She walked among the dead, her stomach knotted.
The uniforms of Martissant — that familiar gray — were torn, stained with mud and blood.
A young soldier, barely eighteen, lay on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the dead canopy above. In his clenched hand, he still held the small medallion every Martissant recruit received — a silver falcon identical to the one on their banners.
"Look what they make us do, Rika," growled a sergeant, kicking a corpse. "Children. They're sending us children to fight."
Alka turned away, but not fast enough. She recognized the boy — an apprentice who worked in the kitchens of Martissant's headquarters. Gaël was sending them all to die.
That night, around the campfire, the news spread — a mix of bitter victories and tragic losses. A Pilaf unit had wiped out a Martissant outpost, but another had been slaughtered by creatures soldiers described as mad — attacking without reason, immune to pain, as if possessed.
