The sun hung low in the sky as Valen, Dorin, and the rest of the volunteers made their way toward the military camp on the outskirts of Ranshold. The air had a bite to it, carrying with it the scent of iron and smoke. As they approached, they could see the outlines of soldiers moving about, setting up tents, sharpening weapons, and tending to the horses. A tense energy hung over the camp, one that made Valen's chest tighten as he realized how close he was to the heart of it all.
They were met by a gruff officer, a burly man with a thick mustache and a commanding presence. His eyes swept over the group, sizing them up with practiced precision.
"New recruits, eh?" he grunted. "You'll be put to work soon enough. No time for idle chatter, but first, " He paused, his eyes locking onto Dorin, who was fidgeting with a loose strap on his armor. "You, there. You look like you've never held a sword in your life."
Dorin, not missing a beat, flashed the officer a grin. "I've held a sword plenty of times. In my dreams, mostly. But I'm a quick learner."
Valen rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help but chuckle. Dorin's carefree attitude was a welcome distraction in this tense environment. The officer scowled but didn't respond, instead waving them off toward a small group of soldiers near a fire pit.
As they walked toward the fire, Valen spotted a few familiar faces among the soldiers, men and women who looked hardened by the years of war. One of them, a tall man with an intimidating presence, was cleaning his sword with careful, practiced motions. His armor was adorned with dents and scratches, evidence of his many battles.
"Hey there," Valen said, trying to make small talk. "You've been out here long?"
The soldier, whose name turned out to be Lior, glanced up from his sword, his face unreadable. "Long enough," he said, his voice deep and steady. "This war's been dragging on for too damn long. More men die every year, but the cause? Hard to say. We were told it was about protecting our lands, but lately, it's been more about politics. The nobles bicker, the kings fight, and we're the ones who bleed."
Valen's stomach churned at the words. It was a stark reminder of the complexity of war. It wasn't about some noble cause; it was about power, control, and the sacrifices of men like Lior.
Lior caught Valen's expression and gave a rough laugh. "Don't look so troubled, kid. War doesn't leave you much room for pity. You'll get used to it, or you won't."
Before Valen could respond, Dorin stepped in, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Hey, Lior, ever seen a man eat a whole roast chicken in one go?"
Lior blinked, momentarily taken aback by the absurdity of the question. "Can't say I have. But I've seen men do worse."
Dorin grinned. "Well, if you're lucky, you'll get to see me do it tonight. I've got an appetite that's about to test the limits of this camp."
Lior chuckled, a rare sound that seemed to ease the tension in the air. "You might just survive out here with humor like that. Keep it up, and maybe you'll make it through the war without losing your sanity."
Valen watched the exchange with a smile. Dorin had a way of cutting through the gloom, making even the harshest environments feel a little less suffocating. But his words still lingered in Valen's mind, this war wasn't what he had imagined. It wasn't a battle of ideals or a righteous cause. It was politics. It was power. And at the center of it all were the people who had to fight for things they didn't fully understand.
As they settled down near the fire, more soldiers gathered around, each with their own stories and experiences. One man, with a scar running down the left side of his face, spoke up.
"Have you heard the rumors?" he asked in a low voice, glancing around as if ensuring no one was listening too closely. "About why this war started in the first place?"
Valen leaned forward, intrigued. "Rumors? What do you mean?"
The man, whose name was Jarek, lowered his voice further. "Well, it's said that the king's advisors are just as responsible for the war as the enemy. Some say they stirred up tensions with neighboring kingdoms just to make a profit. You know, trade routes and alliances. They don't care who dies, as long as their coffers stay full."
Dorin snorted. "A bunch of greedy old men. Figures."
Jarek nodded grimly. "Exactly. But here's the real kicker. There's talk that some of the soldiers fighting on the enemy's side used to be part of our own army. They didn't leave because they were traitors. They left because they couldn't stomach the corruption. Now they're fighting to bring down the very system that sent us to war."
Valen's mind raced. "That's insane. So, we're not just fighting an enemy, we're fighting our own people?"
Jarek gave a bitter smile. "The lines aren't as clear as you think. That's the problem. The men who fight aren't always the ones pulling the strings. And the reasons we're here? Most of us don't even know anymore."
The conversation hung in the air like a thick fog. Valen felt a knot tighten in his stomach. War was never just about the battlefield—it was about the decisions made behind closed doors, by people who would never see the blood spilled on the ground. His family had sent him to fight, believing he was protecting their home, their way of life. But how could he protect them from something this complex?
Dorin, seemingly unaware of the heavier tone the conversation had taken, leaned back and stretched his arms, looking up at the sky. "I don't care who's behind the war or why it started. I'm just here to survive it. And maybe, just maybe, I'll eat that roast chicken before we get killed."
The soldiers around the fire laughed, their tension breaking, even if just for a moment. But for Valen, the words didn't bring the comfort they had before. He was caught between his loyalty to his family, his country, and the dawning realization that the war was something far murkier than he had ever expected.
Later that evening, as the fire crackled and the stars began to blanket the sky, Valen stood apart from the group, lost in thought. The weight of the rumors, the conversations, and the uncertainty hung heavily on his shoulders.
Just then, Lior approached, handing him a bowl of stew. "You look like you could use this," he said, his voice softer now. "I've been where you are. Wondering what the hell any of this means. But in the end, it's not about the reasons. It's about the people you fight for. Your comrades. And the ones waiting for you back home."
Valen took the bowl, grateful for the kindness, but his mind was still clouded with doubt. "But what if the reasons don't make sense? What if we're just pawns in a game?"
Lior gave a small, knowing smile. "Then you do what you can, for the people you care about. That's all any of us can do. The rest? It's out of our hands."
As the night wore on, the fires burned low, and the soldiers drifted off to their tents. Valen, however, stayed by the fire, staring into the flames, lost in thought. The reality of war had shifted for him. It wasn't a simple battle of good versus evil. It was a messy, chaotic thing, full of greed, betrayal, and survival. But there was one thing he knew for sure: whatever the reasons behind the war, he would fight. For his family. For his friends. For the people he loved.
And maybe, just maybe, he would survive it all.