The horn did not fade.
It stayed in the air, long and trembling, as if the world itself had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe out.
Then the shouting came.
"Forward!"
The order rippled from somewhere behind—far behind—passed through mouths that did not believe in it, until it reached the front where belief no longer mattered.
Imann moved because the line moved.
Boots sank into dirt. Shields bumped. The earth trembled beneath thousands of steps marching toward death with uneven rhythm. Dust rose, stinging eyes and throats. The helmet trapped heat and breath, turning each inhale into work.
This was not how stories began wars.
There was no single clash. No heroic charge.
Just walking.
Too slow to feel brave. Too fast to turn back.
The enemy did not move at first.
They stood in perfect lines, shields locked, spears angled like a wall of teeth. Horses stamped behind them, restless but controlled. Their banners barely swayed.
They were waiting.
Imann felt it then—the first crack in his belief.
We are going to them, he realized.
They are not coming to us.
Arrows screamed.
The first volley tore through the sky without warning, darkening the light for a heartbeat before descending.
Shields rose too late.
A man to Imann's left jerked backward, an arrow buried in his throat. He dropped without a sound, hands clawing at nothing. Another screamed as wood and iron punched through his thigh, spinning him into the dirt.
The line broke instantly.
Men screamed. Some ran forward. Some ran back. Some froze where they stood, bodies refusing orders their minds screamed.
"Hold!" someone shouted.
No one listened.
Imann lifted his shield just as something slammed into it—hard enough to jar his arm numb. The force traveled up into his shoulder, down his spine. He staggered but stayed standing.
Another volley.
Then another.
This was not fighting.
This was being harvested.
They're thinning us, Imann realized, heart hammering.
This is why we're in front.
The enemy line finally moved.
Not a charge.
A measured advance.
Drums beat—slow, heavy, unhurried. Their formation remained tight as they marched forward, stepping over bodies without breaking rhythm.
Imann's division was already falling apart.
A man beside him threw down his spear and ran. He made it three steps before an arrow took him in the back. He fell face-first, legs still twitching.
Imann didn't think.
Thinking was dangerous.
He ran forward.
Not toward glory—away from arrows.
The distance closed faster than he expected. Suddenly the enemy was close enough to see faces behind helmets, eyes calm, mouths set.
Then steel met steel.
The impact was chaos.
Spears thrust. Shields crashed. Men screamed as lines collapsed into knots of violence. The noise became unbearable—metal striking metal, bone cracking, horses screaming as they reared behind their lines.
Imann's sword hit something solid.
A shield.
The shock numbed his hands.
Someone shoved him. He stumbled, caught himself, swung again—too wide, too desperate. His blade glanced off armor, scraping sparks into the air.
A spear lunged toward his chest.
Instinct—not training—saved him.
He twisted, the spear sliding across his armor instead of piercing it. The old steel rang, absorbing the blow. His father's armor.
Imann slammed his shield into the man's face.
The enemy soldier fell backward, stunned. Imann didn't hesitate. He brought his sword down, felt resistance, then none.
He didn't look.
He couldn't.
Around him, the lowest army was being crushed.
They were not holding the line. They were being fed into it.
Enemy soldiers pushed forward in disciplined waves, rotating fresh fighters into the front while Imann's side had no replacements—only more fear.
A man screamed Imann's name.
He didn't know how they knew it.
Imann turned just in time to see a familiar face—one of the boys who had spoken of glory—grabbed by two enemy soldiers. A blade flashed.
The scream cut off.
Something inside Imann snapped.
Not rage.
Understanding.
This isn't war, he thought.
This is disposal.
The ground grew slick beneath his boots. Blood mixed with mud, turning the earth into something alive and treacherous. Bodies piled where lines had once been.
Imann fought without form.
Shield up. Strike. Step back. Don't fall.
That became his world.
A horn sounded again—but not theirs.
The king's banners surged forward from the rear. Heavy infantry. Trained soldiers. The real army.
They crashed into the enemy flank with thunder, finally shifting the balance.
But by then—
Too many were already gone.
Imann caught a glimpse of his father again.
Still alive.
Still watching.
Their eyes met across distance and chaos.
This time, his father did not look proud.
He looked broken.
The fighting dragged on until time lost meaning.
When the enemy finally began to retreat, it was not victory Imann felt.
It was emptiness.
The field was silent except for the wounded.
Imann stood among bodies, chest heaving, armor soaked dark. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his sword.
He wanted to take off the helmet.
He didn't.
Around him, the lowest army barely existed anymore.
They had done their job.
They had died first.
Imann looked down at the mud, at the blood clinging to his boots, and understood something he would never unlearn.
War did not make men.
It consumed them.
And the sound of the horn—
that sound would never leave him.
The horn's echo had barely faded when it was drowned out.
By screams.
Not the heroic cries Imann had imagined. Not shouts of victory or brave roars sung in taverns.
These were raw sounds—pain tearing out of throats, fear breaking voices apart, rage without words. The sound of men realizing, all at once, that death was close enough to touch.
Imann froze.
For a heartbeat—just one—his body refused to move.
The ground shook as thousands surged forward. Boots slammed into earth. Horses screamed, hooves tearing the soil apart. Steel collided with steel, a ringing chaos that stabbed straight into his skull through the helmet.
This was war.
And it was nothing like the stories.
Fear wrapped around his chest and squeezed. His breath came fast, shallow, fogging the inside of his helmet. Every instinct screamed the same command:
Run.
But there was nowhere to go.
Behind him—men pressed tight, pushing forward. To his sides—shields locked, bodies colliding. Ahead—enemies rushing toward him, faces hard, weapons raised.
If he turned, he would be trampled. If he hesitated, he would be cut down.
Only one thing remained.
Fight.
The first clash hit like a wave.
Imann barely saw it coming—just a blur of movement and noise. A man beside him screamed as a blade cut across his arm. Another fell, knocked flat before he even swung his sword. Horses thundered past, riders striking downward, unstoppable walls of muscle and iron.
The smell came next.
Sweat. Mud. Blood.
It filled his nose, thick and metallic.
A soldier rushed him—enemy colors, sword raised. Imann reacted without thinking. Steel met steel. The impact jolted his arms, pain shooting up to his shoulders. He stumbled back, barely keeping his balance.
The man swung again.
Imann blocked. The force numbed his hands.
This wasn't elegant. This wasn't skill.
It was survival.
Around him, the battlefield dissolved into fragments. Men fought on foot, slipping in mud. Horses crashed through lines, riders striking down at anything that moved. Bodies fell—not dramatically, not gloriously—just suddenly, as if the world had decided they no longer belonged in it.
Someone went down near Imann. A soldier from his own line.
An arrow jutted from the man's chest. His fingers twitched once… then stopped.
Imann stared.
The arrow.
Without thinking, he bent and ripped it free. His hands shook as he turned, searching—
A mounted enemy was charging straight toward him.
The rider's face was calm. Trained. Confident.
Imann raised the arrow.
He had never aimed at a man before.
His breath caught. His hands trembled.
If I miss, I die.
He threw.
The arrow flew—not straight, not perfect—but fast.
It struck the rider at the throat.
Not clean. Not deep.
But enough.
The man's head snapped back from the force. His grip loosened. The horse screamed as the rider's weight shifted wrong. Hooves tangled. Balance broke.
Horse and rider crashed into the mud in a violent heap.
Imann stood frozen, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
He had done that.
No time to think.
Another enemy rushed him.
Imann dropped the arrow, seized his sword, and moved.
He didn't fight like a warrior. He fought like someone who refused to die.
He swung. Blocked. Stepped over fallen bodies. Slipped. Rose again.
All around him, men fell.
Some lost weapons. Some lost courage. Some lost their lives before they understood what was happening.
Helmets rolled across the ground. Shields cracked. Screams cut short.
This was why they were called weak.
Not because they lacked courage— but because they were sent here to be broken.
Imann felt something change inside him.
The fear didn't disappear.
It hardened.
Every scream, every fall, every body underfoot carved something sharp and cold into his chest.
He stopped thinking of glory. Stopped thinking of becoming a man.
There was only the next enemy. The next breath. The next heartbeat.
Somewhere behind the lines, his father was watching.
Imann did not look back.
The boy who had believed war was beautiful was already gone.
And the battlefield did not care who replaced him.