Cyran stood alone at the edge of the trench, his boots sinking into the mud that used to be a road.
The fires from the Rinnett camp still smouldered in the distance — black pillars of ash rising to stain the clouds. Every gust of wind carried the smell of something half-burned: leather, meat, and the chemical sting of blood that had mixed with oil.
The soldiers said it rained ash now, not water. That it fell from the sky because the gods no longer wanted to accept the dead.
Cyran no longer corrected them.
Behind him, the camp was silent except for the groans.
Rows of men lay under tarpaulins, their bodies twitching when the medics cut through rot-stiffened bandages. Limbs were stacked near the surgical tents in neat, obscene piles. The surgeons moved between them like priests tending a congregation of the damned.
He watched one man, he was young, nameless — thrash as the saw met bone. The sound was wet, rhythmic. The man’s mouth opened but no scream came, only breath fogging the cold air, at this point no anguish was left in the poor man's body.
Cyran turned away. The world blurred. For a second, he imagined the sound was coming from inside his own head.
He entered his command tent, ducking under the heavy canvas flap.
The candlelight inside trembled in the draft, making the shadows on the table ripple like water. He dropped his gloves, then his cloak, and stared down at the red markers scattered across the chart — each a battle, each home of a thousand graves.
Ink had bled where the rain had touched it, smearing borders into dark veins that looked almost alive.
Cyran reached for the quill. His hand shook as he started to write. He steadied it against the table and started again.
...
To His Majesty, King Alaric III, Sovereign of the Rammaset Empire,
Father,
The men do not dream anymore, for they do not know the meaning of it all.
They can sleep only when exhaustion takes them, but their eyes still stay open.
They no longer curse the Rinnett empire. They curse the silence between shellings. They fear it more than the cannons.
The mud eats slower than we bury. Even the crows have left now. There’s nothing left for them here.
I have followed every order. I have carried your banner through cities that now have no names.
And yet, when I look at the horizon, I see no victory — only more earth waiting to be turned into graves.
I still believe in the Empire, Father.
But I no longer believe it remembers the soldiers fighting for it.
He paused. The ink bled through the paper. The words looked heavier than they should.
He dipped the quill again and continued.
You once told me war was how kings prove they deserve to rule.
I wonder now — will victory still mean anything if there’s no one left to celebrate it?
I will hold the line. But I ask you, Father, not as your soldier, but as your son —
How much more of us must rot before it ends?
He didn’t sign it. He just folded the letter once and placed it beside the map.
Outside, thunder rolled far away, though there was no lightning.
A scout entered, mud-spattered, saluting stiffly. “Message from the west flank, sire. Reinforcements delayed. The rain washed the roads out again.”
Cyran nodded. “Tell them to hold what they can.”
The scout hesitated. “Sir, they’re asking how long to hold.”
Cyran looked past him, through the open flap of the tent, to the horizon.
The firelight from the burned Rinnett camp shimmered on the rising smoke, turning the sky red and black — like a wound stitched with shadow.
He took a long breath. “Tell them to hold until they forget what surrender means.”
The scout saluted and left.
...
Cyran sank into his chair. The canvas groaned in the wind. Somewhere outside, someone began to sing it was off-key, broken, more of a prayer than melody.
It was the same song they’d sung at the Academy years ago, before the first battle — back when they thought they’d live forever.
He found himself whispering the words with them, barely audible:
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
“May the ashes return to water,
May the water learn to burn,
May the sun forget the slaughter,
And the moon refuse to turn.”
The song faded. The silence that followed was louder than cannon fire happening at the trenches.
Later, when Rahn entered to deliver casualty reports, he found the prince asleep at his desk.
The candle had burned down to the plate, pooling wax around the letter. The ink had smudged where Cyran’s hand rested, blurring the words “I still believe.”
Rahn didn’t wake him. He only looked once, at the sleeping man who was supposed to be a symbol of victory, and thought how small he looked beneath the weight of his armour.
Outside, the wind shifted east.
Ash began to fall again it was fine and pale, whispering as it settled over tents, rifles, and the dead.
It fell for hours.
By morning, the camp looked clean, Cleaner than it had been after days of rain.
...
The Wyrmbound Academy didn’t slow down for grief.
The sirenss rang at 0600 like they always had. Cadets poured into the courtyard in clean lines, boots striking stone in disciplined unison. Uniform perfectly ironed. Helmets under arms. Faces forward.
Arata stood in formation, spine straight, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His body remembered the drills better than his mind did. Step. Turn. Strike. Reset. The motions came easily.
That scared him, he had always been used to Death, but those were enemies, but now, the one's dying were his friends. What if he was getting numb to their deaths too.
He remembered the mirror incident at the villa, the reflection in the mirror.
Across the yard, Wanuy caught his eye once, just for a second. The look wasn’t tactical. It was the look you give someone to make sure they’re still there.
Nebula stood behind them, sword resting against her shoulder. She didn’t miss a command — but her grip was too tight, knuckles pale.
When the bells rang again, dismissing them, the ranks dissolved without ceremony.
No one lingered, all of them going to their respective lecture halls and gymnasiums.
Arata stood near the window, staring out at the Academy grounds. Everything looked the same — paths swept clean, banners hanging straight, students laughing too loudly near the mess hall.
It felt wrong that the world was still functioning.
The door slid shut behind them.
For a moment, the silence was unbearable.
Wanuy dropped his pack first, letting it hit the floor harder than necessary. “Well,” he said weakly, “at least they waited until after drills to pretend nothing happened.”
Nebula snorted. It wasn’t amused. “Progress.”
Arata stood near the window, staring out at the Academy grounds. Everything looked the same — paths swept clean, banners hanging straight, students laughing too loudly near the mess hall.
It felt wrong that the world was still functioning.
Wanuy noticed his gaze. “They reassigned his bunk.”
Arata swallowed. “Already?”
“Yeah.” Wanuy scratched the back of his neck. “New cadet. Didn’t even know whose bed it was.”
Nebula pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto her desk. “Good for him.”
That earned her a look.
She exhaled sharply. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“No,” Wanuy said quietly. “It came out honest.”
Silence pressed in again.
Arata finally spoke, voice rough. “I still hear him.”
Both of them looked at him.
“Not… not like a voice,” he clarified quickly. “Just—” He flexed his fingers, frustrated. “Like when a machine keeps humming after you turn it off.”
Wanuy sat down slowly. “That’s not comforting.”
“I know.”
Nebula stepped closer, arms crossed. “Is it the Choir?”
Arata nodded. “And him. And Flora. All of it tangled together.” His breath hitched before he could stop it. “I don’t think the Veins understand loss. They just… store it.”
Wanuy’s voice softened. “Do you?”
Arata hesitated. Then, quietly: “No.”
That admission cracked something open.
Wanuy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He cracked a joke right before it happened,” he said suddenly. “About the coil harmonics. Said they sounded like an out-of-tune choir.”
Nebula closed her eyes. “That sounds like him.”
“He was scared,” Wanuy added. “I could tell. But he smiled anyway.”
Arata’s shoulders sagged. “I should’ve stopped him.”
Nebula’s head snapped up. “No.”
“You don’t know—”
“I do,” she cut in, voice sharp with something close to panic. “Because if you start thinking like that, you won’t stop. And he chose it. You don’t get to steal that from him.”
Arata looked at her, eyes glassy. “I didn’t want him to die for a song.”
Nebula’s voice dropped. “He didn’t.”
Wanuy frowned. “Then what was it?”
She struggled for words. “Witnessing. Finishing something. I don’t know.” Her jaw trembled. “But it mattered to him.”
The hum of the Academy’s power grid filled the room — too close to the Veins’ rhythm for comfort.
Wanuy cleared his throat. “Mid-sems are coming.”
Arata laughed once, hollow. “Of course they are.”
“Duels,” Wanuy continued. “Evaluations. Resonance control.”
Nebula tilted her head. “Don't worry , it's just to check you newbies progress.”
"Well then I am already behind." Arata said as he sighed and dropped on his bed.
"Why do you say that?" Wanuy asked.
"Well" Arata apused, "You all have concepts that can be defined, understood, mine is all over the place"
"You could ask Lyra." Nebula said.
"She is just as lost, as I am. Also, she hasn't been to academy for two days." Arata said.
"Is she alright?" Wanuy asked.
"She was pretty shaken aback by what happened at the Choir." Nebula answered him. "Maybe taking some time off."
Arata stared at the ceiling again. The stone above him looked solid, unmoving. Reliable.
He envied it.
“She leaned on me when we got back,” he said quietly. “Didn’t even realize she was doing it. Just—”
He made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. “Like if she stopped touching something alive, she’d fall apart.”
Wanuy swallowed. “Did you say anything?”
“No,” Arata replied. “Didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
Nebula’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Sometimes the right thing is shutting up.”
Silence settled again — not heavy this time, just tired.
Outside, a whistle blew. Somewhere in the distance, steel rang against steel. Training never stopped. It only rotated who it hurt.
Wanuy broke the quiet. “You know they’re going to put you in a duel.”
Arata closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“With someone strong,” Wanuy added. “They won’t waste the data.”
Nebula nodded. “They’ll push. They always do after incidents like this.”
Arata exhaled slowly. “I’m not scared of losing.”
Both of them looked at him.
“I’m scared of winning,” he finished. “And not knowing what I did to make it happen.”
That landed harder than anything else he’d said.
Wanuy stood and crossed the room, stopping beside Arata’s bed. “Then don’t do it alone.”
Arata opened his eyes. “That’s not how duels work.”
Nebula stepped closer. “It is if you remember who you are before you step into the ring.”
“And who’s that?” Arata asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. Then:
“Someone who listens. And hasn’t stopped caring yet.”
That hurt more than comfort usually did.
A chime sounded through the dormitory, it was the same soft, neutral, official voice.
Mid-semester evaluations: preliminary pairings posted. Cadets are advised to review schedules immediately.
Wanuy sighed. “There it is.”
Arata sat up slowly, the motion deliberate. “Guess the Academy’s done giving us space.”
Nebula picked up her gloves. “The Academy never gives space. It only measures how much you can hold.”
As they moved toward the door, Arata paused, glancing back once at the empty bunk across the room — the one that had never been Tomas’s officially, but still felt like it belonged to him.
“I don’t want to forget,” Arata said.
Wanuy didn’t turn. “Then don’t.”
Nebula opened the door. “Just don’t let remembrance turn into self-destruction.”
