The trench walls grew damp throughout the night, only to calcify once more as the morning frost took hold.
Wet soil clung to the palms, while the parched, frozen earth sliced at the back of the hands.
James wiped down his rifle barrel.
The cold steel grain of the bolt-action rifle seemed to fuse with his fingertips in the biting chill.
Beside him, Scott attempted to smooth out a sodden cigarette. He eventually surrendered the effort and instead brushed a few breadcrumbs into his mouth, chewing them slowly.
"Hey, James. What are you going to do when this war is over and you finally head home?"
Scott spoke as he used his tongue to sweep the remaining crumbs from his lips back into his mouth.
James shrugged his shoulders.
He wanted to offer a profound or impressive answer, but nothing came to mind.
"I'm... going to find a bed. A real bed, one that doesn't smell like raw earth."
The moment he spoke, Miles let out a stifled chuckle from the side.
Laughing, Miles lifted his head and gestured toward the top of the trench.
"A bed? You fool, if you lie down here, it's a bed. The only problem is you'll never wake up from it."
At those words, the squad leader slightly tilted his chin upward.
Corporal Harper was not a man of many words.
He tucked his carbine under his arm and adjusted the pistol at his waist.
His speech was just as efficient as his movements—clipped and absolute.
"Shut it. Today might be different from yesterday."
James almost asked what 'different' entailed, but he swallowed the question.
He knew all about 'flags'—omens of doom.
In the films the Department of Culture screened for free, things never went well for the man who said those exact words.
Two shield-bearers, Jack and Colin, stood at the bend of the trench with their shields planted firmly.
The shields were constructed from metal plates and leather straps, their edges encrusted with dried mud.
Both men had their carbines slung over their shoulders, occasionally peeking over the rims of their shields to scan the horizon.
Ben, wielding a shotgun, continuously rubbed the weapon's grip.
It was difficult to tell if the habit was born of anxiety or mere preparation.
Despite keeping the muzzle lowered, Ben stood as though he were ready to spring out at any second.
Harry, the grenadier, fiddled with his pouch of explosives.
He would touch them, release them, then touch them again.
It was likely a reflexive habit born of nerves.
James smiled as he watched this.
He had to laugh while he still could.
If he didn't laugh now, there was no telling when—or if—he would ever have the chance again.
"Harry. If you keep touching that thing and it goes off, you're the first one who's finished."
Harry shot James a sharp glare before forcing his expression to soften.
"If it goes off... it won't just be my end. It'll be the end of the world."
The joke sparked another round of light laughter among the men.
The mirth bounced lightly within the confines of the trench.
Then, that laughter was severed as if by a knife.
—Screeeeeeeee!
The sensation of the floor falling away for a split second.
The feeling of breakfast churning in the pit of the stomach.
Corporal Harper's head snapped into a locked position instantly.
Though he uttered not a word, everyone realized it simultaneously.
Artillery.
Then came the sound.
—CR-BOOM!!
It wasn't a single shell.
It wasn't even two.
The very earth began to scream.
Projectiles rained down without discrimination—ahead, behind, beside, and directly atop the trench.
The air was shredded. Earth flew upward, lashing against faces, and small stones ricocheted like shrapnel.
As their ears went numb, layers of heavy pressure piled atop the deafness.
James instinctively pressed his body against the floor.
His elbows dug into the mud.
Soil entered his mouth.
It wasn't just dirt he was grinding between his teeth; it was pure, unadulterated terror.
"Stay down! Heads down!"
Corporal Harper's voice tore through the intervals between the thunderous blasts.
His voice did not tremble. There was no time for it to shake.
Scott nudged James in the ribs.
It was a wordless inquiry: Are you still alive?
James gave the tiniest of nods.
He felt as though any larger movement would invite the sky to bury him even deeper in earth.
The bombardment wasn't just hitting the front lines.
Shells struck the bends in the trench, the passages leading to the rear, and the hollows where ammunition crates were stockpiled.
"The ammo!"
Someone screamed.
The cry was instantly devoured by a fresh explosion.
James pressed his back against the earthen wall and tried to draw a breath.
But the air wouldn't fill his lungs properly.
The air was thick with suspended dust, and he felt the grit crawling deep into his respiratory system.
Just then, from somewhere outside the trench, the staccato rhythm of a Maxim machine gun echoed.
—Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Corporal Harper peeked over the top for a fleeting moment before immediately snapping back down.
He pressed his palm downward firmly.
It was the order to stay out of sight.
"The Gallic bombardment cycles are getting shorter. They're coming."
As soon as he finished, the shelling ceased.
It was a lull no longer than a single breath.
And in that moment, a smokescreen rolled in.
The fog was unnatural.
It wasn't smoke scattered by the wind.
It felt as though the smoke was 'advancing' in rank and file.
As if some invisible hand were sweeping the fumes together and thrusting them toward the trench.
Watching this, James bit his lip until it bled.
Arts.
"Shields up!"
Corporal Harper barked.
Jack and Colin heaved their shields upward in unison.
Their arms trembled—not from fear, but from the braced expectation of impact.
The moment the shields were raised, arrows and shrapnel flying out of the fog slammed into the metal.
Thud, thud, thud.
The sound resonated as if something were pounding directly on their bones.
Then, from within the smoke—the figures moved.
The second-line Gallic troops were distinct even by their silhouettes.
Their formations were ragged.
Their equipment was mismatched and chaotic.
Some lacked shields entirely; others clutched ancient, battered crossbows.
Yet, they ran. They charged because something behind them was driving them forward like cattle to the slaughter.
"Those bastards... why are they running like that?"
Miles gritted his teeth as he spoke.
It was a lamentation, for there was no time left for understanding.
James hooked his finger around the trigger.
He synchronized his breath, waiting for the iron sights to catch a shadow in the smoke, and pulled.
—BANG!
The bolt slid back, and an empty brass casing ejected into the mud.
James reset his posture.
—BANG!
Scott fired; Miles fired as well.
Ben's shotgun roared like a thunderclap, and in the wake of the blast, an entire Gallic file collapsed where they stood.
Buckshot was merciless.
It offered no reprieve to any who drew near.
Yet, the Gallic forces did not stop.
When the front line fell, the rear line instantly filled the gap.
'Filling the gap' was the only way to describe it.
Human bodies were being used to plug the holes in the line.
Harry grabbed a grenade.
His hand hesitated for a fraction of a second as he prepared to pull the pin.
Corporal Harper turned his head to look at Harry.
He didn't say a word, but his eyes screamed the order.
Now.
Harry gnashed his teeth and hurled the grenade.
The explosive vanished, swallowed by the unnatural smoke.
—BOOM!
The smoke heaved for a moment, and a cacophony of screams erupted.
The screams did not last long.
They were crushed under the sheer weight of the sound from the advancing reinforcements.
—CRACK-THOOM!
Then, the artillery fell again.
This time, it landed inside the trench.
The earthen walls collapsed, burying men beneath tons of soil.
"Colin!"
Jack screamed.
Colin was half-buried, still clutching his shield.
The fact that his carbine hadn't slipped from his hand was actually terrifying.
His hands were frozen stiff.
James lunged forward and grabbed Colin by the armpits, hauling him up.
"Breathe! Colin, breathe!"
James's voice cracked.
Suddenly, a messenger came sprinted from the rear.
He nearly tripped in his haste, bracing himself against the trench wall to stay upright.
His palm left a crimson streak on the earth.
None knew whose blood it was.
"Orders! Direct orders from High Command!"
The messenger wheezed, thrusting a slip of paper forward.
Corporal Harper took it.
He read the dispatch.
While he read, the artillery fire began to drift further away.
The shift meant that the enemy's guns were now pounding other comrades elsewhere.
Harper folded the paper.
He looked at each of his squad members in turn.
Harper spoke.
"Strategic retreat."
Scott ground his teeth.
"A... retreat?"
It was phrased as a question, but it wasn't one.
It was a raw emotion leaking out of his throat.
Corporal Harper looked at Scott and let out a short, sharp breath.
There was no anger in that breath, nor was there comfort.
There was only the cold weight of reality.
"Fall back. In order. Shields in front. Shotguns in the rear. Grenadiers last. If a stretcher is needed, that goes first."
Harper then locked eyes with James.
"James. Grab Colin and keep him moving. If you lose him, it's over for both of you."
When the order finished, James gave a firm nod.
He gripped Colin's arm again.
Colin was breathing.
The breath was ragged, but he was alive.
The moment they climbed out of the trench, the acrid stench of cordite and the lingering fog lashed against their faces.
Artillery thundered in the distance again.
The Gallic gunners seemed to be timing their barrages to the very rhythm of their footsteps, pounding the earth with calculated precision.
James dragged Colin across the thick mud, taking his first step onto the open field.
Corporal Harper's voice reached him once more from behind.
"Maintain discipline! Do not run! If you fall, you're dead!"
Before his sentence could even finish, another shell screamed down.
K-boom!
The sky was falling once again.
James gritted his teeth and took the next step.
**********************
Inside the command tent, maps were sprawled across tables, crisscrossed with red pins and white thread that resembled a chaotic spiderweb.
Wherever the thread was broken, a telegram lay.
Wet handprints stained the dispatches. There was no time to distinguish between sweat, condensation, or blood.
Artillery fire echoed outside.
It was irregular—closing in, then receding, only to roar back even closer.
Amfielice stood at the edge of the desk.
A messenger burst in.
Breathless, his salute was half-collapsed as he offered the latest report.
"From the 3rd Division Commander. Ammunition depleted. Requesting artillery support. Shield-bearer casualties are extreme."
As Amfielice took the paper, her fingertips stiffened imperceptibly. Her eyes, as she scanned the report, were unshakable. The only things trembling were the tent fabric and the lamp flame.
"Next."
The messenger immediately produced another paper.
He already held several in his hand.
He handed over one, then another, then another.
The flow of bad news was incessant.
"7th Independent Infantry Brigade, left flank collapsed. Requesting reinforcements."
"12th Assault Brigade, communication lines severed by shelling. Command vacuum established."
"2nd Motorized Infantry Division, two armored trucks destroyed. Machine gunners KIA. Requesting replacement vehicles."
"9th Infantry Division, evacuation routes congested. Medical units overloaded."
The reports were formatted as 'requests,' but the content was a collective scream for help.
Amfielice laid the telegrams down one by one, staring at the map. The red pins were being squeezed into a narrow corridor.
One staff officer bit his lip and spoke.
"Comrade Marshal, the Gallic artillery... it's too precise. Our batteries can't keep pace with them."
Immediately after he finished, another staff member added his voice.
"And the Casters as well. Their Arts are on another level. If we are using kitchen knives, they are coming at us with butchers' cleavers."
Amfielice asked without turning her head.
"Position of the enemy main force."
The staff officer rifled through papers before blurting out an answer.
"Distributed evenly across the front. It's impossible to identify the primary vanguard."
Another officer placed a trembling finger on the map.
"The enemy's Old Guards are still held in the rear. But... there is movement. They appear to be preparing for a surge."
In that moment, the air within the tent grew even heavier.
The Old Guards.
That name wasn't just a word in a report; it was a living terror on the front lines.
The fact that they were moving meant Gaul was ready to bring this battle to a final, bloody conclusion.
Those were veteran warriors who had fought for Gaul for decades.
Amfielice slowly scanned the map.
The lines were dissolving.
The word 'collapse' came to mind, but it didn't quite capture the current sensation.
A collapse suggests a sudden, total fall.
Right now, they were being shredded layer by layer, yet they had not yet lost their sense of direction.
Another messenger entered.
This time, the face was even paler.
Even as he offered the paper, his fingers couldn't fully straighten. The paper was crumpled.
"The 1st Field Army... the Corps Commander personally... he says if we don't retreat now, total annihilation is inevitable."
Amfielice took the dispatch.
As she unfolded it, she drew a single breath and let it out instantly. It wasn't a breath of emotion. It was a rhythmic breath to pace herself.
"A reply to the Corps Commander."
As Amfielice spoke, the communications officer took up his pen.
The tip of the pen shook.
The officer set his shoulders firmly to hide the tremor.
Amfielice's voice dropped low.
"Replenish troops after a strategic retreat. I will determine the line of withdrawal. Do not make autonomous judgments."
Hearing those words, several people in the tent let out subtle exhales of relief.
Kent stood at one side of the tent.
Throughout the briefings, he hadn't said a word.
Instead, his hands moved constantly.
Moving a pin, tightening a thread, gathering shredded papers into a pile.
Then Kent looked up.
His gaze fixed on Amfielice.
It was a look seeking confirmation: Are you really backing down?
Amfielice did not avert her eyes.
She had no reason to.
She had the eyes of one who had already made their final decision.
Suddenly, the tent shook violently.
A shell exploded even closer outside.
The lantern flame flickered wildly, nearly dying out.
One staff officer instinctively cringed.
But he immediately straightened up, his face flushed with the embarrassment of showing his cowardice.
Amfielice spoke succinctly.
"The bombardment is reaching us here."
The staff officer asked urgently.
"Shall we move the Headquarters, Comrade Marshal?"
The question brought a momentary silence to the tent. Everyone was thinking the same thing.
If they moved, they would live.
But the moment they relocated, the front would disintegrate even faster.
The command vacuum created during the transit would invite chaos.
Amfielice spoke without taking her eyes off the map.
"We relocate."
It was a short answer.
But her next sentence turned the air in the tent to ice.
"But I shall remain here."
The communications officer's pen stopped mid-stroke.
The staff officer's mouth fell open.
For some, it took a beat longer to even process the meaning of those words.
Kent was the first to react.
His heavy footsteps as he took a stride forward echoed loudly in the cramped space.
Usually, he was a man of quiet movements.
"Comrade Marshal."
Kent's voice was low.
Low, but sharp.
Yet it was a sharpness born more of terror than of anger.
Amfielice turned her head.
Her gaze landed on Kent's face.
Kent's jaw was set tight.
His face was that of a man holding back an outcry.
Kent continued.
"What... what do you mean by that?"
His voice faltered at the end.
Kent felt the tremor himself and clenched his teeth harder.
Amfielice spoke calmly.
"It means exactly what it sounds like. The Headquarters retreats to the rear. The communication lines are to be re-established there. The line of withdrawal will be from here to here."
She traced a line across the map with her finger.
Her fingertip was perfectly still.
The line was straight.
"In the meantime, I will stay here to buy time."
Kent drew a sharp breath but couldn't seem to exhale.
Words burst out first.
"Is this a plan to discard yourself, Marshal?"
As the words left his lips, Kent's face flickered.
It was the flicker of a man realizing he had spoken far too bluntly.
But he didn't take it back.
Amfielice's expression did not change.
Instead, her gaze grew a fraction deeper.
They were eyes that understood Kent's heart.
"It is not discarding."
She said.
Then immediately added.
"It is to save."
Kent opened his mouth to protest.
Before his lips could move, Amfielice cut him off.
"If you all remain here, the time I can hold the line actually decreases."
Kent's eyes widened.
It wasn't a face of anger, but one of comprehension failing to keep up.
"How... why is that?"
Amfielice looked directly at Kent.
"If you all stay, the body count simply rises and we provide no singular focus for the enemy. But if I remain alone, Gaul will view this location as a high-value 'target.'"
The staff officers exchanged glances.
Kent gritted his teeth and spoke.
"Then it's even more dangerous. Concentrated artillery... if their Casters join in—"
"That is the objective," Amfielice interrupted.
Kent took another step forward.
This time, it was almost an act of defiance.
Yet it was a defiance born not of insubordination, but a desperate struggle to save a life.
"At least... take an escort. A shield unit, or even a rifle squad—"
Amfielice gave the slightest shake of her head. That single motion cut through Kent's words like a blade.
"Unnecessary."
Amfielice spoke slowly, with crystalline clarity.
"Kent. If you stay by my side, I will have to waste effort protecting you."
Kent's eyes wavered.
He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper.
"Then... the Comrade Marshal... alone..."
The corner of Amfielice's mouth curled up almost imperceptibly.
It wasn't exactly a smile; rather, it was a glimpse of an inner conviction leaking out onto her face.
"I can survive and hold."
The words did not sound arrogant.
Amfielice's statement was a cold calculation.
It was the speech of someone who knew the exact boundaries of their own capability.
One staff officer spoke tentatively.
"Marshal, even so... it's too great a gamble."
Amfielice turned to the officer.
Her gaze wasn't cold.
It was a gaze that accepted their concern for what it was.
"It is not a gamble."
She pointed back at the map. Her fingertip traced the withdrawal path once more.
"There are only two paths left to us. We either watch the entire line get shredded while trying to hold, or we pull the line back and prepare for a counter-offensive."
Amfielice said.
"I am simply buying the time necessary to pull our strength back."
Kent bit his lip.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
Anger flickered across his eyelids before being replaced by a deep, haunting desperation.
"Comrade Marshal."
Kent called her again.
His voice was even lower this time.
"Can you really... stay alive and hold?"
Amfielice fell silent for a brief moment before she spoke.
But when she spoke, she stood resolute.
"I can."
She declared.
"I bear the Windermere lineage."
Amfielice added while looking Kent in the eye.
"And thus far, I have not died."
Kent's throat bobbed visibly.
He looked like a man who had forgotten how to speak.
Anger, rebuttal, and logic—all lost their potency before her.
Amfielice took a step forward.
The distance between her and Kent narrowed.
She reached out and gave his shoulder a light, rhythmic tap.
It was a gesture telling him to survive.
"Go."
Kent shook his head.
The motion was slow.
A sluggish, heavy refusal.
Amfielice spoke again.
"Kent."
She used his name, and for the first time, it sounded affectionate.
The sound made Kent freeze.
He lowered his gaze for a second.
Amfielice immediately began pouring out orders.
She spoke with a velocity intended to leave no room for sentimentality.
"Headquarters is to prepare for immediate transit. Communications officers are to set dual-line redundancies along the path. Armored trucks are to be positioned at the rear of the withdrawal route to provide suppressive fire. Artillery is to pull their targeting coordinates back. Ensure there is no gap in the cover fire."
The communications officer's pen flew across the paper.
Finally, as the others filed out, Kent turned to leave.
He wanted to look back one last time, but he knew if he did, his feet would stop.
So Kent spoke without turning his head.
"Comrade Marshal."
Amfielice answered.
"Speak."
Kent's voice was fractured.
"You must... you must return."
Amfielice responded without a second's hesitation.
"Understood."
And then, along with the staff, Kent departed.
Another explosion thundered outside.
This time, it was unmistakably closer.
Amfielice did not close her eyes. She did not bow her head.
She walked out of the tent and stared into the storm of war.
Someone would come; a flood of enemies would pour in. They would believe they 'must end' her.
And that belief would buy the time the Eastern Army Group needed to retreat.
Amfielice pressed her lips together and drew a long, slow breath.
Then she spoke quietly, so that only the wind could hear.
"Come then."
As if in answer, the artillery roared again.