The inside of the transport plane was a deafening, vibrating cage of cold metal and fear. There were no seats, only webbed nets along the walls where they sat crammed together, their full combat packs between their knees. The only light came from a single red bulb, casting everything in a hellish glow. The roar of the engines was a physical force, making conversation impossible, leaving each man alone with his thoughts.
Leo clutched his rifle, his knuckles white. He could feel the vibrations of the plane not just through his seat, but through the very air, a constant, teeth-rattling hum. But beneath that, through the metal hull, he thought he could feel something else—a deep, discordant shuddering, like the land itself was sick.
Rourke sat opposite him, his eyes closed, but his jaw was clenched so tight Leo could see the muscle twitching. This wasn't the eager violence of the training ground; this was a grim, focused tension. Finn had his knees drawn up to his chest, his face pale, while Lysander repeatedly checked and re-checked the mechanism on his grenade launcher, his lips moving in a silent prayer or mantra.
After an eternity, the plane's nose dipped sharply. A yellow light flashed above the rear ramp. "TEN MINUTES!" a loadmaster yelled, his voice shredded by the engine noise.
The ramp began to lower with a hydraulic whine, and the world outside rushed in. The sound was the first thing that hit them—a continuous, rolling thunder that was nothing like the controlled explosions of Camp Aethel. This was deeper, heavier, a sound that punched you in the chest. Then came the smell: acrid smoke, diesel fuel, and something else, something sweet and metallic that made Leo's stomach clench.
Through the opening, he saw a landscape of nightmares. The ground was a churned-up sea of black mud and craters. The sky was grey, not with clouds, but with smoke. In the distance, flashes of light bloomed silently on the horizon, followed seconds later by the earth-shaking THUMP of the impact.
The green light flashed.
"GO! GO! GO!"
They stumbled down the ramp, their heavy packs threatening to topple them. The mud sucked at their boots, a greedy, clinging mire. They were herded into a trench system that was little more than a water-filled ditch, with rotting sandbags and splintered wooden supports. Veteran soldiers with hollow eyes and grime-caked faces watched them pass with blank indifference or open contempt.
"Fresh meat for the grinder," one muttered, spitting into the mud.
They were assigned to a bunker that stank of mold and unwashed bodies. A Corporal with a bandaged head and the name "Harlow" stenciled on his uniform was their new squad leader. He barely looked at them.
"Listen up, replacements," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "Your job is simple. You stay in this section of the line. You watch that field. If you see anything that isn't mud or a corpse move, you shoot it. If you hear a whistle, you get your head down. If the shelling stops, that means they're coming. Any questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. Welcome to the Iron Front. Try not to die on your first day."
The next 48 hours were a lesson in a new kind of exhaustion. It wasn't the clean fatigue of training; it was a soul-deep weariness born of constant terror. The shelling was random, relentless. They learned to distinguish the incoming shriek of mortar shells from the deeper roar of artillery. They learned to sleep sitting up, in full gear, in two-hour shifts, the sound of their own heartbeats loud in their ears.
Leo's senses were under siege. The land here was screaming. Every artillery impact was a fresh wound. He could feel the tension in the soil, the fractures spreading underground. It was overwhelming, a cacophony of pain that made him want to clamp his hands over his ears and scream.
On the third night, Corporal Harlow approached their position. His face was grim.
"Patrol. Our wire is cut in sector seven. Command wants a fireteam to go out, see if it's erosion or... something else. You're it."
A cold dread settled over Fireteam 7-Alpha. This was it. No simulations.
"Vance," Sergeant Voss's voice came from behind Harlow. He had appeared like a ghost. "You have the best ears. You're on point with Albright. Miller, Croft, you're the main force. The rest, provide cover from the trench. Move fast, move quiet, and for the King's sake, don't get lost."
They climbed the ladder out of the trench, leaving the relative safety of the earthworks behind. The world outside was unnervingly quiet, the constant shelling having lulled into an uneasy ceasefire. A thin, freezing fog clung to the ground, reducing visibility to a few dozen feet. The only light came from the occasional flare that hissed into the sky, casting long, dancing shadows.
Leo moved first, with Finn ghosting beside him. Every sense was screaming. The mud felt wrong under his boots—too churned, too layered with the debris of war. He could feel the buried shrapnel, the shattered stones, the deep, water-filled craters.
They moved through a skeletal forest, the trees splintered and blackened. The silence was a predator, waiting to pounce.
Suddenly, Leo froze. He held up a clenched fist, the signal to halt. He dropped to one knee, pressing his palm flat against the cold, wet earth.
He could feel them.
Not in front. Not where they were supposed to be.
A pattern of vibrations, subtle, careful, but unmistakable. Footfalls. Lots of them. Moving in a wide, encircling arc.
His blood ran cold. He turned, his eyes wide with terror, finding Sergeant Voss's position in the trench behind them.
"Sergeant," he whispered into his radio, his voice a dry croak.
A burst of static, then Voss's voice, low and urgent. "Report, Vance."
Leo swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. "They're not in front of us, Sergeant." He took a shaky breath, the truth of it chilling him to the bone. "They're already behind us."
For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of the wind whistling through the broken trees.
Then, from the darkness at their backs, came the unmistakable, metallic sound of a bolt-action rifle being chambered. It was followed by another, and another, and another.
A voice, heavily accented with the guttural tones of Vorlag, cut through the fog, cold and confident.
"Lower your weapons, Aethelgard dogs. You are surrounded."