I never had trouble cleaning the blood from my crossbow—until now. The damp rag only smears crimson across the polished wooden handle. Each drop slides over my fingers, falling and staining the floorboards. I grunt as I toss the sodden rag back into the pail of murky water, irritation boiling at my failed attempt to remove the stain. It’s nothing but a worthless relic anyway—broken, with old screws that not even my father’s teachings could save. Yet I still hesitate. Letting go should be easy, but four years in the Corps etched its weight into my palms, carved a comfort I can’t afford.

 

Nothing lasts this long—not in this world.

I lean back, running my fingers through my hair—the pale strands almost blending with my skin. A glimpse of my reflection in the window reveals a ghostly figure—hair like bleached parchment and skin pale from months without sunlight. A man caught somewhere between life and death—death that creeps closer the longer I breathe.
   My fingers trace along the tiller, feeling the deep crevice from a recent impact. With a sigh, I uncock the string, the faint click echoes in the half-empty room—a room  I try not to get too comfortable in. But having a room all to myself—no matter how long—beats the reeking smell of sweat and fresh dragon’s blood in the first-year barracks.

I gently kick the pail aside with the heel of my boot, tightening my grip around the crossbow. The crack feels as though it splinters further from the pressure. A deep sigh escapes me as I rise from the chair and attach the bow to a nail sticking out of the nearest wall. A wall it will remain on forever.

“That was your last battle,” I murmur, releasing the handle with a sudden, gentle twitch. This was my first bow, which I got when I joined the Corps. I’m surprised it lasted this long. But then again, I haven’t been out on missions for three weeks. I’m rendered useless without a bow, and daggers don’t do well against dragons. Especially a Redsnout.
The sun climbs higher, its light peeking through the wide window. My shadow shrinks by the minute—a reminder that the Memorial of the Fallen is about to begin. Guilt claws at my throat. Maybe they won’t notice that I’m not there. But if they do, I won’t have a valid excuse for my absence. Either way, I have to go. I just don’t want eyes on me.

I step toward the door, zipping my leather jacket up to its half collar—just high enough to hide the black veins creeping and twisting up the left side of my neck, fading into my skin like smoke. It’s always something that catches the attention of new cadets. I draw a sharp breath and straighten my back as I recall my training.

Shut it off.

A soldier is a tool, not a sentimental being.

Flinging the door open, I’m met with the stone-cold wall and the faint smell of burning resin coming from torches flickering down a narrow hallway. It’s quiet. No doubt soldiers have already gathered in the Great Hall—ready to spend a brief moment honoring those who have fallen in the recent expedition. Soon they will abandon their emotions—the only thing linking them to their sentience—and return to their posts as stoic soldiers.

Thoughts race through my mind, harder to contain with each stride as I pass down the long, empty halls—torches casting my shadow across the brick-lined path. Before I know it, I’m standing amid the growing crowd in the Great Hall. Hundreds of soldiers are cramped in a large room, and the smell of sweat and worn leather clings to the air, hitting me the moment I walk through the arch. Avoid eye contact, Zel, I think to myself. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

A large banner is perched on the wall, with names and numbers of the fallen units carved in the decaying wood. The sinking feeling in my gut tells me that’s not all of them—the numbers will only grow. I quickly scan the banner, focusing on the amount rather than the who’s. The names carved in remind me of every Memorial we had. It’s always the same. These are names of what the superiors assume are the fallen ones, but not truly confirmed. There could be survivors, they just haven’t returned yet. They will die out there if they don’t make it back before the Redsnout finds them. Then we will never know if they survived the expedition and what they learned. After all, dragonfire chars their bodies beyond recognition. If you’re lucky, that is. A Redsnout’s fire doesn’t even leave dust.

I’m distracted by the cries and yells of soldiers, echoing from the walls. It’s a time we’re allowed to mourn. The only time we get to let ourselves be human—no matter how brief. But whenever I try to feel whatever a human should, I find myself suppressing it even more. I shouldn’t feel grief or pain or sorrow. I won’t make the same mistake of letting myself feel again. It’s what gets you killed.

I scan the banner again.

One hundred and four dead.

Shit.

That’s more than half of the entire expedition army. I haven’t seen numbers this grim in years, and I didn’t expect to see them now—not when there’s only one dragon left.

Guilt tightens in my throat, as if my years of training are useless, unable to keep control of my emotions. I can’t afford to be seen like this with the ever-increasing crowd pushing and shoving around me. So I clear my throat—hoping that will make it go away—and recall General Grogol’s training, voice echoing in my head.
If you let yourself feel – you doubt, if you doubt – you’re dead.

   Perhaps I should’ve been there. Perhaps I should’ve led this expedition. Maybe the loss wouldn’t have been so great. Yet somehow my absence frees me from carrying this weight on my shoulders. I’d rather not stain my hands with more blood than they already have. I step closer to the banner, the carvings in the gray wood becoming clearer.

Unit 18.
Unit 64.
Unit 40.

All of them—gone. Whatever they have learned about the Western terrain died with them, assuming they learned anything at all. So many dead. Now, more soldiers will have to work extra duties outside of their own just to keep the system going. Less time for training. While the dragon continues to evolve, we’ll always be one step behind. If not two.

Unit 12.
Unit 23.
Unit 19.

Fuck.
My unit.

For only a moment, I let myself feel—a harsh reminder that I’m still capable of it. But I need to remind myself that I’m a soldier first. I take a deep breath and turn around, looking for the closest exit from this wretched place.

I hate crowds.

My eyes stray to General Tamis Grogol, a few steps from the archway, watching me, with a lieutenant nearby. My eyes dart toward the exit again and back to the General. He slightly lowers his head, signaling me to come to him. My feet shuffle, catching the ground beneath me as I move closer. He waves the lieutenant away, who wears a disapproving grimace, then merges with the crowd. I place myself next to him and observe the crowd.

“In all my years as General, I have not gotten used to this,” he says, his voice stern but never leaving his gaze from the assembled people.

I release a soft grunt in approval and get comfortable around his presence, our shoulders aligning as I stretch my back into a proper stance. I scan the increasing crowd, tainting it with faces I desperately don’t want to see again. Faces I want to avoid.

“Division Day’s tomorrow,” the General says. “This year, we have forty-two new cadets ready to be placed.”

I cast a quick, sideways look at him. “That’s double the amount than last year.”

He gives a slow, approving nod. “We need all the manpower we can get. This dragon is far more vicious than anything we have ever faced.”

His words hit me hard. I may not have been on the battlefield for three weeks, but it sure feels like I never left it.

He turns slightly toward me. “I’m hoping to see you by my side,” he says. “As Commander.”

“Commander?” My eyes snap to him, surprise flashing through me before I rein it in. “With all due respect, General, I don’t believe I’m fit to lead. Not with my condition worsening. In fact, I was hoping to avoid this year’s ceremony. I find it rather difficult to hide my symptoms.”

I know he will disapprove, but I’d rather not have people stare at me and make assumptions about whether I’m a Demon or a Divine.

There’s a moment of silence between us, hundreds of soldiers passing by, some of them reeking with the pungent smell of liquor, making me scrunch my nose. He lets out a sigh as he adjusts his posture.

“I’ve lost Commanders in this expedition,” he says, voice strict. “I need someone I can rely on. Someone I can trust. This isn’t over. And I need you by my side, Kazele.”

Kazele.

   The nickname has followed me for eight years—since the day I showed up on his doorstep—soaked to the bone, starving, desperate. Fourteen, all elbows, sharp angles, and no muscle, demanding he let me join the Corps. He said Kazelius was too harsh of a name for a kid who looked like he’d snap in the wind. Kazele has stuck ever since.

“There are others more suited for the title of Commander,” I say, voice steady, forcing my spine straight. “Lieutenant Wain is one of them.”

He nods once, unreadable. “I offered it to her.”

I pause.

“But she declined,” he continues, tone like stone. “Said she belongs where she is.”

My brow creases. Wain is precise. Efficient. A natural leader with the kind of discipline that shapes raw recruits into soldiers. If anyone should’ve stepped up, it’s her. And yet… she didn’t. I wonder why.

“I’m assigning you to a unit again, too,” he says, eyes sharp.

“What? No.” I blurt out. I clamp my jaw shut, biting down on the rest.

For the past year, I’ve done everything I could to stay out of a unit. I was technically listed under unit nineteen at the start of the year—but it was a name on paper, nothing more. I never deployed with them. Never met half their faces. It was just a formality. Instead, I carried out solo missions at the General’s command, in service of the Corps. But now... now I hear it in his voice. This time is different. This time, I’ll have people. Real ones. Names. Faces. Lives I’ll be expected to protect. Again. And if he’s truly naming me Commander, not only will I have a unit to protect, but during expeditions, I’ll have a whole army weighing down on my shoulders.

   “Sir,” I say, clearing my throat, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t take in my words or think them over.

 

His decision is final.

I dig my nails into my palm, my knuckles still pink from the blood drawn while cleaning the crossbow. Frustration is lingering in my throat as I clench my jaw. Memories flashing in my eyes, screams echoing in my head, and the faint taste of iron still lacing my tongue. Her blood. His blood. Their blood.

“I’m putting you in unit seventeen—your old unit. They know you well, so I’m certain it will be easy for you to adjust,” he says. “You’ll lead the unit.”

My stomach knots. Shit. Of all the things I need right now, this is at the very bottom of the list. They don’t know me. Not really. Not anymore. And what they do remember—they hate.

My body tenses up as I open my mouth, expecting some logical reasoning to spew out of me, hoping to convince him otherwise. But nothing comes out. Instead, I stand there thinking about all those four years I was branded a soldier.

“You have skill. Potential. And I hate to see you waste it—”

“I don’t waste it,” I seethe through my teeth. “I’m perfectly content in handling things on my own. Hunting on my own.”

“And look where it got us today,” he snaps, his piercing gaze finally meeting mine.

“You joined the Corps, and two years later—one dragon left. We got here today because of you. Because you were in a unit. You fought with the rest of them. Led an army that was composed of cowards and nearly gave humanity their freedom.” His voice lowers, turning into a slight whisper. “I need you out there.” He adjusts himself back to his stoic composure he wears so well. “Leading expeditions, turning weaklings into soldiers. You inspire them.”

“I can’t,” I say, a flicker of disappointment glimmering in his eyes, but he quickly blinks it away, returning to the man I know as The General. He tugs on his gray beard, his eyes narrowing. He’s broad-shouldered—a man who moves with controlled strength. His weathered face is framed by a thick gray beard, streaked with silver that hints at years of hard experience. And here I am, trying to fight back, thinking I can somehow convince him otherwise.

I bite the inside of my cheek, a subtle taste of iron lacing my tongue. I tear my eyes from the General, facing the crowd of grieving soldiers. Out of it, a familiar face peeks out, her dark complexion contrasting with those around her. The moment she sees me, she moves, tapping the shoulders of cadets to make way, her blue greatcoat following her every motion. She barely needs to push forward. As she approaches, her dark eyes dart toward the General.

“General Grogol,” she says, dipping her head.

“Lieutenant Wain,” the General acknowledges, and Wain’s eyes return to mine, her back straight—almost elegant.

“It’s good to see you, Kazelius. I assume you’re well prepared for Division Day after your rest?” Wain’s eyes slowly trace back to the General, as if looking for permission to speak further.

I respond with a no, straightening up. “As much as I can be.”

The General studies me for a moment, curving a soft smile. He taps my shoulder and nods toward Wain.

“It’s a shame you weren’t in this expedition, Kazelius,” Wain continues. “We could have used your… expertise in this matter. Perhaps our losses wouldn’t have been this severe.” Wain brushes a dark curl from her face, her fingers seamlessly blending in with it. The General raises his brows, a smirk playing.

“I assure you, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Everyone there did the best they could,” I respond, flicking my eyes between the crowd and Wain.

She offers a soft smile. “I believe otherwise. You are, after all, my finest pupil.”

“Well, I have General Grogol to thank—unlike most soldiers, I got a four-year head start in my training before my Division Day. I’m sure anyone with that opportunity would be equally as strong—if not stronger.”

I tense as General Grogol’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Yet your will and discipline are what got you this far. If one has none of that, then there is no way of becoming a soldier,” he says, with a chuckle stuck in his throat.

I slowly breathe in, letting my focus drift to Lieutenant Wain.

“If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, were you part of this expedition?”

She shakes her head. “No, but Lieutenant Abern acted as Field Officer. It’s a miracle he survived.”

“Minor bruises. Commandant Sayna will take good care of him,” the General adds.

“Let’s hope that in the next expedition, Kazelius will be the one to lead.” Wain offers a gentle smile to both of us.

“Depends on several factors, however, that is not what I intend to do any time soon.” Or ever for that matter.

“In due time,” the General says.

Two cadets start arguing near the banner, throwing insults at each other. Wain excuses herself and pushes herself through the crowd, attempting to stop the altercation. I take a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling as Grogol’s hand slips from my back.

“Once again, your results from two years ago speak for themselves,” says Grogol.

“Two years ago, things were different,” I say calmly.

“Yet soldiers still see you as an inspiration and a reminder. A perfect asset to a unit.”

“Putting me in a unit defeats the purpose of plastering my face across Karalia and calling me ’the face of the Corps’. A force of one,” I scoff silently.

“It’s an honor to join the Corps,” he snaps, his shoulders slightly tense. “That’s what makes men and women join.”

“Yet everyone from the Middle and the Center keeps calling me that.”

“I don’t need you to be the face of the Corps, right now. I need you alive. And one way for me to keep you alive is if you’re in a unit—not alone.” He inhales a quick breath as a crowd passes us with close proximity, as if not wanting anyone to hear of our conversation.

“Look around you,” he begins, his voice calm. “What do you see?”

I glance at soldiers standing together in clusters of five, mourning their fallen comrades. Faces sunken in without days of sleep, dirt, and dry blood clinging to their bodies.  I don’t say anything. I let him speak—my words mean nothing with how he is right now.

“I see soldiers who feel defeated. The people need a leader. They need hope.” The General’s piercing gaze meets mine. I shake my head. I won’t give in. I can’t. He saved me once. And from day one, he turned me into one of his soldiers. But with that, he made me believe I could lead. But he was wrong. I was wrong.

“I can’t,” I repeat, yet quieter this time. As if deep down, he’s convincing me.

He sighs—patience running thin. “Fine, then I will just have to place you in a unit where you’ll have the title of Commander.”

I meet his piercing blue eyes, closely resembling my good eye, reminding me of the similarities we both share. Same mindset, same length, same morals and values. Shoulders perfectly aligned. But the patch of the Hunters Division and the General’s emblem with a star and two arrows couldn’t divide us more. The dark red tones on his double-breasted coat and the black hues of my leather jacket. The medals below his collarbone and the empty space on my chest. Yet here he is, willing to replace my insignia with three sharp lines I never asked for. To bring our ranks closer. So that I would be what he always wanted me to be.

“I won’t do it,”  I say, his aging eyes never leaving mine. He takes a slow, deep breath, clenching his jaw.

“You do not have a choice.” His voice clings to my ears, bitterness lingering in the air. I know I didn’t in the first place.

 

But he was still willing to listen. Yet what crawls under my skin is how persistent he is. Oftentimes, he’d find my arguments valid, but this time, he’s more strict than usual. I wonder if the results of this expedition are what make him want to put me on the front lines again. Is he under pressure from The King? Have other Strongholds and their generals see him unfit for The Third? He won’t ever tell me that. But I can always assume that what he does is in humanity’s best interest.

I frown in thought, and he clearly takes note of that, raising his eyebrows, jerking his head toward the crowd and the banner of names that soon will burn for the Divines to claim what is rightfully theirs.

“Five Commanders died. I only have a few left that are as skillful as they were, including you. Humanity depends on this.”

“Fine,” I finally say, digging my nails deep into my palms. “But I won’t take up the role as Commander. Not until I meet up with Sayna to assess my condition.” I’m hoping he bites, and Sayna’s medical assessment will relieve me of duties as Commander.

He gives an approving nod. “Very well. I’ll make sure she makes time for you.”

A moment passes. Silence stretches between us—a familiar moment. He gives me a slight nod, then turns his attention to a lieutenant standing farther from the arch, before slipping into the crowd.

Sobs continue to echo from every direction, yells of anger and spitting curses. I trace their familiar faces, yet they couldn’t be more foreign as they blur together. Colors of different hues—ebony, copper, and porcelain—twirl and move all over the Great Hall. Strands of hair remind me of the dark, harsh nights at the Hold, or the rough sands at the Front—and for a moment—the flickering heat of a blazing fire. And then it gets me thinking of the colors that are missing, that are no longer here and never will be.

 

Until there’s only one color that hovers above all of them. The dark blue banner of the Third Stronghold hangs high from the ceiling. People push and shove under it—reminding me of what they are. Soldiers. And that’s all they ever will be. That’s all I’ll ever be. I’ve built a wall around me, piece by piece, layer by layer, that not even a Stonetail can break through.

 

Nothing. No one.
 

I am a soldier first.

I walk out of the room, sobs fade away the further I go. Sobs that give me relief knowing that I will never be the one to cause them ever again.