The night smelled of iron, smoke, and rain.
The war had stretched on for so long that time itself had stopped meaning anything. The Northern banners hung torn over blackened soil, their silver crests dulled by soot. Airships hovered low, their propellers whining like dying birds, while fires flickered faintly across the horizon... the only light left in a world smothered by war.
May trudged through the mud toward the command tent. Her uniform was soaked, her coat burned along one sleeve, her face hollow from nights without sleep. Her once-steady hands trembled now as she adjusted the strap of her pistol belt. Behind her, the remnants of the artillery division marched with heads bowed.
The ground was quiet except for the soft hiss of falling ash. When she reached the tent, she hesitated. The light inside was dim.
