox. I wasn't graceful. But I was careful.

Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was just my survival instinct turned up to eleven. Either way, I stayed in the shadows, slipping between trees like something feral and unseen. I didn't pretend to be better than the rest.  I just knew that right now, out here in this hush of green and dread, I had to be better than nothing.

The woods were wrong. Too still. Too quiet. No birdsong, no skittering in the leaves, just the kind of silence that presses down on your lungs and makes you feel like breathing's a mistake.

Then came the signs.

A snapped branch. Fresh tire ruts gouged into the earth. Drag marks. Twigs bent back and broken in ways nature didn't do on her own. These weren't old. These weren't innocent. They were fresh, new enough that the soil still smelled of torn roots and gasoline. I slowed further, crouching low, ears straining.

Then I saw them.

Dark shapes moving between the trees.  Men in red armor and helmets, shifting through the woods with quieter than I ever imagined someone in heavy armor could be. Not rushing, but not relaxed either. Focused. Intent. They weren't just hiding. They were working.

Two squads. At least a dozen. Unfolding quietly like a pocket knife. Machine gun nests went up like they'd rehearsed it, sandbags dragged into place. Someone spooling wire; probably charges laid out along the road. Others hoisted tubes onto their shoulders, antitank lances peeking from under camo netting.

It was an ambush. The worst kind… cold, careful, and surgical. And Welkin… he was parked right in the center of it.

My breath caught. I pressed myself deeper into the brush, heart pounding like a trapped animal. No time. No time to run back. If I turned and bolted, I'd be halfway there before bullets started flying and by then it'd be too late. They'd be cut to pieces.

I closed my eyes. Just for a second.

You don't have time to be scared, I told myself. But I was. I was terrified.

My fingers hovered near the stick grenades on my vest, the knife strapped to my shoulder, the pistol at my hip; none of it would be enough. Not against this. Not head-on. I needed something more. Something louder. Bigger.

Then I saw them.

Two Imperial half-tracks. Parked just outside the treeline, tucked behind foliage, their engines off but crew nearby. Both had mounted heavy machine guns in armored turrets, the barrels resting idle.  Not aimed yet, not active. But they would be. Soon.

A stupid, insane thought slipped into my head before I could push it out:

 If I could get into one of those... I'd stand a chance.

It sounded impossible. But so did living through the last few days.

I shifted my weight, checked my weapon, eyes locked on the half-tracks like they were the only way out of a burning room. The enemy was distracted. Focused on their setup. No one was watching the flanks. Yet.

This wasn't about bravery. This was about time. About doing something before it was too late.

I swallowed dryly, hand brushing the Ragnaid capsules in my pouch. My lips were cracked, my mouth dry. I pulled the canteen from my hip and tilted it, only to taste air.  Not a drop left to ease my parched throat.  It didn't matter.  All I had, all I could do, was my best.  For whatever little that meant.

I tightened the strap of the StG,, my hands trembling ever so slightly as I crouched, and slowly, silently moved toward the edge of the brush.  The knife slid out smoothly as the plan formed in my mind's eye, and with patient steps I moved in the brush towards my targets.

Toward the half-tracks.

Toward the fight.

I counted the steps. Not out loud. Not even consciously. It was instinct, or fear. That low hum behind the ribs, somewhere between nausea and clarity. Every inch forward felt like a challenge. Every breath a question.

The sun hung low but strong, casting everything in amber and gold. The light lanced through the canopy in shafts, mottling the underbrush with shifting patches of brightness and shadow. It should've felt warm, alive. Instead, it made the woods feel like a trap, each golden ray a spotlight.

These weren't green troops, not the ones I could hear ahead. No idle chatter. No lit cigarettes. Just low voices in clipped tones and the quiet sounds of precision. Sandbags being dropped into place. Tripwires stretched taut. Someone muttered in Imperial with the steady rhythm of a checklist.

I crept through the underbrush. It wasn't silence that warned me; it was the wrong kind of quiet. Trained quiet. Predatory. I could feel the trap tightening around Welkin like a noose.

The first half-track was nestled under a wide oak, dappled in shifting leaves. The sun caught on its metal hull, glinting just enough to betray its outline. The gun mount tracked the road, motionless but primed. The second vehicle mirrored it forty meters down, covering a different angle.

A sentry stood by the back of the nearest half-track.  His eyes swept left and right with lazy precision, his rifle gripped firm. His stance said this wasn't his first ambush.

I crept closer, counting breaths. Then I moved.

The knife slid across his throat before he even registered me. His eyes flared wide, not in pain, but surprise, as if the world had betrayed him. His blood steamed in the summer heat. I caught his weight and eased him into the brush, quiet as the wind.

One.

The second was crouched at the rear hatch, pulling lances out of a crate. I heard him whisper something to a comrade deeper in the trees. Focused. Careful. Helmet tight. Gloves gripping each warhead like a porcelain vase.

I slid behind him and struck, the knife angled up under the arm and into the lungs. He stiffened, one hand gripping the crate, then sagged. I kept my arm tight across his chest until he stopped moving.

Two.

This isn't skill. This is necessity. This is luck.

But the edge of luck is narrow, and I'm always a step from bleeding off it.

The third was farther out, a spotter, crouched with binoculars aimed at the road. His back to me. Watching Welkin. Waiting for the right moment to unleash hell.

I crept behind him, the late sun warm on my neck, the light casting both our shadows long against the trees. The knife slid into the base of his skull before he even flinched. He crumpled like he'd just fallen asleep.

Three.

They'll miss him soon.

I slid toward the half-track. My fingers found the hatch handle. Still unlocked. My luck hadn't run out.  Yet.

Inside was cramped and hot, the air stale and reeking of oil. I moved quietly, easing up into the turret. My fingers wrapped around the grips of the mounted HMG. The steel felt cool despite the sun above, a snake waiting to strike.

Then a jolt.

The driver shifted. I held still.

A muttered curse. The man turned halfway to check behind; just as I swung the turret toward him.

He looked up, confusion giving way to horror.

I pulled the trigger.

The interior lit up with smoke and red mist. He ceased to be a person in less than a second. Gore splashed the windshield and dashboard. I blinked through it and rotated the gun outward.

Shouts broke the calm. Not panic, not yet, but confusion. One barked an order. Another hissed for silence. They moved with discipline, ducking, flanking, sweeping the treeline.

But they didn't know where I was.

Too late.

I opened fire.

The turret thundered, spitting fire and death. The late sun backlit the tracers, streaks of amber and gold ripping the ambush apart. Men dove behind logs, some firing blindly, others screaming orders in Imperial.

One ran for the second half-track. I cut him down mid-stride. Another turned to fire a rocket, but I caught him before he could line up the shot. The HMG shredded sandbags and flesh alike, the recoil hammering through my arms as I laid into the clearing.

The forest lit up, not with shadows, but with smoke, brass, and blood.

By the time the barrel began to glow, only silence remained.

000

The first thunderclap of gunfire cracked across the hills like lightning.

Welkin's head snapped up. A second burst followed, then another, long, sustained, heavy. Not rifles. Not even light machine guns.

That was a mounted weapon. Big. Loud. Final.

"Shit," he hissed, already moving. He knew what that meant. Jerry had engaged… or more likely, had been forced to.

"Alicia! You, Juno, Cael, Moroz, with me!" His voice was sharp, clipped. No time to explain. No time for feelings.

Alicia was already running, weapon in hand, eyes locked on the distant tree line. The three militia members stumbled forward behind her, jittery with adrenaline, still more fear than training, but moving all the same.

"Jerry's in trouble!" she shouted without needing to.

Welkin's voice followed close behind. "Support him however you can! Go!"

Then he turned, jaw tight, eyes scanning the forest like he could see through the trees. "Isara," he said quietly, then louder: "Start the Edelweiss. Now."

She didn't argue. She knew the sound of his voice when it was at war with itself.

As the engine roared to life, Welkin climbed onto the tank's side, gripping the steel hatch with white knuckles.

You sent him in there alone. Alone.

He clenched his jaw.

You knew the odds. You knew what you were asking.

The tank rolled forward, trees blurring past in a wash of green and gold, the late summer sun casting long shadows. Every jolt of the terrain made his stomach tighten. He gripped the hatch harder, the metal biting into his palm, but he didn't let go.

I gave an order, he told himself. There was no choice. No time. He was the only one who could do it.

But none of that made it right.

He forced the mask on; the commander's face, the man who always had a plan. But underneath, the guilt smoldered.

He trusted you. You told him he could do it. And now…

000

Alicia tore into the woods like a shell fired from a barrel, but every step deeper slowed her; not from exhaustion, but from dread.

It started subtly. A dark stain on a tree. A bloodied glove clinging to a bush. Then she saw the first body, and the full weight of what happened here began to take shape.

The soldier's face was gone… just gone.  A crater punched through his helmet and skull, the edges of the wound still smoking. Nearby, another lay sprawled over the remains of a sandbag nest, his limbs twisted unnaturally, chest cavity torn open in a shower of gore and bone.

Alicia pressed on, but her steps grew slower, more cautious. Her breath rasped in her chest. Her hands trembled.

There was… order to the carnage. Not chaos. Not panic. A calculated slaughter. Bodies positioned where they'd been gunned down mid-action. Shell casings sprinkled like breadcrumbs. Shredded bark where bullets had passed clean through wood and man alike.

It was... almost beautiful. Like a grotesque sculpture of war. A canvas painted in arterial red.

And that terrified her.

Because she knew who had done this.

He's not a killer, she told herself. He's just trying to help. He didn't want this. I pushed him into it…

Her own voice came back to her like a ghost, whispering from hours ago.

"You could be a symbol, Jerry. Someone who matters."

Is this what a symbol looks like?

The trail of blood and ruin led her on, past torn bodies, dismembered limbs, helmets knocked clean off heads by the force of impacts. One man had died mid-crawl, reaching for a rifle he never got to fire. Another had fallen against a tree, slumped like a broken doll, entrails pooling beneath him.

Then came the first half-track.

The vehicle was still, partially obscured by brush. One of its doors hung open, a bloody handprint streaking down the side.

And above it, motionless, was Jerry.

He sat slouched in the open turret, one arm resting against the hot barrel of the mounted HMG, the other hanging limply over his knee. Blood soaked his chest, dark against the already-filthy blue t-shirt under his MOLL-E plate carrier. His arms were red to the elbows. Gore stained his face, matted his hair, dripped from his jaw in slow, sticky strands.

He looked at her.

Slowly. Mechanically. Like turning his head took every ounce of willpower.

His eyes were glass. Cold. Dead.

No panic. No shaking. No begging.

Just silence.

Alicia felt her legs weaken beneath her. She almost dropped her weapon.

This wasn't shock. It wasn't even trauma. It was emptiness. The kind that settled in deep. The kind that didn't let go.

And it scared her more than anything she'd seen on this battlefield.

Behind her, the others crashed through the brush. Juno skidded to a stop, staring.

"By the Valkyrur…" she murmured.

Cael didn't even make it two steps before he dropped to his knees, vomiting.

Moroz turned away, covering his mouth, eyes wide and unblinking.

The Edelweiss finally broke through the treeline, its treads parting the brush like waves. The tank growled as it pushed into the clearing, the smell of burning oil and hot metal mixing with blood and gunpowder.

Welkin stood tall on the turret, scanning the scene, and stopped cold when his eyes found Jerry.

He didn't speak. Didn't move.

And for just a second, the commander's mask slipped. Grief bled through.

But there was no time for tears. No time for guilt.

There were only bodies, and a man sitting among them, still and silent, as if the weight of it all hadn't crushed him… only hollowed him out.

000

They called it cleanup, but the word felt hollow in the face of what was left behind.

The battlefield was still. The woods remained mute. No birds sang, and the light breeze carried only the smell of cordite, blood, and churned earth. The late afternoon sun painted the carnage in a soft, golden glow.  A cruel contrast to the brutality it illuminated. Long shadows stretched across twisted bodies and shattered weapons. Some of the soldiers had been torn apart by heavy rounds, others were slumped like broken dolls over sandbags or branches, blood soaking into the soil.

Alicia helped Jerry down from the turret.

He didn't resist. Didn't protest. He moved the way something does after it's been uncoiled, not broken, but emptied. His feet hit the ground with a dull thud, his boots crunching in the gravel and shell casings. His clothes were stained to the seams, soaked through with blood and blackened gore. The blue t-shirt beneath his MOLL-E carrier clung to his body, crusted stiff. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and took his arm gently.

"Let's sit you down," she said, voice soft, almost lost to the wind.

He didn't look at her. Just nodded. She led him to the Edelweiss, sat him against its cool chassis, the painted steel smeared where he touched it. She dropped her rifle and rummaged in her belt pouch for her canteen, shaking it. A few sloshes left. Just enough. She unscrewed the cap and pulled a cloth from her hip pouch, dampening it and kneeling beside him.

"This might sting a little," she whispered, though she doubted he'd notice.

She tried to clean his face first.  The blood thick in his hairline, drying in streaks that ran down his jaw. His eyes were distant, barely blinking, focused on something far beyond her.

"You saved everyone, Jerry," she said quietly, wringing the cloth and wiping the side of his neck. "We'd be dead without you. I'd be dead."

Still, he said nothing.

"I… I shouldn't have said those things before," she continued. "About you needing to be something. A hero. That wasn't fair."

She scrubbed gently at a smear on his chin. Her voice cracked. "This... this is what that looks like, isn't it?"

No answer.

"Valkyrur help me," she breathed. "I didn't know."

Behind them, Isara rounded the Edelweiss with a rag in one hand and a wrench in the other. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw Jerry, her breath catching audibly.

Her mouth opened slightly, like she meant to say something. Then she closed it.

She moved slowly forward and, without a word, leaned down and wrapped her arms around Jerry. A quick, trembling hug. Not too tight. Just enough to let him know she was there. Her hands trembled against his bloodied back, and she stepped away as fast as she'd come, wiping at her face with her sleeve as she turned back toward the tank.

Behind the quiet gestures, the rest of the militia worked. Or tried to.

They moved through the aftermath in loose groups, their voices barely more than whispers. Every one of them glanced toward Jerry at some point, even if only for a moment.

"...he did it all himself…" someone muttered.

"...slit their throats like it was nothing…"

"...walked into the middle of it and just— turned that thing loose on them..."

"...he's not even blinking…"

"...he's not even human…"

"...The Lion of Bruhl…"

"...he didn't feel a thing…"

There was reverence in their voices… but also unease. Worship, wrapped in fear.

They had expected courage. Not… this.

Welkin stood a little apart from it all, walking the edge of the kill zone like a man taking account of his own failures. His gloved hand traced along the scorched frame of the second half-track. Blood smeared in places. Bullet casings everywhere.

He stopped near a body; an Imperial soldier whose ribcage had been partially opened by a .50 cal burst. Welkin crouched, examining the jagged exit wound in silence. Then, slowly, he stood and looked toward the Edelweiss.

Toward Jerry.

He looked so small sitting there.

You did this, Welkin thought. You put the burden in his hands.

He could feel the mask of command slipping back into place, but not before something cracked underneath. The guilt was a quiet scream in his chest. He'd made the call. Sent Jerry forward. Put the weight of an army on the back of a single man because there were no other options.

But knowing it had been the right call didn't make it feel any less like a betrayal.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned back to the tank, barking orders to keep the others moving.

Later, the militia gathered around the captured half-tracks. Someone brought up the idea of drawing straws.  Too many didn't want to ride in the blood-slicked one. Not after what had happened in it.

They circled up behind the Edelweiss. Whispered, shuffled. No one said Jerry's name, but they all looked toward him, just once.

He didn't hear them.

Or they thought he didn't.

But he knew.

He knew they were scared now, and not of the Imperials.

It was one thing to be a hero who pulled off the impossible.

It was another to do it so well that no one could look at you the same way again.

So Jerry sat there, quiet and still, watching the long shadows stretch across the ground, the blood on his hands drying into his palms. The cloth Alicia had used was still clutched in her hand. Her eyes kept darting toward him, lips parted like she wanted to say something more, but she didn't.

No one did.

And in the silence that followed, the myth of the Lion grew.

Not from stories told.

But from the things no one dared say out loud.

000

The railyard was a controlled chaos of bodies, steel, and sweat.  The conscripted heartbeat of a nation bracing for war. Militia units from across Gallia poured in like tributaries to a rising tide. Young men barely out of boyhood stood alongside old hunters and hardened dockhands; women in field gear carried rifles with shaking hands and steeled eyes. No uniformity in look, but a shared, grim determination bound them all. The trains screamed and hissed under the weight of tanks, supply crates, and troops, each one headed east, toward Randgriz, and the Academy.

The survivors from Bruhl arrived quietly. Not triumphant, but intact.

Many were dehydrated, faces pale from exhaustion, some stumbling straight into the arms of the waiting medics. A few were ushered onto medical cars or hurried toward the overwhelmed hospital barracks. For others, the destination was still unclear. But for five among them- Welkin, Isara, Alicia, Juno, and Jerry?  The fighting was done, for now. This battle had ended.

In a passenger car set aside for officers, the group sat in silence. Not because there was nothing to say, but because words could do so little.

Welkin rested in the corner, his face half-shadowed by the dull golden lamplight. He looked at Jerry, freshly scrubbed but still marked by what had happened. The blood was gone, but the silence remained. Welkin wanted to say something… an apology, maybe, but the words didn't come. Not yet. This wasn't the moment. Instead, he sat with Isara beside him, quietly chatting with Alicia and Juno, their voices low, almost conspiratorial, like laughter was still allowed if it was soft enough.

Jerry sat opposite, his eyes out the window, watching the last rays of light slip away behind the hills. His posture was relaxed in a way that suggested exhaustion more than ease. He didn't speak. Just listened to the dull clatter of the platform outside, and the distant bark of officers trying to wrangle the next trainload of war-bound souls.

He wasn't thinking of glory, or medals, or recognition. He was thinking about the man crouched by the half-track who never saw the knife coming. About the second one, who bled out gasping and clawing at armor that didn't matter. About the third, the driver, who had time to scream before being obliterated in a mist of red. He remembered the heat of the turret, the cold of the metal beneath his hands. The way the weapon bucked like an animal as it spat death.

The things he should have felt; rage, guilt, triumph… were just... distant. There was only that lingering emptiness. The realization that this wasn't the climax of a story, it was the start of one.

And that those stories lied about what being a hero felt like.

He missed his bed. His apartment. The faint glow of city lights through drawn blinds. He missed the quiet, forgettable mundanity of it all, and how, back then, he'd never even realized how sacred it was to not know what it meant to kill someone.

The train let out a low groan and hissed against the rails, wheels turning slowly, then with increasing rhythm. The station lights slid away into the warm summer night, swallowed by the darkness of the Gallian countryside. The future awaited. The war rolled forward.

And in that dim booth, five soldiers sat. Changed. Bound together not by victory, but survival.

The legend of the Lion had begun.

But for Jerry, sitting in that train car, watching the world pass by, he began to wonder if it was worth it.  If all the blood and pain and killing, of the hot burn of lead and the cold calculus of the blade, and all the suffering yet to come, was worth who he was.  Was worth sacrificing again and again on the altar now named The Lion of Bruhl.

He had no answers, as the train sped on, careless of the concerns of simple men such as he.

So it was.

So it would be.