The soft crunch of footsteps carried over the quiet evening valley. The air smelled of damp soil, the snow outside the barrier melting into rivulets that fed the sprouting green beneath.
The captured soldiers were beginning to stir, one after another, confusion heavy in their groggy voices.
"...Where the hell are we?"
One muttered, blinking against the fading sunlight.
"Wait—my hands…Damn it. We're tied."
Another rattled his bindings and cursed under his breath.
Their groans overlapped, some muttering angrily, others sitting silently as though still trying to grasp the situation.
None of them, however, dared to raise their voice too loudly.
Something about the place—the warmth, the strange comfort in the air—stifled their fear just enough to keep them from panicking.
Minutes passed, and the first of them lifted his head, truly noticing the ground beneath him.
"...Grass? This can't be right. We were marching through a snowstorm this morning."
