I opened my eyes in a hospital, though it looked more like another layer of hell. The air was thick with the stench of blood and disinfectant, and cries of pain echoed from every corner. Injured bodies lay scattered across the floor, moaning, writhing, or too silent to be alive. I was bandaged, lying on the cold tiles, my head still ringing. Beside me sat my cousin.
The moment he saw my eyes open, he bolted toward a nurse. She rushed over, pressed a painkiller into my arm, and handed me a cracked bottle of water.
"Brother, are you alright?" Aldrin's little hands trembled as he gripped mine.
"Yes… Yes, I'm alright. What's happening?" My voice cracked as I tried to steady his shaking fingers.
"I don't know," he said, choking on his tears. "The explosions… they just started. I was with Father. We saw the whole city on fire, buildings exploding one after another. When it stopped, we ran to the city center—we knew you'd be there. The aid workers were already pulling people out, and they found you. They brought you here. But Uncle…" His voice broke. "The doctors said he's gone." His face twisted as sobs broke free. "Uncle is dead… Father's been called by the army… and you're hurt. What will we do? What will we do?"
He was only seven. And I, at thirteen, was no older than a child myself. But in that moment, I had to be more. I pulled him close and pressed his head to my chest, stroking his hair. "It's okay, Aldrin. Calm down. It'll be alright."
But I knew the truth—it wasn't alright. It never would be.
As he settled into quiet sobs, I looked up and saw his father rushing toward us. His eyes darted frantically until they landed on me. "Martin, are you alright? How's your wound?" He fired the questions like bullets, barely breathing between them.
"I'm fine, Uncle. Just some pain. But… why are you in uniform?"
Only then did I notice. He was dressed in the black and red of the Crescent Army.
"Son, Zaphlis has attacked. They bombed the whole city." His voice was low, grim.
"It's not just Zaphlis," a nearby soldier interrupted. He looked exhausted, his uniform torn and stained, but his voice carried a cold weight. "The newly formed Hectagon Alliance has declared war. The Phoenix wings bombed the port city of Targalia. Zerathian fighters crossed through Zaphlis and are pounding Narkin in the north. Dormisian and Barkilisian fleets are already sailing. And the Phoenix Navy has deployed its elite Attack Fleet Eight. It'll take them nine, maybe ten years to reach us. But they're on their way."
"Nine to ten years?" My uncle was stunned. "That's impossible… why?"
"It's not about speed. It's about fear," the soldier muttered. "They want us to suffocate under the weight of inevitability."
"No," I cut in, my voice sharp despite the pain in my stomach. "He's right. This war isn't meant to fight us—it's meant to crush us. Before a single fleet arrives, we'll already be broken."
The soldier snapped his head toward me. "Are you hearing yourself, boy?" His face twisted in anger. "You're thirteen. What do you know of war? Arkania will not fall. We've built a real army, we have numbers, and above all, we still have Michaela. He'll—"
"JUST SHUT UP!" The words burst from my throat before I could stop them. Pain pulsed from my wound, but rage burned hotter. "Michaela this, Michaela that. What is he to you? A god? Eight countries are marching against us! If Michaela was so brilliant, why didn't he see this coming? Why did he buy outdated weapons from the Phoenixians, the very people now trying to bury us? We didn't win last time because of him—we won because the Phoenix Empire forced Zaphlis to stop. And now? He's about to throw the lives of every Arkanian into the fire with no plan, no strategy. Just blind faith!" I could feel tears stinging my eyes. "Even I, a boy of thirteen, know this isn't how you win a war. Stop waiting for miracles. Stop praying to men. Use your mind—just once, for God's sake!"
The room went still. My voice echoed off the cracked walls. The soldier froze, shame painted across his face. He clenched his jaw, muttered something under his breath, and stormed out.
"The kid's right," a wounded man whispered from a nearby cot.
Another voice joined. Then another. Soon, every injured, bandaged patient in the room was nodding and murmuring their agreement.
Uncle placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. His eyes were red, his face cracked with grief. "Martin… I have to go. Heal fast. Save Arkania in your way."
"NO, Father! Don't go!" Aldrin cried, clinging to him. His voice was pure desperation, a child begging for the only parent he had left.
But Uncle just pressed his lips together, turned, and walked away. I saw his shoulders trembling, and I knew—he left with tears he didn't want us to see, and a shattered will.