The air in the camp was thick—not just with tension, but with something heavier. A stillness that clung to every breath, every movement. It wasn't fear, not exactly. Fear was for men who still believed they had something to lose.

This? This was the quiet before the storm.

The hum of generators. The rhythmic click of magazines being checked, chambers racked, safeties flicked off. A symphony of war preparations, played by men and women whose eyes had long since lost the light of hesitation.

Thorne sat at the edge of the command tent, perched on a dented crate, pulling his bootlaces tight. Too tight. He exhaled through his nose, forcing the tension in his hands to ease. Focus. Breathe.

"Alright, listen up!" Captain Miller's bark cut through the murmur of voices, snapping every head in his direction. He marched to the center, unfurling a map across the table with a sharp slap. The paper curled at the edges, its surface worn from countless briefings just like this one.

Miller's gloved finger traced a jagged ridge. The Ridge. "Enemy's dug in deep. Machine gun nests, mortars, fallback positions. We soften them up at 0600 with artillery, then we move in."

The tent fell into that taut silence again, the kind that made a man aware of the blood rushing in his ears.

Miller's gaze settled on Thorne. "Thorne, fireteam lead. Collins, Reeves, Decker—they're yours." He paused, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "Get up that ridge. Take out those nests. Secure the line." Then, quieter, "And keep your team alive."

Thorne nodded, jaw tight. He meant it.

Chaos.

The world exploded around them—bullets biting into dirt, sending up sprays of earth like miniature landmines. Smoke choked the air. The sharp staccato of gunfire, the distant boom of mortars. Thorne ran, each step dragging against the weight of his gear, his breath burning in his chest.

"Move! Collins, lay down suppressive fire! Decker, stay behind me!"

A crumbling stone wall—their only cover. They slammed against it, backs pressed tight, the rough surface digging into their uniforms. Thorne risked a glance over the top.

Muzzle flashes. Nest on the right. Another on the left. Too many.

"Reeves, right nest. Collins, left! Decker, stay low and follow my lead!"

Orders barked, obeyed. Rifles cracked, muzzle flashes cutting through the haze.

Thorne signaled. "Go! Now!"

The team sprinted ahead, as Thorne followed—

The earth around Thorne shook with an unquestionable command.

The blast hurled him sideways, the impact squeezing the air from his lungs. Dust. Smoke. Screaming. His ears rang, a piercing whine drowning out the chaos.

When his vision cleared, his stomach lurched.

The wall was gone.

Collins. Reeves. Decker.

Gone.

Blood and twisted remnants of gear were all that remained.

His hands shook as he dragged himself toward the remains of a shattered tree, chest tight, breath coming in ragged gulps.

Then the pain hit.

Searing. White-hot agony tore through his thigh. His hands clamped down instinctively, blood pouring between his fingers.

Incoming artillery.

A distant whistle.

The world trembled. Another shell. Closer.

Thorne fumbled at his uniform, fingers slipping as he fashioned a makeshift tourniquet. Move. Move, damn it.

Fifty yards.

Another impact. The force slammed into him, driving him into the dirt.

Twenty-five yards.

The air was fire. The ground a sea of shrapnel.

Ten yards.

The final shell came with a soundless brilliance.

Thorne gasped.

The cold bit into his skin. Ice curled around his breath, each exhale forming wisps of fog against the endless white. Snow. No, not snow. Something... less.

His pulse thundered. Where?

Memories surged. The Ridge. The blast. The fire.

Gone. All of it. And yet, here he was.

His fingers curled into the frozen ground. "Collins. Reeves. Decker... anyone." His voice cracked, swallowed by the wind.

Nothing. Only silence.

Then, through the storm, a figure.

Its form warping like a flickering ember, shifting in and out of reality. Heat radiated from it, bending the air.

"You poor soul," it whispered, voice soft as the wind. Not human. Not quite real.

Thorne staggered back. "Stay the hell back!"

The figure tilted its head. "You return. Yet... not as the others have before you."

Thorne's breath came short. Return?

"What the hell are you?"

It stepped closer. Reality spiraling. The air trembled.

"I am the First." A pause. "And you... belong to me."

A hand reached for him. Burning stars streaked the edges of its form, stretching toward him like grasping tendrils.

Pain.

Agony ripped through him as fire and ice seared into his flesh. Visions crashed through his mind. The Ridge. His Fireteam... Finally.

A Black Sun.

The world tore at itself as if the very fabric of its reality was purging its domain.

Thorne's body jolted awake.

The tundra was gone. In its place—ashen grass, stretching endlessly beneath a sky dominated by an eclipsed star.

His breath came ragged. His fingers brushed across his brow. A mark. A brand, still burning.

He staggered to his feet. "Where the hell am I now?"

The meadow offered no answers.

Then, a growl.

A ripple in the grass. Something moving.

Thorne turned, muscles coiling. A flowing ripple of silver and black fur. Purpose-driven and menacing gaze. Glowing eyes.

A wolf, massive and unnatural, emerged from the shadows. Predatory. Watching.

His fingers tightened around a jagged rock. His only weapon. His only chance.

The wolf lunged.

Time slowed. A blur of silver and black. Claws. Teeth. Death.

Thorne dodged, barely. He struck with the rock, connecting with a dull thud. Blood splattered, staining the beast's fur.

It didn't falter. Its stare seemingly... measured.

Then, without a sound, it turned and vanished into the tallgrass.

Thorne collapsed, breath ragged.

The black sun loomed overhead, cold and eternal.

He wasn't alone in this world. And whatever had marked him...

It wasn't done with him yet.