A frail boy wandered through tents, in and out, over and over, as if searching for someone—or something—he couldn't see. Shadows danced in the flickering light of burning cloth. Bodies lay scattered, still and silent, while insects hummed through the night. The air was heavy, thick with smoke and ash.
"Sylas! Wake up! Sylas!"
Voices pierced his mind, fragmented and distant. He struggled to hear, to think. His consciousness drifted, untethered, into a dark, endless ocean.
"Sylas!"
He gasped, jolting awake, drenched in sweat. The frail boy's eyes adjusted to the morning sun spilling into the tent. Relief washed over him as he saw a familiar face.
"Tally?"
"Yeah. Now get up. You overslept, heavily. We have an assignment today."
Sylas rubbed his eyes, yawning. The warmth of sunlight above the tent roof was a quiet reminder: he had survived one more day. As long as he finished today's mission, he could survive till tomorrow.
"We have the raid on the sky people's transport unit, right?"
Tally studied him, almost shocked at Sylas's calm. He didn't seem to care. Not about the assignment. Not about the danger.
"Sylas, you're sickening,"
Tally said with a grin.
"Am I?"
Sylas replied, smiling.
Before Tally could answer, Sylas lunged, headlocking him and ruffling his hair. They laughed, the sound raw and unfiltered.
"Go make breakfast for the squad. I'll be out in a few minutes after I dress."
"Sir! Yes, sir!" Tally saluted playfully and left the tent.
Sylas shook his head, amused. "What am I to do with an idiot like that for a partner?"
He dressed, slinging his sword over his shoulder, and walked toward the fire. The rest of the team sat around, eating, talking, enjoying a brief moment of peace.
"Hey! Listen up, everybody!"
Sylas called, standing before them. He studied each face, predicting who would die, who would survive. Thoughts like these haunted him every assignment.
"We have a tough mission today. Honestly… some of you might not make it. I know you know this already, so I won't make it awkward—but I care about all of you. We're a team. Let's get this done."
The team laughed, dismissive, but deep down, they felt it. Death was never far from their lives.
"Seriously, lighten up, dude."
A delicate voice muttered from behind.
Sylas felt a hand on his shoulder. Angel. Sweet, kind, playful—her presence grounded him.
"You're right."
he admitted.
"I should lighten up."
He sat on a sturdy log, munching on bread, sipping soup—and yes, beer. Bitter, but a small comfort in a world of war.
Fully armed and clad in black cloth reinforced with metal plates, Sylas and his team stepped into the woods. Their swords were ready. Each step pulled Sylas deeper into unease, memories of his burning-tent dream clawing at him.
"Sylas, look."
Tally pointed to a floating carriage, six sky people visible inside. Twenty feet above the ground, it drifted like a predatory shadow.
Sylas raised a hand, signaling the team to stop. Silent, they readied their swords.
He grinned. He pointed.
The battle was brief but brutal. By the end, the carriage lay empty—only food and water remained. Sky people didn't usually carry supplies. Weapons. Slaves. Humans. Always something more. But here? Nothing.
"This is… strange,"
Sylas muttered.
Tally kicked the carriage in frustration.
"We woke up early, lost three team members, and for what? Food and water? Bullshit!"
Sylas sighed, guiding the team to set up camp and cover their fallen comrades. Tally eventually helped, grumbling but compliant.
Around the campfire, Sylas addressed his team.
"I know some of you are upset about—"
"Yeah, we might be, but you aren't! You bag of shit!"
The outburst came from a new member, grief and anger spilling from his young, clenched fists. Sylas froze, unable to recall his name—or the names of anyone except Tally and Angel.
"You don't even know them. You don't care. That speech this morning? Feel-good nonsense. You're a piece of shit."
The boy continued, voice shaking.
"We're kids sent to war as fodder!"
Sylas said nothing. He listened, drained and detached.
"Go to bed. Everyone. Now."
The boy fell silent immediately, knowing the line had been crossed.
The camp quieted. Sylas could not sleep. He rose, stepping into the cold night, no armor to guard him. He walked to a nearby stream to clear his mind.
His reflection stared back—black hair flapping in the wind, pale face, dark brown eyes piercing. He grinned faintly.
Then a scream shattered the night. Fire bloomed in the distance. Sylas ran.
He crouched behind a bush, heart pounding. Three sky people loomed over a camp. Two had two wings; the tallest had three. His team was already basically wiped out.
Tally's body lay motionless. Sylas's stomach churned.
"Look what we have here—the last one. Cute, too."
Angel. Her silver hair shone even in the chaos. She was unconscious, bloodied, held by one of the three.
Sylas moved, striking the tallest as it turned—but his sword dissolved the moment it touched the wings.
"Oh, there you are. Idiot tried to cut my wings."
He was sent flying into a tree, lungs crashing, vision blurring. The three laughed.
The tallest drew a knife and carved into Sylas's eye. Pain exploded, blood gushing. His body went numb.
But then… a voice. Deep. Laughing.
"So, boy… you gave me your eye as an offering for my power. A foolish choice."
The sky person walked away, Angel in tow. Sylas collapsed, unable to move.
"You know, if you had my power before all this… maybe you wouldn't be so defeated."
The voice echoed in his mind.
Sylas closed his one remaining eye and passed out. Darkness took him, but the voice never left