The hum of engines filled the air, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse of the convoy as it snaked through the rolling terrain. SFC Draken leaned back against the steel frame of the truck, his gear resting beside him as the vibrations from the road lulled him into an uneasy sleep. The battle had drained him—every muscle ached, every thought weighed heavy with the memories of bloodshed and survival. Yet the faint droning of the engine was oddly comforting, a sound that promised distance from the battlefield’s chaos.

  His dreams were fragmented, flashes of the fight replaying in his mind. He could see the trenches—the fire bullets exploding above him, the crushing advance of the Austorian Heavy Infantry, and the roar of the AMX-10 tanks carving through their lines. He stirred as his subconscious brought forth an image of his son, running through the fields, laughing. But the laughter turned to silence, and the flash of a familiar insignia on a helmet jostled him awake.

  “Sergeant?” a soldier’s voice cut through the haze. “You see that?” The young private gestured out the rear of the truck, his eyes narrowing toward several long flatbed vehicles emerging from the tree line in the distance. Their silhouettes loomed large against the backdrop of dense woods, their towering cargo shrouded beneath heavy tarps.

  Draken sat up, his instincts kicking in as he scanned the scene. The shape was familiar—elongated, angular, with a slight tilt suggesting rotors and a tail. His brow furrowed as he studied the convoy’s formation until the realization clicked. “It’s the 280,” he muttered, nodding. “The one that went down during the fight. The mortuary team must be done with it, and now they’re hauling the wreckage back to base. Looks like they got everything.”

  The flatbeds rolled closer, seamlessly blending into the convoy. A rear security AMX-10 RC T40M maneuvered to let the newcomers in, its turret scanning briefly before resuming its watchful position. Draken watched the interaction with quiet satisfaction, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Good to see they got it,” he murmured before leaning back against his seat.

  The engine’s steady growl began to lull him once more, as exhaustion seeped into his bones. Around him, soldiers nodded off, their heads drooping against their gear. Some whispered in low tones, their words blending with the rhythmic sound of tires crunching over gravel. The camaraderie in the truck was palpable, even in the quiet. Draken closed his eyes again, allowing the hum to carry him back into his restless dreams.

  The convoy pulled into the Temory Encampment just as dusk began to fall, the fading light casting long shadows over the crossroads near the village of Stonelear and the massive Trenbres forest. Draken’s unit had been the last to leave the farm, staying behind to oversee the evacuation until the final truck carrying civilians departed safely. The heavy-duty military trucks rolled into the camp with an air of exhaustion, their engines rumbling softly before cutting off.

  Rows of tents stretched across the field, each marked with scrawled labels for its purpose: Military Aid stations, Tactical operations center, rest and relaxation hut, Sleeping quarters, storage facilities, and the mess hall. Four Large DASH tents stood prominently at the center of the camp, their reinforced fabric providing much-needed protection from the sun and wind. Soldiers and civilians mingled as they went for food or relaxation.

  As Draken stepped down from the truck, he scanned the area with practiced eyes, cataloging every detail. The Austorian prisoners were herded into a designated tent under guard, their shoulders hunched and their expressions a mix of defeat and relief. MPs and medics stood ready to process each prisoner, checking them for injuries and noting any distinctive items—a heraldic cloak, an engraved breastplate—to record their identities.

  Temory was alive with movement, the temporary encampment overflowing with civilians who had been pouring in throughout the day. Families clustered around fire pits, volunteers from Lord Velayne’s fiefdom bringing food and water as medics moved swiftly through the hospital tents. The Combat Support Hospital, set up near the encampment’s edge, buzzed with quiet urgency as the heavily wounded were stabilized for airlifting to Firgan Military Hospital in Yasumin.

  Draken climbed out of the truck, his boots crunching against the packed dirt as he surveyed the activity. Around him, soldiers helped unload gear, guiding weary evacuees toward the rest facilities. Lines formed at the DFAC tent, the smell of hot food mingling with the sharp scent of antiseptic carried on the evening breeze.

  His attention was drawn to a row of flatbed tactical trucks parked near the DFAC, their cargo covered by heavy tarps. Despite the coverings, the outline of a damaged V280 tiltrotor was unmistakable. Approaching one of the drivers, Draken tilted his head toward the wreckage.

  “Thats the downed Valor?” he asked, his voice steady.

  The driver nodded; his face worn but attentive. “Yep. Had to haul it out piece by piece. We’re stopping here for a quick bite, then heading straight to Yasumin. Orders are to load it onto the maglev and send it to BurnTalon for R&D to figure out what went wrong.”

  Draken’s eyes lingered on the damaged aircraft, its broken form a stark reminder of the sacrifices made. “Hope they learn something from it,” he said quietly, his words more reflective than directed.

  The driver shrugged, letting out a tired chuckle. “Yeah, well, either way, we’re gonna need more of these as things are heating up.”

  With a faint nod, Draken stepped away, heading toward his unit’s area of the encampment.

  Meanwhile, displaced civilians began filtering out in and out of the various tents, some clutching what little they had managed to save from their homes, others holding their children who were sleeping. Soldiers guided them toward assigned sleeping quarters, offering reassurance and helping elderly villagers who struggled to walk across the uneven terrain. Water and food was distributed swiftly, the calm efficiency of the Beastkin soldiers starkly different from the chaotic battlefield they had just left.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, the bustling activity of Temory Encampment began to settle into a quieter rhythm. The decision to stay overnight had been made early in the evening, allowing the civilians and soldiers to finally rest after the days of fighting and the grueling journey from Sacra Hill. Though most of the military trucks had already departed for Leythbrook, a handful remained parked near the perimeter, standing sentinel in the fading light.

  Draken’s unit was directed to a large tent at the edge of the staging area. The soldiers shuffled inside, their boots scraping against the hardened dirt as they each claimed a cot. The accommodations were sparse—a single cot and two standard-issue blankets per soldier—but after the ordeal they’d endured, it felt like more than enough. The warm weather provided a small comfort, and the murmur of quiet conversations filled the tent as the men settled in.

  Draken sat on the edge of his cot, folding one of the blankets into a makeshift pillow as he leaned back. He glanced around at his unit, noticing the subtle changes in their faces—relief, exhaustion, and the lingering traces of tension that hadn’t quite faded. He let out a slow breath, grateful for the brief reprieve.

  The encampment settled into its nightly routine—Beastkin Military Police patrolled with methodical precision, their uniforms clean and modern, while Lord Velayne’s militia moved on horseback, their medieval-style armor clanking softly with each step. Their weapons were steel-tipped spears and swords, their only ranged combatants being the few battle mages Lord Velayne could afford.

  Near the eastern perimeter, a trio of militiamen muttered to one another, their voices hushed but unmistakably laced with disdain.

  “…fighting beside them? They were slaves,” one murmured.

  Another scoffed. “They rely on those iron beasts instead of skill. No discipline. Or Honor.”

  Their conversation stopped abruptly as one of Lord Velaynes officers rode past, his eyes sharp beneath his crested helm. “Enough of that talk,” he barked, not bothering to dismount. “They’re here. You will work with them. Keep your comments to yourselves.”

  The soldiers stiffened, lowering their heads in silent obedience. Nearby, a Beastkin MP caught the exchange but said nothing. The officer glanced at him, offering only a curt nod before continuing his patrol.

  The MP smirked slightly—he could have taken offense, but there was no point. A few years ago, even he wouldn’t have believed this moment possible.

  Volunteers from the nearby village of Stonelear continued their work late into the evening, offering food and water to the civilians who had arrived throughout the day. Children huddled with their families around small fire pits, the glow providing warmth and a faint sense of normalcy. The air was filled with the scent of burning wood, mingling with the faint aroma of stew and fresh bread simmering in the DFAC tent.

  Draken closed his eyes, letting the encampment’s sounds ease him into sleep—the distant voices of medics, the low rumble of an idling truck, and the rhythmic crunch of boots patrolling the dirt paths. It wasn’t peace, not yet, but it was a step closer. A fleeting reprieve to gather strength for what lay ahead.

  Morning arrived swiftly. The first hints of dawn spilled across the encampment as movement stirred in the tents. Draken pushed himself up from the cot, rolling his shoulders before rousing his unit. The morning roll call echoed through the camp, sharp and efficient, as soldiers assembled to hear their assignments. A young Staff Sergeant from the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) moved with purpose, reading off caulk numbers for the incoming transports that would ferry them back to Yasumin.

  Nearby, the dining tent bustled with activity. Lord Velayne had pledged his support, ensuring that villagers from the surrounding area assisted in managing the growing influx of civilians. Most worked dutifully, ladling out portions of steaming porridge, fresh breads and dried meats onto trays, but unease lingered among them. Their eyes flickered warily toward the towering figures of the Beastkin soldiers, their unfamiliar uniforms and faded painted faces blending into the early morning haze.

  Children, however, showed none of their parents’ hesitation. They darted between the tents and trucks, their curiosity outweighing whatever remnants of fear lingered in the adults. One boy lingered near the dining area, staring wide-eyed at a Beastkin soldier adjusting his gear. The soldier noticed but said nothing, simply offering the faintest nod before returning to his preparations.

  The morning continued, tense yet orderly, as the last remnants of the night faded into the rising sun.

  Draken watched as the MPs from Yasumin tried, with limited success, to herd a gaggle of children off the main road. Their playful energy overwhelmed the MPs’ stern orders, darting through the parked vehicles and causing an officer to mutter curses under his breath. Near the motorpool, some older boys lingered, staring at the towering trucks and nervously chatting with the soldiers as they inspected their gear. Nearby, a farmhand and a female Beastkin soldier stood apart from the rest, their quiet conversation carrying an air of shared intrigue that seemed worlds removed from the war.

  One boy, his face smudged with dirt and eyes alight with curiosity, slipped away from the commotion. He hesitated, staring at the imposing figure before him—the strange paint marking Draken’s face, the heavy rifle slung across his chest—then dashed forward.

  “Mister, are you a warrior?” he asked breathlessly, his voice cracking with excitement.

  Draken crouched, his expression softening with a faint smile. “Something like that,” he replied.

  The boy’s questions tumbled out in rapid succession—about the convoy’s trucks, the flying machines, the sleek weapon resting at Draken’s side. Patiently, Draken answered, tapping the barrel of his rifle.

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  “This can hit a target from far away with perfect accuracy,” he explained. “It’s not just the tools we use that make us strong—it’s the people we fight beside.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in awe, studying the soldier’s gear like something out of a storybook. Draken chuckled, handing him a water bottle and breaking a candy bar in half.

  The child examined the piece of chocolate curiously before taking a bite, his face scrunching in surprise at the unfamiliar taste. He chewed slowly, then looked up at Draken, eyes bright with newfound excitement. “Can I take some to my mama?” he asked earnestly.

  Draken nodded, reaching into his leg pocket and pulling out another bar—one of several he had grabbed from the concession tent earlier. “Here,” he said, handing it to the boy. “Share it with her.”

  The child beamed, clutching the bar tightly before taking another bite of his own, savoring the treat as he nestled beside Draken. His questions continued—about the machines, the war, the people he had seen moving through the camp. Draken answered each patiently, watching the boy’s delighted expressions with quiet amusement.

  But as the child grinned up at him, chocolate smudged on his lips, something in Draken shifted. A familiar face flickered in his mind—one from years ago, lost to time and war. His own son, about the same age, laughing in the golden light of a distant afternoon.

  Draken’s throat tightened, and he forced his breath to steady. The memory crashed against him like a wave, threatening to pull him under, but he held firm. He would not mourn here—not now.

  Moments later, a woman approached, clutching her shawl tightly. To her, Draken was intimidating—the warpaint, the foreign uniform, the presence of a soldier built for battle. But seeing her son grinning beside him, watching the soldier crouched to meet him at eye level, softened something within her.

  “Thank you for watching him,” she said hesitantly. “I… I hope he wasn’t bothering you.”

  Draken shook his head. “He’s a good kid.”

  She lingered, glancing at the candy bar in her son's hand. “You gave him this?”

  Draken simply nodded.

  "Thank you," she said softly. "I didn’t know they were food."

  Draken rubbed the boy’s head gently. "They are. Please, take a few if you have time."

  Draken looked at her, his own loss coming to his mind. "Take care of him." He said, his voice quieting.

  The woman watched him carefully, sensing the shift in his demeanor. Hesitantly, she asked, “…Do you have children?”

  Draken hesitated. The question pressed against a wound that never truly healed. “I had a son,” he said, his voice steady, though something in his gaze flickered. “About his age. But he’s no longer with us.”

  The woman exhaled softly, pulling her son closer. "I’m sorry," she whispered.

  Draken managed a small smile. “Thank you. I think he and your boy would’ve gotten along.” He rose, glancing toward the medical tents. "I have to get to the hospital—seeing a friend off."

  He turned to the child, kneeling briefly. "Take care of your mom," he said, offering a gentle squeeze to the boy’s shoulder before stepping away.

  The mother watched as he disappeared into the growing morning bustle, her son tugging at her sleeve. “Why was he sad, Mama?”

  She didn’t answer. Only held her son tighter.

  Draken stepped into the bustling medical tent, his boots crunching against the gravel path before sinking into the soft flooring laid to stabilize the area. The air was thick with the antiseptic tang of alcohol and the muted murmur of pain—the voices of medics working tirelessly to tend to both Beastkin soldiers and the newly processed Austorian prisoners. A nurse swept past him, carrying a tablet in one hand and a tray of supplies in the other, her pace quick but controlled.

  Stopping near the front desk, Draken caught the attention of the floor nurse. She was middle-aged, her uniform crisp despite the chaos of the camp. He nodded toward her, his voice calm but direct. “Second Lieutenant Grant Cramdell. Where is he?”

  The nurse adjusted the tablet strapped to her arm and scrolled through the records. “He’s in the second section,” she said with a faint smile. “Set to be airlifted once the next Valor lands.” She pointed toward a curtained area at the back of the tent before moving on to her next task.

  Draken weaved through the rows of beds and stretchers, nodding quietly to a few soldiers along the way. Some murmured greetings despite their exhaustion; others were too lost in their injuries to notice. As he walked, he passed Austorian prisoners being escorted under guard for medical evaluation. One clutched his shoulder, wincing as a medic applied a bandage. Despite the Austorians defeated postures, the Beastkin medics treated them with care—a point of pride, rooted in their army’s code of honor.

  Beyond the medical beds, Draken moved steadily, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the tent's organized chaos. A civilian woman clung to her husband’s hand, her knuckles pale as she listened to the medic explaining his injuries with a calm, practiced voice. Nearby, a young Beastkin nurse leaned over a trembling soldier, her words barely audible but steady, coaxing him through his pain.

  Draken paused briefly as he passed, his gaze lingering on the faces of the injured and the exhausted. Each moment, each quiet act of care and reassurance, reminded him of what had brought them all here—not war itself, but the chance to survive it. Compassion was what set them apart, he thought. Even after everything, they still had room for humanity.

  His boots scuffed against the ground as he resumed walking, the murmur of voices blending with the low hum of medical devices. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and sweat, and the faint rattle of stretchers being moved in and out kept time with the measured urgency of the medics. As he approached the second section, his focus sharpened, locking onto the familiar figure of Lt. Colonel Ridgefall standing beside a cot.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make your job easier, sir,” Cramdell said weakly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Did what I could, you know.”

  Ridgefall returned the smile, shaking his head lightly. “You did more than enough, lieutenant. I’ve got a beer waiting for you at the O Club in Yasumin once you’re back on your feet.”

  Draken stepped closer as Ridgefall glanced in his direction. With a firm pat on Draken’s shoulder, Ridgefall nodded to him before excusing himself. “Take care of him, Sergeant. He’s earned it,” Ridgefall said warmly as he left the tent.

  Draken pulled up a stool beside Cramdell’s cot, studying his friend’s tired face. Despite the IV line running into his arm, the large bandage on his head and the faint tremor in his hands, Cramdell’s eyes still carried the sharp edge of a Beastkin officer.

  “You okay?” Draken asked, his voice steady.

  Cramdell chuckled softly, the sound dry but genuine. “I guess I’ve got a flight to catch, huh?” He gestured faintly toward the corner of the tent, where a medic was preparing paperwork for his transport. “They patched me up on the way here, but” he pointed to his head “Thanks to this, they want to run more tests. I don’t get to go back with you and the men.” His grin faded slightly as he added, “No one said it was going to hurt this much.”

  Draken leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve done your part, Grant. Don’t sweat the rest. We’ll take it from here. You just get better, and we’ll see you back in the rear. I keep your seat warm.”

  The lieutenant nodded weakly, his grin returning as he shifted against the pillows. “I know. You’ve got this, Rudeus. You always do.”

  For a moment, the silence hung between them—comfortable, charged with unspoken camaraderie built through the battles they had fought together. Draken finally stood, adjusting his rifle strap as he prepared to leave. “Rest up, sir,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m going to get something and wait with you for your ride. Command said it will be a while before we will be going back.” He shifted his gear. “Not enough transports. Once the Civilians are evac’ed they will send them for us. As soon as that happens, the support company will shutdown the camp and leave the area.”

  Grant lay back against his cot, his face pale but his eyes lively despite his condition. He caught Draken’s gaze, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Rudeus, you don’t have to babysit me,” Grant murmured, his voice raspy but tinged with humor. “I’m not gonna roll off this thing, I promise.”

  Draken smirked, shifting his weight on the stool. “Babysitting? No chance,” he said dryly. “Just making sure you don’t try to sweet-talk your way into getting out of here early.”

  Grant chuckled softly, the sound cut short by a slight cough. He adjusted his position carefully, wincing as he moved. “Could’ve sworn you had better things to do than listen to me complain.”

  Draken leaned back, his arms crossed as he surveyed the organized chaos around them. “Not today,” he replied simply. “Besides, somebody’s gotta remind you to take it easy. Can’t have you scaring off the medics.”

  The lieutenant grinned weakly, shaking his head. Around them, the noise of preparation grew as soldiers and medics readied for the arrival of the V280 Valor tiltrotors. Supplies were gathered, stretchers rolled into position, and manifests checked twice over by harried officers clutching clipboards. The tension was palpable—a mix of relief and urgency as the camp worked toward the next phase of evacuation.

  Draken glanced at Grant, noting the fatigue in his friend’s face. “Well,” he said quietly. “Your ride’s almost here.”

  Grant’s response was a faint nod, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of exhaustion pulling him into silence as Draken remained by his side.

  The rhythmic hum of rotors grew louder, reverberating across the field as the first V280 Valor descended from the sky. Dust swirled in chaotic clouds, forcing soldiers and civilians to shield their faces as the towering machine settled onto the landing zone. Its sleek frame shimmered under the midday sun, a symbol of the Beastkin Unified Army’s technological prowess. The rotors shifted with precision, transitioning seamlessly as the aircraft prepared for loading.

  All eyes turned toward the landing zone. Children froze in awe, their wide-eyed gazes fixed on the powerful tiltrotors. “They fly like birds!” one exclaimed, tugging on his friend’s arm. Another shouted, “No, like dragons!” as he craned his neck to watch the second Valor approach. The MPs, attempting to keep the children at a safe distance, found themselves powerless against their fascination. Even the adults paused their conversations, marveling at the machines that had arrived to carry the wounded to safety.

  Draken stood near the edge of the landing zone, his arms crossed and his face streaked with the remnants of battle paint. He watched as medics moved with urgency, guiding groups of injured civilians toward the aircraft. Those with minor injuries were ushered forward first, followed by the heavily wounded carried on stretchers. The field became a flurry of movement—soldiers barking instructions, medics stabilizing patients, and civilians clutching one another as they took their tentative first steps toward a new future.

  As Grant’s stretcher arrived at the Valor, Draken walked beside the medics, offering a steady presence as they navigated the rough terrain. “Careful,” Draken murmured, his voice low but commanding. Grant smirked faintly from his position on the stretcher, his pallor unable to suppress his humor. “Don’t drop me, Sergeant. You know how I get when I’ve had a bad landing.”

  Draken shook his head, his smirk mirroring Grant’s. “You’d be the first officer to complain about an airlift.”

  The medics worked efficiently, securing Grant inside the Valor with practiced ease. Draken stepped back as the last restraints clicked into place, but just as he turned to leave, he felt Grant’s hand grasp his wrist. The lieutenant’s grip was weak but steady, his eyes meeting Draken’s with a glint of determination. “Race you back to the base,” Grant said, coughing lightly but grinning through it. Draken chuckled, shaking his friend’s hand with firm resolve.

  “You’re crazy, you know that, sir,” Draken replied, his voice tinged with affection.

  As the medics began to close the aircraft’s doors, Draken waved. “See you at the base!” he shouted, his grin widening as Grant raised a weak thumbs-up in reply. The tiltrotor’s engines roared to life, the blades kicking up gusts of wind as the massive machine lifted off. Draken watched the Valor ascend, its rotors cutting through the sky as it carried its precious cargo toward Yasumin.

  The arrival of the Valors brought more than logistical relief—it was a symbol of hope. Draken watched their ascent for a moment before turning back to the camp, where evacuation efforts continued. He watched for a few more minutes and as the Valor flew out of sight, he walked back to meet his unit.

  Soldiers and civilians waited for their caulk numbers under the afternoon sun, its warmth stretching shadows across the bustling encampment. Draken and his unit rested near their staging area, gear stacked neatly as they took advantage of rare downtime. Some stretched out beneath the trees, catching sleep where they could, while others exchanged quiet jokes. Even in waiting, the unity of the Beastkin soldiers was unmistakable.

  Nearby, children whispered in excitement, pointing at unfamiliar trucks and weapons. MPs shooed them from the motorpool, though their fascination was unshaken.

  Draken’s gazed into the motorpool, where he had first spotted a Beastkin corporal and the farmhand earlier. Since then, they had shifted closer, their conversation deepening as she gestured toward the trucks, explaining their mechanics with quiet enthusiasm. The farmhand, once hesitant, now listened intently, his rough fingers idly tracing the worn fabric of his tunic as though weighing her words carefully.

  The corporal’s posture had softened, her helmet now attached to her combat belt, ears twitching slightly as she spoke. Though her words remained professional, there was an ease between them—one that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t merely asking out of curiosity of the equipment; she wasn’t simply answering out of duty.

  Nearby, one of Draken’s privates caught the exchange and let out a low chuckle. “Looks like he’s getting a proper lesson now,” he remarked. “Guess some of us have it easy, huh, Sergeant?”

  Draken shook his head, his tone dry but amused. “You get your moment when you’ve earned it, Private.” The retort sparked laughter among the group, cutting through the lull of waiting.

  As displaced villagers filtered into the DFAC tent, families clung to meager belongings, the staff working swiftly to distribute meals. Children played near the tents, their energy unchanged despite lingering uncertainty. MPs ushered them from the roads with sighs of mild exasperation.

  The staging officer’s bark broke the rhythm of the camp, calling out the next caulk numbers. As the day dragged on, the last of the Caulks were called, Draken straightened, signaling his men. In minutes, they loaded onto the last of the Transports, the convoy rolling toward Yasumin.