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The Scent of War

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Synopsis
A child is forced to grow up too soon, surviving the horrors that took everything from them.

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Chapter 1 - Trauma.

Every person carries a scent.

It's a fragrance that sticks to the skin, an odor you can't quite wash away, even if you try. This smell is unique to each person, often unpleasant, sometimes pleasant, but always present.

It lingers, whether you're awake or asleep.

And sometimes, that scent becomes more than just a passing presence. It becomes unbearable, more than just an annoyance—it becomes something haunting.

Something that stays with you long after the moment has passed.

That is the scent of war.

Vallen Cassus paced the antechamber, his boots clicking against the polished marble floor. The summons to this room, just before his official promotion to General, had taken him by surprise. A "mandatory evaluation," the letter had read, cryptic and vague.

Vallen entered, his eyes immediately locking onto the woman behind the desk. Her uniform was crisp, her posture impeccably straight, and her dark eyes carried the weight of authority. A nameplate on the desk read Milaki Hisen.

He stepped to the chair opposite her and sat, one leg crossing over the other with casual ease. "And what's this about?" he asked, his tone flat, almost bored.

"This," she said, gesturing vaguely to the room and the papers before her, "is part of a new regulation. I need to examine your mental health."

"My mental health?"

"This is necessary, whether you agree or not."

Vallen leaned back in his chair, his arms resting lazily on the armrests. His piercing gaze met hers, and for a moment, neither spoke.

The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Finally, Vallen broke it. "Is this a mind game?"

Milaki raised a brow, her expression unreadable. "What?" she replied, tapping the edge of a clipboard with her pen in a rhythmic motion.

Vallen's eyes flicked to the movement of her hand before returning to her face.

"You're a doctor, yet here you are sitting in a skirt, legs spread so I could almost catch a glimpse of the treasure chest beneath."

"So, should I fetch a blanket? Or do you enjoy the view?" she asked, her gaze unwavering as it locked onto his.

Vallen tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk of his own.

"I like your thighs very much." He said without hesitation. "But I'm not some starved soldier, miss. So, yes, get a blanket."

Milaki chuckled softly, a low, almost mocking sound. "Noted," she said, scribbling something onto her clipboard. "Though I have to admit, you're a fascinating subject already."

"Really? And why is that?" Vallen asked, leaning slightly forward, his curiosity piqued.

"Because, unlike you, most officers—even high-ranking ones—prefer to just steal glances and pretend they're not looking. They never acknowledge it. I can count on one hand how many have said something outright."

Vallen let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "So, what is it you actually want to talk about?"

Milaki tapped her pen lightly against the clipboard, studying him with a sharp, almost analytical gaze.

"You seem irritated by this whole conversation. Do you have a girlfriend? Or have you ever been in love?"

The question caught Vallen off guard, though his expression barely changed. After a moment's pause, he looked directly at her.

"Yeah, I've felt love. They all died. " His voice grew quieter, his words weighted. "And the kind of love that makes you want to build a family with someone? No. I'm not in it for that. I'd rather not get attached."

Milaki jotted something down, her face betraying no emotion.

"That's a fairly common response among soldiers." She noted. "Most of you live with the reality that tomorrow might never come. But let's move on."

She glanced at her notes before continuing. "Next question. Do you have any trauma from the war? Nightmares, perhaps? Figures emerging in your dreams? Fear triggered by loud noises or anything similar?"

"I just told you the people I loved are dead."

"Answer my question."

"Yeah, I have nightmares." He said, his voice quieter but still steady. "Of my dead family, and friends who served under me."

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Milaki tilted her head slightly, jotting down a note. 

But her next question came sharper, like a blade slicing through the air.

"Tell me about your first time killing."

Vallen's jaw tightened for the briefest moment, his smirk returning, though his eyes darkened.

Keeping his nonchalant demeanor, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it slowly, the flick of the lighter loud in the otherwise silent room.

"It was a family of four. A mother and her three sons. They sabotaged our troops and blew up one of our supply convoys, killing several soldiers. I went into their home, shot four bullets into each of their heads, and then burned the house to the ground. I felt nothing but amazement and happiness as I watched the fire consume it. The flames, the collapsing walls… it was beautiful."

His expression didn't change as he spoke, his voice devoid of any remorse. He described the event as though it were just another day.

Milaki's composed mask faltered, and she looked visibly disturbed. Even though she had prepared herself, reading about it in reports and hearing it firsthand were two entirely different experiences.

"The mother... she did nothing wrong, only her sons," Milaki said quietly, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Why did you kill her too?"

Vallen's response was immediate and cold.

"Because she knew about the whole thing. She didn't try to stop them. In fact, she bragged about it in the town, celebrating what her sons did, even after they killed 23 freshly graduated soldiers. Those soldiers were just delivering food and water to civilians caught in the crossfire. She was as guilty as they were."

"How did that feel?" she asked, looking deep into his eyes.

Vallen's lips curled into a faint smirk as he flicked ash from his cigarette. "It felt amazing because I saved lives by pulling that trigger."

"And the nobles?" Milaki asked, her pen still against the paper. "You were sentenced to half a year in prison for that. Only because the Emperor knows you. If it weren't for him, you'd already be dead."

"They tried to rape my friend. So I killed them. That's it. Nothing much to it."

Milaki's pen hesitated for just a moment before she resumed writing. 

"You don't feel regret for it?"

Vallen shrugged, leaning back again. "Why would I? If I'd let it happen, I wouldn't have been able to look her—or myself—in the eye. Those bastards deserved worse than what they got."

Milaki met his gaze, her tone remaining calm but deliberate.

"And yet, it was enough to almost cost you your life. Do you think the Emperor was right to save you?"

Vallen smirked, exhaling smoke as his eyes glinted with defiance. "He didn't save me. He just delayed the inevitable."

Milaki paused, her pen hovering over the clipboard as she studied Vallen intently. The faint tension in the room deepened, the sound of the ticking clock on the wall filling the silence. Finally, she set her pen down, folding her hands neatly atop the desk.

"Let me ask you this, Colonel," she began, her voice steady but laced with intrigue. "Do you think you're okay? Or are you crazy?"

Vallen let out a low chuckle, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smirk. "That's your job to decide, isn't it? Personally, I think I'm just resourceful. But if you're fishing for a confession, you won't get it. My sanity's intact… mostly."

Milaki arched a brow, her expression unreadable. "A soldier's sanity is often a fluid concept. What's normal for you may be madness to the rest of us."

Vallen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "That's poetic, but it doesn't answer my question. Am I getting the promotion or not?"

She adjusted her clipboard, her voice softer now but still steady. "There's one more thing I want to ask before we finish. Your family…"

Vallen's posture stiffened slightly, the mention of his family striking a nerve he rarely allowed others to see. "What about them?"

"You were young when it happened. I read the report, but I need to hear it from you. If you're comfortable sharing."

His jaw clenched for a moment, and he exhaled slowly, his smirk fading. "Comfortable? Sure. It's been years. What's one more time, right?" He leaned back in his chair, his gaze hardening as he stared at a spot on the wall behind her.

"It was a raid," he began, his voice calm but distant. "Rebels who didn't care who they were killing, as long as it sent a message. My father refused to hand over supplies they demanded. So, they lined us up. Me, my brother, my parents."

He paused, his hand unconsciously brushing the edge of the table.

"They shot my father first. Then my brother." His voice tightened, but he kept going, his tone steady despite the tremor threatening to surface.

"My mother… she begged them to stop. Begged them to take her instead. So, they did. Right in front of me."

Milaki's pen hovered over the clipboard, unmoving. "And you? How did you survive?"

"They left me to die." He said with a humorless chuckle. "Guess they thought a scrawny kid with a bullet graze wouldn't make it through the night. But I did. And I remembered every single face in that group."

Her eyes softened, but her voice remained even. "You found them, didn't you?"

"Oh, I found them." Vallen replied, with a big smile on his face.

Milaki tapped her pen lightly against the clipboard, her expression unreadable.

"Do you ever think about them now? The people you lost… or the ones you took revenge on?"

"Every day," Vallen admitted without hesitation. "But thinking doesn't change anything. They're gone, and I'm here. That's the only reality I've got left to work with."

She nodded, scribbling a final note before setting her clipboard down. "You've been through hell, Vallen. More than most people could endure. And yet, here you are."

"Here I am." He echoed, his voice low.

Milaki leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto his.

"It's not weakness to feel, you know. To grieve. To let yourself remember without shutting it out."

His smirk softened, and for a brief moment, the mask he wore seemed to crack.

"Feelings don't win wars, Milaki. Strategy does. Discipline does. And people like me—we're just tools to make that happen."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Milaki eventually leaned back, folding her hands in her lap.

"So, Vallen," she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips, "am I clearing you for duty, or do I need to label you a danger to everyone around you?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You tell me, Doc. Am I sane enough for a promotion, or should I be locked up?"

"I think you're capable, but also unpredictable." She said bluntly. "That makes you valuable, but it also makes you dangerous.

Milaki picked up a sheet of paper from the stack on her desk and slid it across to him. It bore the official seal of the Emperor's office, the words "Promotion to Brigadier General" stamped prominently at the top.

"You're being promoted." She said simply. "Effective immediately. And remember stakes are higher now. One misstep, and there won't be another pardon."

Vallen stood, sliding the promotion paper into the inner pocket of his coat.

"Thanks for the warning, Doctor. I'll try to stay on my best behavior."

Milaki chuckled softly, standing as well and offering her hand. "Congratulations, General. Make sure you earn that title."

He took her hand, his grip firm but brief. "Don't worry. I will."

As Vallen turned to leave, Milaki called after him. "One last thing."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Her tone softened, almost imperceptibly. "I know you'll defend Étsien. I'll keep you in my prayers.

Vallen smirked again, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Good to know," he said before striding out of the room, the heavy oak door closing behind him.