The dawn at Dreadstar's crater offered no relief, only a grim shift in color; from deep black to a mournful promise of gray. A thin mist, heavy with the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh, crept slowly down the crater's slopes, shrouding the scene of utter destruction. The incline lay strewn with charred bodies turned to stone, trapped in their tragic final positions, encircled by the remnants of shattered logistics—broken supply crates, shields dripping like wax, and weapons splintered from battle. In one of the hastily erected field medical tents, Lena sat hunched on a wooden crate, her hands and feet trembling uncontrollably. The painful coughs and sorrowful wails of wounded soldiers blended into the stifling air—an existence lingering among the shadows of suffering.
As Roald stepped into the tent, his feet felt heavy, as if he were dragging the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders. He carried a water bag, made from leather, worn and dust-covered. His breath came in sharp gasps, and his usually sharp eyes now appeared red and swollen, fighting back tears that seemed endless. He sat beside Lena, silent for a long moment, while the stillness between them filled with the sounds of suffering that suffocated the air.
“Do you want to take a sip?” Roald’s voice emerged softly, hoarse, as if scratched by ash. “Or… is it still difficult to swallow, Lena?”
Lena only shook her head, her gaze fixed on the ground. Her voice was hoarse, almost like the whisper of the wilderness. “I can still see the flames flickering, Captain. Every time I close my eyes, I hear them… Calling my name… And it’s something I can never forget.”
Roald took a deep breath, his breath trembling as he struggled to contain the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He stared at his dirt-streaked palm, then turned his gaze back to Lena. “I hear them too, Lena. Every night, Marcus’s laughter still echoes in my ears, Aulis’s complaints about his battered boots. The voices of all our friends who fell on that field. They—they will forever linger in our memories. Not to haunt us, but to remind us why we must continue to endure.”
Lena hugged her knees tightly, her eyes fixed on the damp earth, stained by tears she had unconsciously shed. “Why are we the only ones left, Captain? Of our entire company, why must it be us? What makes us more deserving of life than they were?”
Roald bowed his head, unable to respond immediately to the crushing weight of the question. It was the same question that had haunted him throughout the night. “There is no such thing as deserving or undeserving, Lena. In this war, survival isn’t about justice. You survive… simply because you can. That is what matters. There’s no other reason.”
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In the dim corner of the tent, Marshal Callahan was dressing the wounds of Ewen, a young soldier who had survived but whose legs were severely burned, with skin peeling away. Callahan's voice was firm and cold, sharply contrasting the gentle and skilled movements of his hands. “I command you to stay conscious until the main medical team arrives with the regeneration elixir. Do you understand me?”
Ewen held back tears, gripping Callahan’s rough hand tightly. “They’re all… gone, Marshal. My entire platoon… lost. I don’t know who else to reach out to. My family in the north… I don’t even know if they are still alive after the attack on the border.”
Callahan paused for a moment, looking deeply into Ewen's eyes. His hardened expression remained unchanged, yet a softness crept into his gaze. “You will stay here, son. You have survived the worst night of your life. If you can endure one night in this hell, you can certainly last longer. I too have lost all my men at Merrow Pass, years ago. That emptiness will never completely fade; I won’t lie to you. However, as time passes, you will learn how to move forward, even with wounds that linger.”
Outside the tent, a group of surviving soldiers gathered before a line of freshly collected body bags. The quiet grew thicker as they recited the names of fallen comrades, their voices soft and choking, as if each name was a fresh wound. Some of them lit small candles, while others merely bowed their heads in silence, allowing the cold night wind to carry their prayers to the sky.
The first soldier, a large man now appearing so vulnerable, spoke with a trembling voice. “Of the thirty souls in our company, only six of us have returned. Tell me, what is the meaning of this war, if it only results in graveyards and names that will be forgotten?”
The second soldier, clutching the badge of his fallen comrade tightly, stared blankly at the crater. “We must continue to live. Not for the enemy that strikes us, nor for our king or our commander. But for them… for those who will never return. So that their names are remembered and not devoured by history.”
Inside the tent, Lena watched the conversation unfold with a heavy heart, tears streaming down her cheeks like an unrelenting rain. Roald gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders, as if there were no words left that could ease the pain. “If you wish to feel your sorrow,” he whispered softly, “cry as much as you need. Tonight, you don’t have to pretend to be strong. But tomorrow… tomorrow we must rise again, Lena, even if the world around us has turned to ashes.”
Lena finally buried her face in her hands, her restrained sobs breaking free into a cry that stirred deep compassion and sadness. Her tears flowed freely, as though each drop carried the weight of burdens she had long kept hidden.
The sun finally emerged in its entirety, flooding the world with its soft rays, which appeared faintly behind the heavy smoke still engulfing the crater. There was no ceremony for the fallen heroes, no grand celebration of victory. Only a handful of survivors remained, lifting up the names etched in their memories, struggling to find a new meaning in life—haunted by wounds in their souls that would likely never fully heal.
