The fortress had never been meant to be one.
It was a city once. Or the idea of one. Stone foundations still surfaced in places where the earth had not yet swallowed them, jagged outlines of streets that led nowhere, walls broken and rebuilt with whatever hands could find. Mud walls rose unevenly along the perimeter, not planned—just stacked earth reinforced with scrap metal, timber, and desperation.
The locals had built them years ago.
The army had arrived later and decided they were good enough.
Inside the walls, order tried to exist.
Tents were laid out in rough rows. Generators hummed behind sandbags. Soldiers moved with rifles slung across their chests, boots sinking slightly into dust that never truly settled. A tank sat near the eastern side of the compound, its hull scarred and sun-faded, engine silent like a resting animal that might wake at any moment.
The afternoon heat pressed down on everything.
The captain sat on an overturned crate just outside his tent, sleeves rolled to his elbows, helmet set beside his boots. He looked like a man in his early forties, though the lines in his face suggested more years than that. His hair was dark with threads of gray, cropped short. His eyes carried the dullness of someone who slept only because his body eventually demanded it.
He was listening.
"I'm telling you, captain," the young woman said, hands on her hips, eyes bright. "If I lived in the medieval era, I'd be one of those knight women. You know. The famous one."
She stood in front of him, posture easy, uniform worn but clean. She was in her early twenties, too pretty by accident rather than effort. Blue eyes sharp and curious. Hair tied back, stubborn strands slipping free no matter how often regulations tried to claim them.
The captain glanced up. "Which one?"
She snapped her fingers. "That one. The French one."
"Joan of Arc?" he asked.
"Yes!" she said, grinning. "Just imagine me on a battlefield, armor on, sword in hand. Charging forward, cutting down enemies while my hair's flying everywhere."
She mimed a wild slash through the air, nearly hitting a supply crate.
The captain smiled faintly.
"Actually," he said mildly, "medieval armor is very hard to cut through. Especially with a sword."
She froze. Blinked. "What?"
"And if you weren't wearing a helmet," he added, "you'd die in about five seconds."
Her mouth opened. "But—Captain—in anime—"
"And how exactly would your hair wave," he continued calmly, "with a helmet on?"
She stared at him, betrayed.
"That's not how it works," she protested. "In anime it's—"
"Mary," a voice cut in, amused and sharp. "Can you stop pretending your cartoons are historically accurate?"
A man leaned against a nearby vehicle, arms crossed. Dark-skinned. Same age as Mary. Close-cropped hair. Too handsome to be unnoticed, too tired to care. His uniform was scuffed, boots worn thin.
"Shut up, Joe," Mary shot back instantly. "Anime and cartoons are not the same thing!"
"You said you'll cut down armored knights," Joe said. "With a sword. That's physics denial."
"It's style!" Mary argued.
"It's stupid," Joe replied.
They bickered back and forth, words overlapping, familiar insults traded like gifts.
The captain watched them with something warm and fragile in his chest.
Young spirits, he thought.
After a year of war, they could still smile.
They leaned on each other without knowing they were doing it. He had seen this before—people laughing not because things were good, but because laughter was the only thing left that felt human.
He lowered his gaze briefly.
May that never leave them.
Movement at the gate caught his eye.
People were entering the compound—not soldiers, but locals. Elderly men, women with children clinging to their sides, teenagers trying to look braver than they felt. They moved hesitantly through the gate, eyes low, steps careful, as though even standing inside the walls might be a mistake.
A soldier spoke to them near the gate. His gestures were stiff, apologetic. He pointed toward a spot near the kitchens where bins sat, the containers of food deemed unfit for rations. Spoiled by standards. Still edible by necessity.
The captain rose slowly.
Mary followed his gaze. "Poor them," she said quietly.
Joe nodded. "They walked a long way."
"That's the only reason they came," the captain said. "Because they heard there might be food."
He watched the line form.
"And we can't give them anything but what we throw away," he added.
Joe's jaw tightened. "Orders say no rations. Logistics are already stretched."
"I know," the captain said.
The word tasted like rust.
A small figure broke from the group.
A boy.
Barely ten. Shirt torn. Knees dusty. He approached uncertainly, eyes flicking between uniforms. The food pile was already smaller now.
The captain stepped forward without thinking.
He took a piece of bread from beside the crate. Stale, but whole.
He knelt in front of the boy.
"Here," he said gently, offering it. "I'm sorry. This is all I can give."
The boy's eyes widened.
He took the bread like it might disappear if he blinked. His smile spread instantly, unguarded and brilliant.
He said something quickly in a language the captain didn't understand.
The captain tilted his head, confused.
The boy noticed the captain's confusion, smiled wider, and stepped closer. Before the captain could react, the boy leaned up and kissed his cheek then pulled back, still smiling.
The boy repeated the word.
This time, the captain understood.
"Thank you."
The boy ran back to his people, clutching the bread, disappearing through the gate as the group slowly moved away.
Silence settled.
The captain watched until they were gone.
"Come on, guys," he said quietly. "We still have a job."
They turned away.
Mary was still smiling as she turned away, arguing with Joe about something he hadn't said properly.
The gunfire sound came without warning.
"What the hell was that?!" Mary shouted.
"Weapons! Move!" the captain barked.
Soldiers scrambled instantly. Rifles were seized, safeties snapped off, boots pounding as the captain led them toward the gate. They climbed the wall together, breath hard, training taking over where thought failed.
And then—
Bodies.
Dozens of them. The locals. Lying where they had stood moments earlier. Not moving.
Blood soaked into the dust. Children lay twisted where they'd fallen. Elderly men sprawled mid-step, faces frozen in surprise.
"Shit…"
"Oh fuck…"
One of the captain's soldiers turned away, gagging. Another swore under his breath, voice breaking.
At the gate, the other detachment stood with weapons still smoking.
Some smiled and some stared ahead with eyes already empty.
The captain opened his mouth.
No words came.
In less time than it took to breathe, the world tore itself apart.
Heat replaced shade. The sky burned white above him. Dust and smoke filled the air so thick it scraped the lungs. The captain stood frozen, ears ringing, vision swimming as the battlefield stretched endlessly ahead.
Then he heard screaming.
He turned.
Joe was on his knees in the dirt, hands shaking as he cradled Mary's head. A landmine had taken her from the waist down. Her body was twisted unnaturally against a rock. Blood soaked into sand that could not absorb fast enough.
Mary's face was contorted with pain beyond words. Her mouth opened, trying to scream, but only broken sounds came out, sounds of air scraping through lungs that no longer worked. Her hands twitched weakly, searching for something to hold.
Her eyes found the captain.
They begged.
Then the light inside them faded.
Joe screamed her name as her body went still.
And the world shattered again.
Dust became cloth. Smoke became canvas. Heat collapsed into stale air.
The battlefield was gone.
The captain was standing inside a tent.
Canvas walls sagged under the weight of heat and dust. The air smelled of antiseptic, sweat, and something metallic that never truly washed away. Light filtered in through a torn seam overhead, cutting the space into uneven strips.
The captain heard movement behind him and turned.
"Joe?" he said.
Joe sat on the edge of the cot, shoulders hunched forward, hands resting loosely between his knees. He looked smaller than he had before. Thinner. His uniform hung on him like it belonged to someone else. His eyes were red, not fresh with tears, but worn raw by them.
For a long moment, Joe didn't speak.
Then, without looking up, he asked, "Captain… are we the terrorists?"
The words landed softly.
"I already know," he continued, voice flat. "I've known for a while. Just didn't want to say it out loud."
He lifted his head then, just enough for the captain to see his face properly.
"I kept asking myself why we're here," Joe said. "Why people keep dying. Why Mary—"
His voice broke for half a second, then locked itself back into place.
"Why Mary died."
The captain took a step forward. "Joe—"
"I tried to make it make sense," Joe said, faster now. "Tried to tell myself it was orders. Or strategy. Or necessary. But every time I close my eyes, I see the gate. I see the kids."
His hands shook.
"I can't carry it anymore."
A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily, like it offended him.
"I'm sorry, Captain Elias."
Joe's hand came up.
The captain saw the movement too late.
"No—"
The tent vanished in white noise.
And the world imploded.
---
Alaric jerked awake.
His breath tore out of him like he'd been pulled from deep water. Sweat soaked his hair, his shirt clinging to his back. His heart slammed against his ribs, hard enough to hurt.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, rough wooden boards and plain beams close enough to make the room feel small.
He stared upward, eyes burning, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. The dream clung to him like a second skin, refusing to let go all at once.
After a long moment, he raised a trembling hand and pressed it to his face.
Silence pressed in around him.