The road didn't end. It just kept going. And so did we.
At some point, my legs stopped aching. Not because they didn't hurt, but because I stopped noticing. My thoughts were louder.
I was going to war.
That phrase sounded different in my head than it had when I said it in my room. Or when I pressed the draft papers into the officer's hands. Or when I hugged Zeke and told him he had to stay.
I was going to war.
The words felt... off. Like a pair of boots that didn't fit. Like a coat someone else had worn too long.
I'd thought about dying, sure. Thought about sacrifice. About the dream. About Thalia's quiet little death and Mom's scarf and the look on Zeke's face when he said please.
But I hadn't thought about this part.
The wagon. The silence. The way dust crept into the corners of your mouth and made it hard to swallow.
I hadn't thought about the guns. Not really.
Not the sound they'd make. Not what it would be like to hear one fired in anger. Not what it would do to a boy's chest. Or his face.
I hadn't thought about mud, or hunger, or sleep so thin it didn't feel like rest.
I hadn't thought about being yelled at. Or shot at. Or watching someone beside me fall and never get back up.
I hadn't thought about the cold.
Or the heat.
Or how many nights I'd lie awake wondering what Thalia was doing, and whether Mom was sleeping through the night again, and if Zeke still blamed himself for letting me go.
I leaned back and stared at the sky.
And for the first time since I'd climbed into the wagon, I understood Zeke.
The fear. The silence in his eyes. The way he held Dinah like he didn't know if it would be the last time.
I hadn't really understood it before.
But I did now.
It hit me slow, like warmth bleeding into a bruise. I was going to war.
Not just the idea of it. Not just the honor, or the weight, or the sacrifice.
The real of it.
I was going to be shot at. To be hunted. To watch other boys bleed out in the mud. I would be told to run, to crawl, to kill. Maybe I'd do it. Maybe I wouldn't get the chance.
I'd never thought about that part before. Not really.
When Zeke was the one going, I could pretend. Could look at it like a story, a cross to carry, a noble thing handed down by a God who didn't make mistakes.
But I wasn't supposed to be in the story.
And now I was.
The wagon rattled on. My stomach turned with it. Not from motion—just something cold building behind the ribs. Like I'd swallowed a stone.
I looked down at my hands.
Still small. Still soft. I'd only ever bloodied them once—when I punched the wall after we buried our neighbor's dog and no one cried.
How was I supposed to hold a rifle?
How was I supposed to kill?
What would it feel like, the first time I heard someone scream and knew it was because of me?
God help me.
What if I liked it?
That thought slithered in so quiet, I nearly flinched from it. But it stuck. Wormed in deep.
I stared at my hands again like I might see something evil in them already.
No one else was talking now. Just the creak of wheels. The stomp of hooves. The birds overhead didn't sing. The trees thinned. The road dipped.
And I sat there. Stewing.
Not brave.
Not holy.
Just scared.
Scared in a way I couldn't confess.
The wagon creaked on.
No one talked for a while. Just the squeal of the axles and the horses' heavy steps, thudding in rhythm with the pulse behind my eyes.
Then a voice cut through.
"All right, screw this. Too quiet in here. Feels like a coffin."
It was the broad-shouldered one—older than most of us, probably sixteen, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning like he owned the air we were breathing.
"If we're gonna die screaming next to each other, might as well learn names. Makes the burial easier."
A few glanced up. No one answered.
He pointed at the skinny one with an oversized pack that looked like it was trying to eat him alive.
"You. With the bag. Name."
The boy flinched like he'd been slapped. "Uh. Leo. Leo Grannis."
"From?"
"Parna."
"Yeah, no kidding. You twitch like a Parna rat in daylight."
Leo stared down at his boots, cheeks red.
The big one pointed again. "You with the scarf. Real quiet for someone sitting that close to a blade."
"Farid," came the answer. Calm. Flat.
"No hometown?"
"Ghalem Highlands."
"Explains the silence. You people talk like every word costs money."
Farid didn't even blink.
Next was the round-faced boy with sticky fingers and a smear of jam on his sleeve.
"Milo!" he said, grinning. "From Estros. My cousin's probably gonna be a captain. Not that I'm bragging or anything."
"Sounds like you're bragging."
"Maybe a little."
The big one rolled his eyes. "Terrific. We got noble blood and fruit spread. That'll win the front."
Someone snorted. It might've been Leo.
"Me?" the big one said, patting his own chest. "Tomas. If you snore, I smother you. If you steal my boots, I cut your fingers off. If you puke on me, I throw you out the wagon. Deal?"
"Charming," Farid muttered.
Tomas grinned wider. "Don't pretend you're not impressed."
Then his eyes landed on me.
"You. Quiet ghost with the stare. Name?"
I hesitated. They were all looking now. Not cruel, not yet. Just curious. Waiting to find out what kind of boy I was.
"Salem."
Tomas raised a brow. "Just Salem?"
"Vale. From Liris."
He nodded like he was filing it away. "That's in Dominara, right?"
I nodded.
"Figures," he said. "You've got that I-see-God-sometimes look."
I didn't answer.
Milo was still smiling. Leo looked like he wanted to shrink into his coat. Farid watched everyone with that quiet Highland stare. Tomas kept grinning, the type that showed too many teeth.
Tomas leaned back after I gave my name, tossing a glance to the others. "Well, that's everyone then. Look at us. Real army now."
"Barely," Leo muttered.
"You'll toughen up," Tomas said, not unkindly. "Or the Lord'll take you early and save you the trouble. Either way, problem solves itself."
Milo let out a wheezing laugh. "That's what my uncle said about his sheepdog—right before it ran off a cliff."
Farid said nothing. Just adjusted his scarf and stared out past the trees. His eyes were sharp, distant. Watching everything. Listening even when he didn't speak.
"Okay, Salem," Tomas said, turning back to me. "You're quiet. You the praying type?"
I shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Good," he said. "You can pray for all of us. Especially Leo."
Leo looked like he wanted to sink straight through the wood and into the earth.
"I'm serious," Tomas went on. "First round of drills, he's gonna fold like wet bread."
"I'm right here," Leo muttered.
"I know," Tomas said. "That's the problem."
Milo pointed with his chin. "Farid looks like he already knows how to kill someone."
Farid blinked. Didn't deny it.
"Don't worry," Milo whispered, scooting slightly away from him. "If I die, I want him on my left. Not Tomas. Tomas would trip over his own ego."
"Say that again," Tomas warned, but the grin on his face made it a joke.
Salem just watched it all—this swirl of tension and noise and strange, half-sincere camaraderie. He didn't join in. Not yet. But he didn't have to. Something was forming in the bed of the wagon, like a rope slowly braided from fear and familiarity.
Farid finally spoke. His voice was soft, but it cut clean.
"They say if you survive the first week, the angels start watching you closer. Maybe even writing your name down."
No one laughed at that.
Leo swallowed hard.
Tomas cracked his knuckles. "Then we'd better make a damn good impression. Saints above, take note."
Milo crossed himself.
I bowed my head.
Milo sat up straighter. "My cousin said the first thing they do is shave your head. Take your name, your hair, your stuff. Make you feel like no one."
Tomas snorted. "Your cousin sounds dramatic."
"He said they make you march until your feet bleed," Milo went on, undeterred. "Said they don't let you sleep your first night. Said a boy once passed out face-first in the mud and they didn't even stop the line. Just walked right over him."
Farid didn't blink. "Sounds about right."
"I heard they beat you if you talk back," Leo said, voice small. "Even if you're right. Especially if you're right."
"That true, Vale?" Tomas asked me. "You know any stories from home?"
I thought of Zeke. Of the silence in our house after the notice came. Of how no one talked about the training. Just the going. And the not-coming-back.
I shrugged. "I think if it were easy, they wouldn't call it war."
That shut them up for a second.
Farid nodded. "We had a chaplain visit before I left. Said we should treat pain like prayer—keep it close. Offer it up."
Tomas rolled his eyes. "Only a priest could make blisters sound holy."
"Pain brings clarity," Farid replied. "So does fear."
Milo let out a breath and leaned back. "So does vomiting, if it's anything like the wagon ride to Estros. I threw up through a window and it came back in."
Tomas laughed hard at that. Even Farid smiled.
Leo tried, but he was still pale.
There was a long pause after that. Not silence, exactly—just a lull. The kind that makes room for thoughts to creep back in.
Then Tomas said, quieter now, "You think they'll send us to the border right after camp?"
Milo shook his head. "I hope not. Not yet."
Farid said nothing.
I looked down at my hands again.
"I hope we're ready," I said.
Tomas leaned back, boots braced on the wooden slats.
"Alright," he said, voice softer now. "Since we're all bound for the same pit, might as well say how we ended up in the shovel line."
Leo pulled his knees in a little. "I didn't choose. They picked my brother five years ago. Never came back. Now it's me."
Farid nodded once. "Same. Oldest brother went first. Then the next. Then me." He said it like reading from a ledger. No bitterness, just the order of things.
Milo raised a hand halfway. "I signed. Volunteered."
Tomas raised a brow. "Didn't think you had that in you."
"My family's got too many mouths and not enough hands. Priest told me service was a holy burden. A chance to carry weight for the rest of them." He gave a sheepish shrug. "And I thought maybe I'd come back with a medal. Or a scar. Something useful."
Tomas nodded once. "You?"
Salem looked at him. The others waited.
He didn't answer right away.
"I gave my brother's name at the station," he said. "Signed the paper. Took his place."
Milo's mouth fell open.
Tomas blinked. "You serious?"
Salem nodded.
Farid's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't speak.
Leo whispered, "Why?"
"Because he has a wife. A daughter. Because he would've died. I saw it."
Milo made the sign of the cross without thinking.
Tomas stared for a beat. "Saints above, kid. That's…"
He didn't finish.
None of them did.
No one mocked him. No one questioned it. They just looked at him differently now—less like a boy, more like something else. Something they didn't have a word for yet.
"I didn't join for glory," Salem said, quieter. "I joined because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't."
Farid spoke next. "Fear's a kind of faith. Just faced the wrong way."
Tomas leaned his head back against the wagon wall, watching the sky roll by.
"Drafted," he said at last. "Got my notice two days after burying my sister. Figured if the Lord wanted to pull me out of the earth too, I'd at least go standing."
Nobody said anything for a while after that.
The wagon kept rolling.
But the silence wasn't empty.
It was heavy. Full.
The kind that settles in when truths get laid down, one by one.
Like stones on a grave.