"I'm done with soldiering."
The words slipped out like a confession, barely louder than the creak of armor against wood. The man leaned into the palisade, his breath fogging in the cold air. His fingers—calloused, revealing it to be the hand of a farmer—tapped restlessly against the timber.
He hated being as a soldier; still, when the lord had ordered for the levy to assemble, he was among the unlucky ones to be chosen, so whether he wanted to or not, he was to serve, it was either that or the rope.
"Marching. Bleeding. Taking orders." He spat into the dirt. "Not for me. When this shithole falls, I'm going home. Finding something… quieter."
His companion chuckled, rolling his shoulders against the night's bite. "Yeah? I only came for the loot. Once we crack this city open—"
A sound like tearing silk split the dark .
Then the sky turned to iron.
