The battlefield was still—too still. Smoke clung in the air like a frayed shroud, and the reek of blood, burned meat, and monster ichor filled every breath. But for the first time this morning, the screaming had ceased. The wave of low-ranked creatures had been broken, their forms scattered through the ruins of the marketplace and stacked against fallen barricades.
Varon Draegus rested his weight against a splintered pillar, hunching his shoulders with a grunt. His armor was charred black across the chestplate, a pauldron dragging by a half-broken strap. His twin glaives lay across his thighs, blades nicked from hours of whittling through hide, bone, and sinew.
"By the Abyss," grunted Thalos, the squad's dwarf, pulling his wide shield in place as if it were light. His beard was matted with dried blood—most of it not his own. "If I never get to smell burnt troll guts again, it'll be too soon."
"You always say that," the wolf-eared assassin Selvara grinned, stretching her legs where she sat perched on a toppled wagon. Her tail flicked lazily behind her, twitching with leftover adrenaline. "But the moment they throw another at us, you'll be first to bury your hammer in its skull."
Thalos puffed his chest. "Aye. That's because I'm reliable, unlike certain beast-kin who spend half the battle chasing shiny loot from corpses."
Selvara laughed harshly, white teeth gleaming. "Loot purchases meat. Meat sustains me. Unlike you, I don't live on pure obstinacy and beard oil."
Their repartee elicited a chuckle from Aeloria, the elf archer, as she delicately restrung her bow. "Desist, the both of you. If the commanders catch you two bickering about beard oil and meat as the city burns, we'll be reduced to latrine cleaning again." Her grubby silver hair reflected the light of a burning edifice. In spite of herself, her lips twisted into a unusual, authentic smile.
Latrines would be safer," grumbled Kaelen, the squad's human mage and healer. His fingers radiated a soft glow as he closed a shallow cut along Varon's ribs. "Honestly, I'd do another year of mopping floors if it meant not having to stitch you idiots together every five minutes."
Varon snorted quietly. "And rob you of the excitement of seeing me bleed? Don't pretend, Kaelen—you thrive on it.
The mage shot him a deadpan glare. "I'll admit it, Captain. Nothing gives me greater joy than watching my squad leader leak like a wineskin in a knife fight."
That broke them all into laughter—the ragged, tired kind that only came after too many hours of killing.
For an instant, the devastated square was not so much a graveyard but the academy's mess hall. They were not blood-soaked warriors, but cadets once more—five young souls cast together by the royal program's whims, arguing like family.
Selvara flopped backwards theatrically onto the wagon. "Well, I don't know what about you all, but I say we've officially survived the apocalypse. Wave one—done. The world didn't end. Guess that means we win, yes?"
Aeloria arched an eyebrow, dry humor in her voice. "You tempt fate, beast-girl. Say things like that, and the gods will send something worse just to spite you.
"Pfft." Selvara waved a clawed finger. "That's elf superstition. Everybody knows the gods don't bother with us. And besides, what is worse than a hundred ogres and a river of goblins?"
"Plenty," Kaelen grumbled to himself.
Thalos let out a low laugh. "I'll buy that drink when we return. First round's on me. Second too, if Selvara agrees to quit griping about the price of meat."
"Never going to happen," she replied with lightning speed.
Varon eyed them with a half smile playing on the edges of his mouth. His team—they weren't merely soldiers. They were brothers and sisters in arms, battered by the same hardships, honed by the same flames. They had laughed with each other, bled with each other, almost died with each other. And yet, in the midst of the war's very first tempest, they still managed to joke.
It was humor of the gallows sort, yes—but it was theirs.
"Don't get too cozy," Varon at last said, heaving himself upright. His tone was firm, authoritative, the tone of a leader forged from aristocratic blood and seasoned on the battlefield. "The first wave is done, but this war is not. Keep your gear handy."
Thalos was groaning, rolling his eyes. "And I thought you might just let us breathe for five bloody minutes."
Varon looked over them all, his expression milder now. "Five minutes is more than some men got today. Enjoy it while you can."
There was a moment of quiet after. They knew he was correct. There were already hundreds dead in the streets. And while they laughed, it was only a defense against reality—they were still standing in the center of a killing house, and the war was far from over.
But no one, not even Varon, could have anticipated what was coming out of the smoke.