The familiar scent of his mother's cooking wafted through the air, bringing with it a wave of warmth that washed over him.
His mother had always been an excellent cook, he remembered the hours she'd spend in the kitchen, turning even the simplest ingredients into something that felt like love itself.
The smell of roasted meat and fresh herbs filled his nostrils, and for a moment, he felt... safe.
His hands instinctively moved to touch the back of the old sofa, the fabric worn but still sturdy. It had been in the family for as long as he could remember his mother's favorite spot to read during quiet afternoons, the place where he and his sister, Hannah, would curl up to listen to stories.
He could almost hear their giggles echo in the walls.
Fraihn turned, and there they were his mother, bustling about in the kitchen, her back turned to him, apron tied around her waist, her movements graceful in their familiarity.
Hannah, his younger sister, was sitting at the table, scribbling something in one of her schoolbooks, her legs swinging as she hummed a tune to herself.
For a moment, Fraihn couldn't breathe.
The sight of them so vivid, so alive made his chest tighten. His throat felt thick with emotion. He had missed them more than words could ever express.
During the long nights on the battlefield, when death seemed closer than life, it had been the thought of coming home to them that kept him going.
The thought of his mother's warm embrace, of Hannah's teasing laughter.
He stepped forward, the feeling of the wooden floor beneath his boots familiar.
"Mom?"
He called out softly, his voice trembling as if he feared they'd vanish if he spoke too loud.
His mother turned, her face lighting up with a smile that reached her eyes.
"There you are, Fraihn. You're just in time. Dinner's almost ready."
Her voice was warm, gentle the same voice that had comforted him through countless nightmares when he was a boy.
It wrapped around him like a blanket, soothing the weariness in his bones.
His mother set down a pot on the stove, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You should wash up, Fraihn. I made your favorite roast lamb with sauce. Just like when you were a boy."
It felt so real. Too real. The warmth, the smells, the sounds it was all exactly as he remembered.
But somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered that something was wrong.
He glanced down at his hands.
The blood was still there. Thick, dark, and dripping from his fingers. His heart lurched in his chest. Why was it still there? Why hadn't it gone away?
"Mom…?" He whispered, his voice barely audible. He stared at his bloodstained hands, trembling as his blood dripped onto the floor, staining the clean wooden planks. "Mom, what's happening?"
His mother's smile faded. Slowly, her eyes moved to his hands, her face shifting from calm to horror. Her expression twisted into one of shock, her eyes widening as she backed away.
"Fraihn… why are you covered in blood?" She asked, her voice trembling with fear.
His chest tightened. He couldn't answer. The blood it wouldn't stop. It was pouring from him now, faster and faster, staining the floor, creeping toward his mother and sister.
He took a step back, but the blood followed, flowing like a river, unstoppable.
The house shook.
Before Fraihn could react, the ceiling collapsed. A deafening explosion rocked the room as the walls crumbled in on themselves. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and dust filled the air. Fraihn was thrown to the ground, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
He looked up, disoriented, his vision blurry. Through the dust and debris, he saw them—his mother and Hannah, standing frozen in the kitchen, their faces pale, their bodies trapped beneath the rubble.
"Hannah! Mom!" Fraihn tried to crawl toward them, but his legs wouldn't move. He was paralyzed, his body refusing to respond. He watched in helpless horror as his mother reached out, her hand shaking, her eyes wide with terror.
Another explosion hit, and the entire world went black.
The warmth of home was gone. The destruction had vanished. He found himself standing in an endless white void—vast, empty, and cold. There was no floor beneath him, no ceiling above, no walls to contain the space. Just... nothing.
He was alone.
At least, that's what he thought.
From the mist, figures began to emerge, a ghostly shapes at first, barely visible in the distance.
As they drew closer, Fraihn's heart sank.
His mother. His sister. Their bodies bloodied and broken, just as they had been beneath the rubble. Their eyes, once filled with warmth, now stared at him with empty, haunting gazes.
And behind them his fallen comrades. His brothers and sisters in arms, the soldiers who had died under his command.
Their faces were gaunt, pale, their uniforms stained with blood and mud, their wounds still fresh. They stood in silence, watching him with accusing eyes.
Fraihn's breath hitched in his throat. He took a step back, his pulse racing.
"No… no, this isn't real. This can't be real…"
But the figures didn't move. They just stood there, watching. Waiting.
His mother's voice broke the silence, soft and distant.
"It's time to let go, Fraihn."
His comrades, his fallen soldiers, began to whisper. Their voices were like wind through dead leaves, soft and cold, carrying the weight of a thousand regrets.
"You couldn't save us. Why did you leave us behind, why are you still alive?"
The white room began to fade, the figures slipping back into the mist.
"I'm sorry…" Fraihn whispered, reaching out toward them. "I'm sorry for everything..."
Then a cry for him suddenly pulled him from the nightmare to another.
"This is Ivan! I repeat, General is down! He's bleeding heavily! We need medics now!" His voice trembled with urgency, desperation spilling over as he called for help.
But unknown to him his radio malfunctioned.
Ivan's malfunctioning transmission was spilling out through every radio across the entire Imperium.
Every officer, every soldier, every citizen of the Imperium was hearing the same thing. They were hearing Fraihn's struggle, his fall, and his desperate plea for the Imperium to hold together.
The entire Imperium was listening.
The Emperor sat at the head of the room, his dark crimson robes pooling around him like blood. His face, carved in stone, betrayed no emotion, but his piercing eyes burned with the weight of the crisis.
On his left, Lady Seraphine leaned heavily over the war table, her silver hair falling into her face as she frantically scrawled notes across the maps. Her breathing was uneven, her thin frame shaking with barely contained panic.
On the Emperor's right, Supreme Commander Halvar paced like a caged beast, his fists clenching and unclenching as the broken, static-filled transmission from Étsien crackled through the radio.
"...need… reinforcements… casualties mounting..." The voice sputtered, barely audible.
The Emperor's knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrest of his chair. "What's the latest?" he demanded.
Seraphine's voice wavered as she replied, "Étsien is falling apart, Your Majesty. They've been holding the line for hours, but they're running out of ammunition—nd men."
"And reinforcements?" His voice was low, controlled, but it carried a dangerous edge.
"There are none," Halvar said bitterly, slamming his fist onto the map table. "Every damn unit is pinned down at the southern front or fortifying the capital."
The Emperor's jaw tightened. "So, Fraihn's forces are alone?"
"They are."
The radio crackled violently again, and a burst of frantic shouting broke through.
"This is Ivan! General Fraihn is down! I repeat, Fraihn is down!"
The room froze. Seraphine's pen slipped from her hand, clattering onto the table. Halvar stopped pacing, his face contorting with fury and despair.
"No… no, no, no!" Seraphine muttered, her hands gripping the edges of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. "He's the only reason Étsien hasn't fallen already! Without him, they…" Her voice cracked, and she couldn't finish.
Halvar punched the wall with a force that echoed through the chamber. "Damn it! This can't be happening!" His voice was raw, filled with helpless anger.
The Emperor rose from his chair, his imposing height casting a shadow over the room. He moved slowly to the radio, his expression a mask of barely restrained emotion. "Fix it," he ordered the technician.
The man frantically twisted dials, his trembling hands struggling to comply. "I-I'm trying, Your Majesty, but the signal—"
"Fix it!" the Emperor roared, slamming his fist onto the table.
The radio hissed and sputtered again. Through the distortion came the faint sound of Fraihn's voice, weak but resolute.
"Hold… the line. Don't let them… regroup…"
Seraphine's shoulders sagged, and she pressed her hands to her face. Her muffled voice was filled with anguish. "He's still fighting. Even now, he's still…"
Halvar's voice broke as he muttered, "And for what? There's no one left to save them. No reinforcements. No support. He's bleeding out for nothing!"
The Emperor's gaze hardened, his voice cutting through their despair like a blade. "Not for nothing."
"Your Majesty—" Seraphine began, but he silenced her with a sharp gesture.
"If Étsien falls, the Imperium falls. Fraihn knows that, and so do we," the Emperor said, his voice unwavering despite the grief hidden beneath it.
The radio sputtered again, filling the room with the faint sounds of gunfire and distant screams. Then silence.
Halvar turned away, his face grim as he fought to contain his emotions. Seraphine stared at the map, her vision blurring with tears.
The Emperor stood alone by the radio, his hand resting heavily on its surface. For the first time, his stoic mask cracked, and his voice softened into something almost unrecognizable.
"Fraihn…" he whispered, as if the name itself were a prayer.
In that moment, the silence of the room was heavier than any sound.