The rain came as soon as the last screams faded into the distance.
Heavy, relentless, it fell in thick sheets, washing away the blood, the ash, the sweat—but not the horror.
Not the stench of death.
Not the faces of the fallen.
——
I staggered forward, my legs barely functioning, my body trembling from exhaustion, adrenaline, and the unbearable weight of reality.
My clothes—torn, soaked, stained in black and red—clung uncomfortably to my skin, the fabric shredded in places where claws had barely missed.
Elias walked beside me, his own ragged appearance made worse by the way he kept gripping his own arms, as if trying to ground himself.
His usual smug bravado? Gone.
His coat—once an almost-pristine black—was now splattered with mud and dark streaks of Imp blood. His hair, once slicked back with casual ease, now hung drenched and unkempt, shadowing the distant, stormy expression on his face.
And then there was Edan.
The archaeologist-turned-fighter, the man whose knowledge had carried us through so much already, now lay limp on the makeshift stretcher, his breaths shallow, his wounds still bleeding through the soaked bandages hastily wrapped around his body.
He had fought until he couldn't anymore.
And now, he was barely hanging on.
——
We reached the temporary shelter, deep within the forested edge of the eastern route—far enough to be safe for now, yet still close enough to hear the distant echoes of battle far behind.
But we weren't alone.
Because then—
Cliff returned.
——
He rode into the makeshift camp like a phantom, his gold-trimmed armour now dulled with blood, his blade cracked, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.
But his eyes—
They still burned with unyielding fire.
A fire that did not allow for mourning.
A fire that demanded discipline, even in the face of despair.
——
"ON YOUR FEET!"
His voice thundered through the silence.
Those still capable of standing snapped upright, while the injured forced themselves to straighten despite the pain.
No one questioned him.
No one dared.
——
Then came the roll call.
One by one, Cliff called the names of the fallen.
"Captain Garret."
Silence.
"Sergeant Lucian."
A choked sob, quickly silenced.
"Archer Boros."
No answer.
"…Galeas."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The names of dead men left hollow spaces in the air.
...and more
When the name of the last casualty was called out, I saw Captain Cliff subconsciously squeeze his injured hand, and briefly close his eyes suppressing his emotions.
——
And then—
A soldier collapsed to his knees.
He covered his face, shoulders shaking violently, his grief breaking through the otherwise silent discipline of the remaining troops.
Cliff turned to him slowly, his expression unreadable, his injured arm still dangling at his side.
A long pause.
Then—
"Stand up."
The soldier didn't.
"Get. Up."
The tone wasn't kind. It wasn't sympathetic.
It was cold.
Unforgiving.
And when the man still didn't move, Cliff took a single step forward.
"We are not dead yet."
His voice, quieter now, cut deeper than any blade.
"We still breathe. That means we still fight."
——
The soldier slowly rose, but the grief was still there—visible in every shuddering breath, in every twitch of his fingers, as if restraining the urge to collapse again.
Cliff didn't care.
Not right now.
He turned his gaze toward the survivors, his eyes darkened with exhaustion, pain, and something deeper—
Regret.
——
"We should have seen this coming."
The admission hung heavily in the air.
"We should have known Red Nose wasn't just some rabid beast. That he had an army. That he had a strategy."
He exhaled sharply, glancing at the ruined remains of their supplies—what little had been saved from the intentional destruction before they abandoned the camp.
"And now, we move."
——
I stiffened.
Move? Already?
But of course, there was no choice.
Western Guard Camp was gone.
Serendia was exposed.
And the enemy…
Red Nose…
He wasn't finished yet.
——
Cliff stood at the centre of what was left of our retreating force, his broad figure shadowed against the torchlight, rain still dripping from the edges of his battered armour. His left arm hung uselessly, but his stance was as rigid as ever, his commanding presence unshaken, even in the wake of our total defeat.
"We cannot remain here," he stated plainly, his voice carrying over the sound of the dying storm and the soft sobs of those tending to the wounded.
Everyone knew that already.
Western Guard Camp was gone.
What little remained of our supplies had either been burned or abandoned in the rush to escape. The dead were left behind in the wreckage, their names still fresh on the tongues of those who had fought beside them.
We had nowhere to return to.
——
"Our options are limited," Cliff continued, his tone clipped, as if forcing himself to remain focused. "We can attempt to push further into Serendia's heartland, regroup with whatever forces remain further inland—"
He paused, his jaw tightening.
"—or we head to Heidel."
A ripple of unease swept through the survivors.
Even I could feel it—the way the air shifted, how even the wounded seemed to momentarily tense at the name.
I glanced at Elias, who had been silent throughout the discussion.
From the look on his face, he was just as lost as I was.
——
Heidel.
I had heard the name before.
In passing.
From merchants, from the soldiers at Western Guard Camp, from stray conversations I'd barely paid attention to.
I knew it was a city—the largest in Serendia, if I wasn't mistaken.
But beyond that?
Nothing.
I didn't know who ruled it.
I didn't know if they would accept us.
I didn't know if we would be safe there.
And from the way the others hesitated, it was clear that they knew something I didn't.
——
A grizzled veteran, his cloak still caked in mud and blood, exhaled sharply.
"Heidel," he muttered. "That's a gamble."
"Better than wandering the wilds like damned vagrants," another soldier shot back.
"Better?" the veteran snorted. "We get there, what happens? You think they'll just let us in? Offer us beds and fresh meals like we're lost lambs? Wake up! We lost the damned camp! If we march into Heidel, the Council's going to have questions."
——
The Council?
I furrowed my brow.
I wasn't the only one confused.
Elias finally spoke, his voice low. "Council?"
A different soldier answered—this one younger, but his tone was filled with cynicism far beyond his years.
"Heidel ain't a kingdom," he said bitterly. "It's a nest of merchants, nobles, and so-called statesmen—the Serendian Council."
He spat the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
"They run the city. Officially. Unofficially?" He let out a dry, humourless laugh. "They're dancing on Calpheon's strings."
I still didn't fully understand.
But Elias…
Elias did.
I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, his fists clenching slightly.
He wasn't a part of this world, but something in the name Calpheon meant something to him.
——
Cliff, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"Regardless of their politics," he said firmly, "Heidel is our only remaining stronghold. The only place that still has the resources to support a retreating force."
Someone in the crowd scoffed.
"And what if they don't take us in?"
"They will."
Cliff's voice left no room for argument.
"But what they do with us," he added, "is another matter."
——
That was the real fear, wasn't it?
Not whether they would let us in—but whether they would see us as useful, or expendable.
No army kept dead weight.
No nation fed soldiers who had already lost the war before reaching their gates.
——
Another soldier, older, hunched slightly from his wounds, grunted.
"Some of us won't even make it that far."
The statement was cruel, but true.
We had injured men, and limited resources.
We had no healers, no spare mounts, and no protection against another ambush.
And if we staggered into Heidel like a defeated band of beggars—what then?
Would they even let us inside their walls?
Would they give us time to recover, or would they brand us as failures, stripping our titles, our weapons—our very right to be called soldiers?
——
"I won't beg," one of the remaining officers said stiffly.
"Then don't," Cliff answered. "We march in as survivors, not beggars."
He let his gaze sweep across us once more.
"Or," he added coldly, "we take our chances out here. With the wounded. With no supplies. No allies. No command."
A heavy silence.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Because as much as we hated it—
We all knew the truth.
——
Heidel was a gamble.
But wandering into the unknown was a death sentence.
——
Cliff straightened.
"We march at dawn."
And this time—
No one questioned him.
——
And then, in the quiet that followed…
A soldier shifted uncomfortably, his voice hesitant.
"…Sir."
Cliff turned, his patience already running thin.
The soldier glanced at the others, then back at him.
"That thing," he muttered. "That Imp—Red Nose. When he screamed at the end, when he… lost control."
A tense silence.
The soldier frowned.
"…Who was he talking to?"
——
The question hung heavily in the air.
Elias went rigid beside me.
I forced my expression neutral.
Edan was still unconscious, but I could almost feel the way his mind would have churned at that question.
No one answered.
Not a single voice.
And that—
That was answer enough.