The train crawled through the frostbitten plains, its windows dimmed with a film of dust and breath. Beyond the glass, the land lay still — a frozen sea of grey fields, skeletal trees, and distant watchtowers that cut the horizon like the teeth of a rusted blade.
Somewhere out there, beyond the darkness, the front was eating men alive.
In the carriage, no one spoke much. Boots scuffed the wooden floor; hands clutched rifles and sacks. Faces were pale, eyes hollow — some looking ahead, others looking nowhere at all.
The capital had sent them here — to Brannt, a city not small but far from home, pressed close to the border. Brannt was not just a city. It was a machine — grinding out supplies, weapons, and bodies for the war. Its people lived under watchful eyes, its streets patrolled by boots that never stopped marching.
And around it, like the rings of a dying tree, stretched its defense lines — concrete and steel, dug deep into the earth.
One of the men on the train, no older than twenty, kept his gaze fixed on the blurred lights ahead. His name was Marek Stoltz, and he had been sent to replace the dead.