Against the gray sky, their tents were silhouetted, their canvas flapping weakly in the wind. Night was beginning to fall, and here and there fires crackled, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the soldiers. The smells of smoke mingled with the scent of sweat and the poor meals that were served. Among all the soldiers, Flavius had just been enlisted. He had just celebrated his 19th birthday last week when the army came to take him from the village. After a quick training of a few days, he had been sent as an infantryman to this camp. His slightly too large and dented armor, marked by the blows received by its former owner, gleamed faintly beside him in the firelight. A scent of war hung in the air and began to suffocate Flavius. The camp was completely silent if one excluded the noise of armor and weapons being polished. It was the calm before the storm, something unreal, almost unhealthy, but he knew he had no choice. Tomorrow it would be hell.
Flavius stood by the fire, a spoonful of lukewarm soup between his trembling fingers. This insipid soup foretold the horrors he was about to experience. As the saying goes, the worse the army's food, the more powerful the army. He hoped this saying was true because he did not want his life to end so soon. Beside him, Cassius settled down with a grunt, his dented armor under his arm. His broad shoulders bore the marks of harsh training, his dull and tired eyes already betrayed a soul worn and damaged by combat.
"Are you worried, Flavius?" Cassius asked, his voice low and neutral, almost drowned out by the crackling of the flames.
Flavius nodded. "I've never held a sword in my life. And the stories of battles that the veterans have told me do not inspire courage. There have been too many men in my situation, freshly enlisted, who did not make it through the day."
Cassius remained silent for a moment, his breath forming small icy clouds in the air. Then he reluctantly said, "You'll see. You get used to it. Surviving is all that matters."
Before Flavius could respond, a massive shadow approached—Lysandre. Older, the veteran had a face covered in scars. His latest scar, a livid gash running from his forehead to his jaw and continuing to his shoulder. He exuded an aura of contained violence. His reputation preceded him: brave to the point of madness, but quick to explode like a badly loaded arquebus. "Of course, you won't get used to it!" said Lysandre, a strained smile on his lips. "But if you want to survive, kid, think only of your own skin. On the battlefield, you don't help others; you survive, even if it means seeing your best friend die."
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Tiberius, a young recruit like Flavius, stood beside him. "They say the people of the Kingdom of Fine are fierce and merciless warriors. That they finish off wounded enemies instead of keeping them for ransom."
Lysandre looked at him, his gaze cold as death. "The Fines are men like us, forced to survive until the next battle for the glory of their chiefs. Not once have I seen them kill wounded enemies, but they don't help them either. One less enemy soldier is one more chance to see the sun rise. But the real danger isn't them; it's not the enemy; it's yourself. If you think you're invincible, you're dead."
These words sank into Flavius' mind like a rusty nail driven by a hammer, painful, twisted, corrupting the spirit like rust corrupts everything it touches. He had not yet experienced war, but he was beginning to sense the horror. Every word, every glance exchanged with the others seemed to prepare him for a moment when a mistake, a hesitation, an excess of confidence could make him join his father and brothers, swallowed by this endless war. He could feel it coming, this infernal machine that grinds souls and bodies, the weak and the arrogant, all without distinction, all united, all equal at its feet.
Night fell, thick and cold, embracing the camp, swallowing it in darkness reflecting the souls of the veterans, a nearly perfect mirror depicting the future of every soldier confronted with this war. The embers began to die, as if asphyxiated by the shadows. It was in this oppressive atmosphere that Flavius lay down in his tent, the hard ground beneath his blanket, the last reminder of his father who had fallen two years ago. He closed his eyes, and his imagination began its corrosive work. The words of the veterans spun in his head. Excitement and fear intertwined, a toxic mix that prevented him from finding the rest he needed.
"Sleep!" Cassius told him.
"How can you sleep with what's going to happen tomorrow?" Flavius replied. "Tomorrow might be my last day on earth."
"You can't control that, so there's no point in worrying. And if you don't sleep, tomorrow will surely be your last day." With that, Cassius turned over, indicating that the conversation was over.
Finally, fatigue overcame imagination, and he sank into a world of nightmares where he saw his family telling him not to come, not to join them.
Dawn broke, too early, too quickly, over a land shrouded in mist, as if the souls of the dead were trying to hold back the night to prevent their ranks from swelling. The air was heavy, charged with humidity, clinging like an invisible shroud. It was under this ominous sign that the camp awoke.
