The first thing Draven felt was cold. Not the kind that bit into skin or made the body shiver, but a slow and invasive chill that rose from the ground itself. It seeped into his back, his shoulders, his spine, settling there as if it had always belonged. His body felt stiff and heavy, pressed down by something unseen. When he tried to move, the ground resisted him. Not with pain, but with refusal, as if it had already decided he should stay where he was.
Breathing was difficult. Each breath came shallow and uneven, scraping his throat raw as it passed. There was a weight on his chest, not enough to crush him, but enough to make every inhale feel incomplete. He lay still, counting without realizing it, waiting for the moment his lungs would fail him. That moment did not come. When his eyes finally opened, they burned, and the world returned in dull shades of gray.
Smoke hung low over the ground, thick and unmoving. It drifted slowly, curling and thinning without purpose, as if even the air was exhausted. The smell reached him a moment later. Metal, wet earth, and something sharp that made his stomach tighten. He coughed, the sound tearing out of him, followed by another deeper one that sent pain through his ribs. His body curled inward on instinct, shoulders drawing tight as if trying to protect something vital.
When his vision cleared, the ground beneath him came into focus. It was dirt packed so tightly it had lost any softness, churned and trampled until it no longer looked like earth at all. Dark stains spread across it in uneven patches. When he pressed his palm down to push himself up, his hand slid slightly. He lifted it and stared.
Blood coated his fingers.
It clung to his skin, already drying at the edges, filling the lines of his palm. Draven watched it in silence, his mind strangely calm. A distant thought told him this should matter, that this should feel wrong. The reaction came late and muted. Instead of horror, there was only a quiet sense of dissonance, as if something in the world had shifted without warning.
Sound returned slowly. At first it was only noise pressing in from all sides, a formless roar without shape. Then it separated into meaning. Metal striking metal. Heavy impacts against the ground. Shouts layered over one another, raw and broken. A scream cut through it all, high and sharp, and ended too quickly.
Draven's heart began to pound harder as meaning settled into the sounds around him. This was not chaos without direction. It was violence with intent. Every clash of metal carried weight, every shout was edged with desperation. He forced himself to lift his head higher, ignoring the way his neck protested, and looked past the curtain of smoke.
Men moved through it in broken shapes. They were not marching or advancing in any clean line. They collided, separated, regrouped, only to crash together again. Armor flashed briefly when it caught the light, then vanished back into gray. A figure stumbled and fell, and another stepped over him without slowing. Somewhere close, something heavy struck the ground with a sound too final to mistake.
This was real.
The thought did not come with panic at first. It arrived quietly, settling into place like a stone dropped into deep water. Whatever this place was, whatever had happened to bring him here, it was not a dream and it was not a memory. His body felt every sensation too clearly for that. The cold. The weight. The smell of blood thick enough to taste.
Panic followed a heartbeat later.
His breathing sped up without permission, chest tightening as if bound by invisible cords. His hands trembled, fingers curling and uncurling against the dirt. The smoke felt heavier now, closer, pressing against his face and filling his lungs. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to retch.
Where am I?
The question rose instinctively, but there was nothing for it to cling to. No memory of arriving here. No sense of falling asleep or waking up. Just this moment, stretched thin and merciless.
Movement caught his eye.
A man staggered out of the smoke only a few steps away. His armor was battered and poorly fitted, plates hanging at odd angles. One hand clutched his side, fingers slick with blood that soaked through the fabric beneath. His face was pale, eyes unfocused, mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to form words that refused to come.
He took two more steps.
Then he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
The sound his body made when it hit was heavy and final in a way Draven had never heard before. There was no drama in it. No struggle. Just an ending.
Draven recoiled, scrambling backward on hands and knees. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. His breath came in short, panicked gasps that burned his chest.
Run.
Every instinct screamed the word at him.
But as he looked around, the truth became impossible to ignore. There was nowhere to run. The smoke thinned in places, revealing the scale of what surrounded him. This was not a skirmish or a sudden clash. It was a battlefield. Bodies lay scattered across the ground in uneven patterns, some twisted at unnatural angles, others lying still in ways that made his stomach churn.
Some were moving.
Most were not.
A horn sounded somewhere in the distance. It was long and low, its call heavy with exhaustion rather than command. It rolled across the battlefield like a warning that had arrived too late to matter.
Something slammed into the ground near Draven's hand, spraying dirt across his face.
He flinched and ducked instinctively. A heartbeat later, he realized what it was. An arrow. Its shaft quivered where it had embedded itself into the earth, close enough that he could see the rough grain of the wood.
His gaze fixed on it, mind narrowing until nothing else existed.
They are shooting.
Another arrow hissed through the air. A man several steps behind Draven cried out as it struck him in the throat. Blood sprayed outward in a violent arc, bright against the gray. The sound that followed was wet and choking, his hands clawing uselessly at his neck before his legs gave out and he collapsed.
Draven's stomach lurched violently.
He gagged, bile rising, but nothing came up. His body shook now, teeth chattering despite the heat and exertion around him. The noise of battle pressed in again, louder and closer, but his thoughts tunneled inward.
I am going to die.
The realization was calm. Detached. Almost reasonable.
If he stayed here, death was certain. That much was clear. The fear did not vanish, but it sharpened, focusing his thoughts instead of scattering them.
He needed to move.
Draven forced his limbs to obey, keeping low as he scrambled forward through dirt and smoke. His movements were clumsy and untrained, but desperation drove him on. His hands slipped more than once, smeared with mud and blood, but he did not stop.
His foot caught on something soft.
He stumbled, barely catching himself before pitching forward. When he looked down, his breath hitched.
A corpse.
The man's eyes were open, glassy and unseeing, fixed on nothing. His mouth hung slightly open, as if caught mid-breath. Draven recoiled violently, heart hammering, staggering backward until his heel slipped on blood-slick ground.
He went down hard.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping helplessly. For a few terrifying seconds, he could not breathe at all. Panic surged, sharp and overwhelming, and he clawed at the dirt instinctively until air finally forced its way back into his chest.
Get up.
The thought cut through the chaos. It was not loud. It carried no emotion.
Get up or die.
Draven pushed himself upright, ignoring the pain screaming through his body. He did not understand how he could still move, how his legs had not given out beneath him, but they held.
A shape burst from the smoke directly in front of him.
There was no warning.
A man lunged, eyes wild, armor mismatched and stained dark. A short sword flashed toward Draven's neck. Instinct took over. He stumbled backward, the blade slicing through the air where his throat had been a moment earlier. His hands shot up without thought, gripping the attacker's wrist.
The impact jarred him to the bone.
The man shoved forward with brutal strength, overpowering him easily. Draven's feet slid in the dirt, balance faltering as the sword hovered dangerously close.
No.
The refusal came from somewhere deep and solid. Not courage. Not anger. Just the simple certainty that he would not let this end here.
He twisted sharply, not trying to overpower the man, but to throw him off balance. The movement was clumsy and desperate, but it was enough. The attacker stumbled, grip loosening for the briefest moment.
Draven acted.
He drove his forehead forward.
Pain exploded across his skull, stars bursting in his vision, but the man reeled back with a grunt. Draven did not hesitate. He dropped low and tackled him, sending both of them crashing into the dirt. They rolled through mud and blood, grappling like animals. The sword clattered away out of reach.
The man clawed at Draven's face, nails digging into skin.
Draven screamed, the sound raw and terrified, and lashed out blindly. His hand closed around something hard and solid. A dagger. He did not remember seeing it or picking it up, but it was there, cold in his grip.
The man was on top of him now, weight crushing the air from his lungs. His face loomed close, twisted with desperation and fury.
Draven did not think.
He stabbed.
Once.
The blade slid in far too easily.
The man stiffened, a shocked sound tearing from his throat. Draven froze, his hand still buried in the man's chest. Blood soaked through his fingers, warm and slick. The man sagged, breath rattling once, then again, before stopping entirely.
Something inside Draven went quiet.
He lay there for a moment, staring up at the gray sky through drifting smoke, the dead man's weight pressing down on him. Eventually, he shoved the body aside and rolled onto his side. His hands shook violently now, blood dripping from his fingers into the dirt.
He had killed someone.
There was no triumph. No relief. Only a hollow weight settling deep in his chest.
Draven forced himself to stand. Around him, the battle raged on, indifferent to his survival, indifferent to his first kill. No one noticed him. No one cared.
He wiped his hands on the dead man's cloak and picked up the fallen dagger. It felt heavy in his grip. Real.
If this was hell, then it was one where hesitation meant death.
And if this was reality, then he would survive it.