Songs of Souls

014: A Different Kind of Battlefield

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Shrouded Light. The air, thick with the stench of iron and rot, scraped Deynfif's lungs like coarse clay. The Miers soldiers around him gasped, each breath a struggle. Groans, sharp and sudden, punctuated the silence. He flinched with every sound. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy, twisting in his gut.

He shivered. The cold bit through his stolen armor, the edges digging into him like a guilty conscience. A cold sweat, slicker than anything familiar, trickled down his temple despite the chill. His gaze snagged on the battlefield. Bodies twisted at wrong angles, eyes staring blankly at the sky. Each sight was a stone added to the pit forming in his stomach.

Joining the mercenaries had felt like a righteous act, a way to push back against the encroaching darkness of the Empire. He'd envisioned strength, cunning maneuvers, perhaps even a thrill. Not this shambles. The air itself seemed to rot, thick and sour, each rasping breath from the Miers' wounded like a stone grinding on his own bones.

Hirua shifted his weight, a foot tapping against the packed earth. The armor they'd scrounged fit him poorly, too. Einntyr hummed under his breath, something rambling and off-key.

He wished he could find some sound soothing right now. His fingers tightened on his scarf. The fabric was rough, the only familiar thing in a world gone jagged. The campfire stories, the bravado of veterans – none had prepared him for this grim reality.

Here, amidst the dead and the dying, the weight of his decision pressed down on him like a physical weight. Each shallow gasp from a fallen soldier, each splatter of blood staining the hard-packed earth, chipped away at the idealism he'd carried into this battle.

Hirua caught his eye, a subtle nod passing between them. Einntyr, as if sensing the shift, fell silent, his usual carefree tune dying on his lips. Hirua, a flicker of movement against the firelight, melted into the shadows that clung to the edges of the encampment. Einntyr, a pale blur, drifted away, his steps soundless even on the packed earth.

Each step he took felt like wading through mud, the air thick and resistant. The soldier's contorted face, a grotesque mockery of peace, twisted something inside his gut. Was this the price of their stand? This charnel house of shattered limbs and vacant eyes?

His stomach churned, the urge to retch warring with the need to move. Focus. One step at a time. He slammed into something solid, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain, sharp and immediate, ripped through the fog of his thoughts.

"Watch it, shrimp." The words scraped against his ears like stone on stone. He looked up, flinching at the glint of a canine tooth – a shard of bone in a sneer. His fingers tightened on his scarf, a calming gesture in the face of the unexpected.

The man, with upturned eyes and white hair, shouldered past, disappearing into the darkness of a nearby tent.

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Kleinnard sauntered in, a smirk plastered across his face. He kicked a stray pebble, sending a spray of dust dancing around his dusty boots. Each step was a swagger, a predator back from a pointless hunt.

"So you return at last," Vadorecht's voice boomed. A vein throbbed above the old man's eye. "Report, Lieutenant. What troubles have you unearthed?"

"Bah! Boring!" He drawled, baring a canine in a sneer.

"Hold your tongue, whelp!" Vadorecht's fist slammed down on the table, rattling the figurines on the map. "War is a grim dance, not a spectacle! We fight for the Empire, yes, but also for the honor of Empress Inaya! Do not forget the weight such conflict carries!"