The first shell landed just after midnight.
The explosion rattled the trench walls, spraying dirt and stone across my face. But worse than the blast was what it triggered inside Elias.
The memories came like knives—merciless, unstoppable.
A village, burning.
A woman, clutching her child, screaming as soldiers stormed her home.
Orders barked. His voice among them.
The sound of his rifle.
The silence afterward.
I fell to my knees, clutching my skull as the flood of images ripped through me. They weren't just pictures—they were feelings. The stench of smoke, the warmth of blood on his hands, the weight of a trigger pulled too many times.
Elias's voice broke inside me. "I deserve it. Every scream, every face—I deserve the rope."
I wanted to argue, to fight back. But the truth twisted in my chest.
Hadn't I once thought the same?