The journey back to camp was slow, the forest's canopy dense and unyielding as ever. The quiet was oppressive, broken only by the soft rustle of their boots in the undergrowth and the distant calls of unseen creatures. Michael's mind churned as he walked, his thoughts racing like the wind in the trees, but he kept his gaze forward, never letting the weight of the past hours show on his face. The mission had been a success—undeniably—but success came at a cost, one he wasn't ready to fully confront yet.
His squad moved with practiced ease, the bond they shared evident in the way they navigated the terrain. Velara marched beside him, her steps light and swift, a mischievous glint in her eye that Michael knew all too well. Even in the wake of battle, she seemed untouchable, unbothered by the bloodshed and chaos. Kara, her face serene, was deep in thought, her hands occasionally flexing as though still feeling the rush of water magic she'd wielded earlier. Torval's broad shoulders were hunched, his shield heavy against his back, but he was a rock—steadfast, reliable. Gregor, ever the quiet one, kept his distance, his hulking form moving through the underbrush like a shadow, the earth itself seeming to bend to his will.
As they made their way toward camp, Michael felt the familiar tension in his chest ease slightly. The mission was over. The caravan had been intercepted, its supplies destroyed, and the enemy's plans were delayed—at least for a while. But the cost of that victory lingered, gnawing at him.
They'd done their job, but the war was far from over.
It wasn't long before they reached the edge of the forest, the smell of smoke from campfires reaching them. They had been on the move for days now, and the sight of the camp's flickering lights was a welcome one. But Michael's relief was short-lived, as Garren stood at the camp's entrance, waiting for them, his expression unreadable.
The tension in Michael's chest tightened again, his stomach flipping. Garren was never an easy man to read, but when he was waiting for them, there was always something to discuss, something that needed to be addressed. Michael took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, stepping forward.
"Report," Garren's voice was low, clipped, as always. There was no room for pleasantries here. The man was a soldier, and he expected his subordinates to act like one.
Michael nodded, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. "The mission was a success, sir. We ambushed the caravan as planned, taking out the guards and destroying the supplies. We lost no one on our side, though there were a few close calls."
Garren's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something—concern, maybe—passing over his face before it was gone. He motioned for Michael to continue.
"We made use of the terrain to our advantage, using Gregor's earth manipulation to force the enemy into a choke point. Seren took out their horses, and Torval held the line while Kara provided support. Velara… well, she did what Velara does best," Michael said, his voice tinged with the faintest trace of amusement.
Garren's lips twitched, but he said nothing. The man's focus was unwavering. "And the enemy?"
"Disorganized. Panicked. They weren't prepared for us. Velara set the carts on fire, ensuring they couldn't escape with the supplies. The remaining soldiers were routed quickly. The mission was completed with minimal casualties."
Garren's gaze softened, just a fraction, but his voice remained stern. "Minimal casualties? How many dead?"
Michael hesitated, then gave a measured response. "None on our side. The enemy… several. We didn't want to leave survivors, but we couldn't afford to delay."
A long silence passed, the weight of Garren's scrutiny heavy on Michael's shoulders. Then, Garren spoke again, his voice edged with frustration. "You pushed too hard, Michael."
Michael didn't flinch. He had expected this. "I had no choice. The supplies needed to be destroyed, and we couldn't afford to wait. We're not fighting a war of attrition. Every delay costs us."
"I understand that," Garren replied, his voice low but full of authority. "But pushing too far, too fast—it doesn't just risk lives, Michael. It risks everything. You're not just leading this squad. You're leading them into a war that will break all of you if you let it. Every time we win, the cost rises."
Michael met Garren's gaze without wavering. He'd seen the weight of war on the older man's face many times, but it was never more evident than in this moment. Garren had fought in more battles than Michael could count, and his experience made him a valuable asset. But even Garren's resolve wasn't invincible.
"I know," Michael said quietly, the words heavy with meaning. "But the war doesn't stop. We can't afford to give ground. If we hesitate, we lose more than just the battle. We lose the war."
Garren's eyes softened for a moment, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "Sacrifice, Michael. War demands it of us. But we can't lose ourselves in it. We can't let it swallow us whole."
The words hung in the air, heavy and true. Michael nodded, acknowledging the truth in Garren's words. They had both seen too many sacrifices, too many comrades lost to the madness of it all. But Garren was right—there had to be a balance. There had to be a way to keep fighting without becoming lost in the fight.
"Understood, sir," Michael said, his voice steady, though the burden of leadership felt heavier with each passing second.
Garren didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, weathered envelope. The edges were frayed, the paper slightly crumpled, as though it had been carried with great care and great urgency. He handed it to Michael without a word.
Michael's hand trembled slightly as he took it, the weight of the letter making his heart skip a beat. He recognized the handwriting immediately—his mother's careful, elegant script. It had been years since he had received a letter from home, and even now, with the war pressing in on all sides, it felt like a lifeline.
"Your parents," Garren said, his voice softening. "Mae helped them write it. They wanted you to have it as soon as you returned."
Michael nodded, a lump forming in his throat as he tore open the envelope. Inside, the letter was folded neatly, the familiar scent of his mother's perfume lingering on the paper. He unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning the words.
My dear Michael,
We hope this letter finds you well, though we know the dangers you face. Your father and I are managing as best we can, and though times are tough, we have each other. Elara is growing so fast, and she is as sharp as you were at her age. We worry about you every day, but we take comfort in knowing that you are strong and capable, just as you always have been.
Please know that we are praying for your safety and for the success of your mission. We are proud of you, Michael. Always proud.
With all our love,
Your mother, father and Elara.
Michael's breath caught in his throat. He read the letter again, his fingers tracing the words as though they might somehow hold him closer to home. His mother's words, so full of love and concern, pierced through the veil of the war, reminding him of the family he had left behind.
A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear their voices, even in written form, until now. The war had taken so much from him, but his family's love was something he couldn't lose.
Velara, always perceptive, caught sight of the tear before Michael could wipe it away. Her grin was wide and teasing, though there was no malice in it. "Well, well, Michael. Looks like the ice king has a soft side after all."
Michael shot her a sharp glance, but there was no real anger in it. "Don't make a big deal out of it," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
"Why? It's not every day we see you get emotional," Velara said, her tone light, though there was something more sincere in her eyes now. "Let me read it."
Michael hesitated for a moment before handing her the letter. She took it without a word, her eyes flicking over the words quickly. When she finished, she met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Your family cares for you. That's… good to see."
Michael didn't respond. He didn't need to. Velara's playful demeanor had shifted, and for a brief moment, the weight of the war seemed a little lighter.
There was silence between them for a few moments, and then Velara spoke again, her voice soft, almost wistful. "You're lucky, you know," she said quietly, looking down at the letter in her hands. "At least you have someone to go back to."
Michael glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
Velara's gaze met his then, and for the first time, Michael saw something like vulnerability in her eyes—something deeper than the usual sharpness. "I… I'm an orphan. From the capital. My parents were mages. They died in the last war."
Michael's chest tightened at the sudden shift in her tone, but he remained silent, letting her speak. Velara paused, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, as if trying to hold back the rawness of her emotions.
"They gave their lives for the cause, for a damn war. But I don't have anyone left. No one to write letters to or come home to." Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly masked it with a forced laugh. "You don't know how lucky you are."
Michael swallowed hard, feeling a deep ache for her. He had known Velara to be strong, untouchable even. But this… this was a side of her he hadn't expected.
"If we survive this insanity of war," he said quietly, his voice firm, "You'll always have a place to return to. A home, if you want it."
Velara's eyes flickered with something—hope, perhaps, or the faintest trace of emotion she rarely allowed to show. She gazed at him for a long moment, her fiery orange eyes seeming to pierce right through him. "Remember the promise you made," she said, her voice low, almost hypnotic. "We'll return to our homes, Michael. If we make it out, we'll find a way."
He felt the weight of her words settle deep in his chest, the intensity of her gaze making his heart skip a beat. "I never break my promises," he replied softly, the words coming out more certain than he felt.
And for a moment, despite the war that raged around them, despite the death and destruction that had claimed so many, Michael dared to believe in that promise. A return. A future.
A home.