The Camp – After Midnight
The silence was heavy. The rain had stopped hours ago, yet the tents still glistened with dampness, and the air carried the lingering scent of mud and smoke.
Milo sat outside his tent with his back against the earthwork, holding a small wooden charm between his fingers, staring at it as if it were worth more than the swords he trained with.
Serin passed through the narrow path, her hair still wet, sweat glistening faintly on her brow from the night's drills. She stopped when she saw him.
"Not sleeping?" she asked quietly.
Milo gave a short, weary smile.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see that man falling. I hear the crack of wood against his skull. Even the soup today…" He hesitated, his voice catching. "It felt like I was chewing raw flesh."
Serin sat down beside him without a word. Her gaze drifted to the charm in his hand.
He held it out, hesitating, before speaking.
"My brother carved this before I left. Said it would bring me calm. But… it never has."
She turned it over slowly between her fingers, then handed it back.
"Calm doesn't come from wood," she said. "It comes when you decide to live another day—no matter what it costs."
Milo was silent for a while before asking, his eyes fixed on her composed features:
"And you… how did you not waver when he said he had a daughter?"
She met his gaze directly, her eyes glinting in the faint firelight.
"Because I remembered I could just as easily be that daughter one day. If I hesitated, I might already be a corpse. In war, there's no time for what ifs."
A tight ache pressed in Milo's chest—a mix of admiration and fear. His voice dropped to a murmur.
"If you hadn't been there… I'd be dead. When you shouted for me to lift my shield… you saved me."
Serin didn't reply. She rose slowly, turning away.
"Don't think of survival as a debt you owe," she said over her shoulder. "Think of it as a lesson you have to learn."
She left him by the small fire. Milo stared at the charm in his hands for a long while before tying its cord around his wrist. This time, the wood didn't feel heavier than his heart. It felt like a part of it.
Another Tent – Eastern Edge of the Camp
Inside, Iron and Torn shared the cramped space.
Iron lay flat, breathing heavily after the long drills, his body still taut like stone. Torn, eyes always burning with restless energy, sat nearby repairing a torn strap.
"If your shoulder hadn't caught that blow today," Torn said with a crooked grin, "I'd be lying in the healer's tent right now."
Iron cracked one eye open, his voice rough and low.
"And if you hadn't braced the barricade with your back, all of us would've been on the ground."
Torn chuckled under his breath.
"Then we're even."
Iron said nothing more, turning onto his side and closing his eyes. But just before sleep claimed him, he muttered one word:
"Comrade."
The word echoed in Torn's mind as he stared up at the wooden beams above. For the first time since entering the camp, comrade felt like more than just a word shouted in the arena.
The Camp at Night
The night swallowed the camp whole, but within it—between the dim glow of embers and the rhythm of weary breaths—new bonds were quietly being forged.
A silence between Milo and Serin that spoke louder than words.
A spark of camaraderie taking shape between Torn and Iron.
Moments like these, faint as embers beneath ash, were what would decide how brightly the fire would burn when the storm finally came.