Pain came first.
Not sharp—dull and everywhere, like his muscles had been folded wrong and left that way overnight. The surface beneath him was unforgiving, a narrow cot that pressed its shape into his spine. When he tried to breathe deeply, his chest resisted, tight and heavy, as if the air itself had weight.
Nino opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was low and made of dark, aged wood. Beams crossed each other like ribs. A faint tremor ran through them every few seconds, not from wind, but from movement—boots striking ground in steady rhythm somewhere outside.
This isn't my room.
The thought came calmly, which scared him more than panic would have.
He turned his head. Rows of identical beds stretched out to both sides, each separated by rough wooden posts and thin curtains the color of old linen. Some were drawn back, others closed. A few occupants were already awake, pulling on armor, tightening straps, speaking in low, tired voices.
The air smelled of iron, sweat, oil, and something faintly burnt.
A barracks.
His fingers curled against the blanket. They felt wrong—thicker, rougher. Calluses bit into the fabric when he clenched his hand. He raised it in front of his face, slow, careful, as if sudden movement might break whatever fragile balance this moment had.
Not his hand.
The skin tone was similar enough to fool someone at a glance, but the details betrayed it. Old scars crossed the knuckles. The nails were trimmed short, uneven. Veins stood out clearly beneath the skin, as if this body had known strain for a long time.
His heartbeat picked up.
"No—" His voice scraped out of his throat before he could stop it.
It wasn't his voice either.
Lower. Rough around the edges. Used, not idle.
He swallowed and forced himself to stay still.
Around him, the barracks continued to wake. Metal clicked against metal. Someone laughed briefly—dry, humorless. Another voice complained about cold rations. A man two beds down coughed hard, like his lungs were filing a complaint they'd made many times before.
This wasn't a dream. Dreams didn't come with smells this specific, or pain this persistent.
A memory surfaced, uninvited.
A book.
Late nights. A glowing screen. A medieval fantasy novel filled with dragons, noble houses, and wars that chewed through characters by the chapter. He remembered skimming the early arcs, impatient to reach the "important" parts.
He remembered how the first war began.
His stomach tightened.
Outside the barracks, a commanding voice barked orders. The tone cut cleanly through the background noise—trained, unquestioned.
"Move it! Gear check in five minutes!"
Boots thundered closer, then farther away.
Nino pushed himself upright, elbows trembling slightly as his weight shifted. The blanket slid down, revealing a simple uniform beneath: dark fabric, reinforced at the shoulders, practical and unadorned. Not a knight's full armor. Not a peasant's rags either.
Somewhere in between.
He swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit the cold floor, and the chill shot straight up his spine. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and steadied himself, planting his heels firmly as if the ground itself needed convincing.
Don't panic.Look. Listen. Learn.
That had always been his rule.
He scanned the space more carefully now. No modern lights. No screens. Just lanterns hanging from hooks, their flames wavering with every draft of air. Weapons rested against walls—spears, swords, shields bearing insignias he recognized far too quickly.
His mouth went dry.
Those crests weren't vague fantasy designs. They were specific. House markings. Ones he'd seen printed in neat illustrations at the start of chapters.
Footsteps stopped beside his bed.
A shadow fell across him, blocking the lantern light. Nino looked up—
—and a hand reached out, rough fingers gripping the edge of his curtain.
The fabric was yanked aside in one sharp motion.
The curtain snapped back, the fabric scraping against the wooden post with a dry hiss.
A man stood there in half-armor, leather plates strapped over a padded gambeson. He was older than Nino—mid-thirties, maybe—his face lined not with age, but with habit. The habit of shouting over noise. Of being obeyed.
His eyes flicked over Nino in a single practiced sweep.
"You awake or pretending?" the man said.
The voice was flat. Not hostile. Not friendly. Functional.
Nino felt his throat tighten. The words he wanted to say—Who are you? Where am I?—jammed somewhere between instinct and fear. He forced them down and settled for a nod, small and controlled.
"Awake," he said.
The man grunted. "About time."
He turned slightly, barking over his shoulder. "Verhain's up."
Verhain.
The name landed heavier than it should have.
The man stepped aside, already losing interest, and Nino became aware of other eyes drifting his way. Not openly staring—just quick glances, the kind that measured and categorized without effort.
He stood, joints protesting, and reached for the boots placed neatly beside his bed. Muscle memory guided his hands before his mind could catch up. The laces were tied quickly, efficiently, fingers moving as if they'd done this hundreds of times.
That scared him more than waking up had.
As he straightened, someone spoke from the neighboring bed.
"Rough night, Nino?"
The voice belonged to a young man his apparent age, maybe a year older. Clean-shaven, sharp eyes, hair pulled back into a tight knot. His armor was better maintained than most—oiled straps, polished buckles.
A higher-ranking noble. Or at least someone who wanted to look like one.
Nino turned toward him. The name hit again, this time paired with expectation.
"Nino," the other man repeated, faint amusement curling one side of his mouth. "You look like you saw a ghost."
A dozen responses flickered through Nino's head. He chose the safest one.
"Didn't sleep well."
The man snorted. "None of us did. First mobilization always does that." He leaned back against his bedpost, arms folding loosely. "You're from the Verhain branch, right? Western line."
Branch.
Not main family.
That fit too well.
"Yeah," Nino said, careful not to add anything else.
The man nodded, already filing him away. "Thought so. You've got the look."
"What look?" Nino asked before he could stop himself.
The man shrugged. "The kind that doesn't expect to come back."
There was no cruelty in it. Just observation.
A horn sounded outside—short, sharp. The chatter in the barracks dropped immediately, replaced by the scrape of armor and hurried movement. The earlier man's voice cut through again.
"All nobles to formation! Now!"
The young man pushed off the bedpost. "That's us." He hesitated, then added, "Try not to stand out today."
Nino blinked. "Stand out?"
The man smiled thinly. "In either direction."
He turned and merged into the flow of bodies moving toward the exit.
Nino followed, pulled along by momentum more than choice. As they filed out, cold morning air washed over him, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke. The sky was pale, the kind of color that promised nothing good.
They stopped in loose ranks outside the barracks. Banners hung from nearby poles, their sigils stirring lazily in the breeze. More crests. More names he recognized.
Too many.
A fragment of memory surfaced again, sharper this time. A line he'd skimmed past without care.
"The western Verhain line was wiped out during the first campaign."
No names. No scenes. Just a footnote to make the battlefield feel real.
Nino swallowed.
Someone behind him muttered, "Dragon ceremony's coming fast."
Another replied, "Good. Better to know what we're bound to."
Bound.
Nino's gaze drifted forward, toward the central grounds where officers were gathering. He stood among them—armor-clad, breathing, present.
A living extra.
And for the first time since waking up, the thought settled in his chest with cold certainty:
He wasn't supposed to be here.
The formation tightened.
Boots aligned in uneven rows, metal scraping stone as adjustments were made in hurried silence. Nino stood where he'd been placed, hands at his sides, shoulders squared the way everyone else's were. No one had told him how to stand.
This body already knew.
A cold wind slipped through the yard, threading between armor plates and cloth. It carried the smell of wet soil and old smoke from beyond the walls. Not fresh battle—just the kind of lingering scent that said war had passed through here before and would again.
Ahead of them, officers conferred in low voices. A map had been unrolled over a crate, its edges weighted down with daggers. Nino couldn't see the markings, but he didn't need to. He knew the outline by heart.
First campaign.Border clash.Heavy losses.
Someone in the row ahead leaned slightly to the side.
"They say the eastern scouts crossed the river last night," he murmured, barely moving his lips.
Another voice replied, just as quietly, "Figures. They always test the edges first."
"Think they'll deploy dragons this early?"
A pause. Then: "If they're serious? Yes."
Nino kept his eyes forward, but his attention sharpened.
Dragons this early.
In the novel, that detail had been there too. A single sentence buried between paragraphs of action. The sky burned before noon.
He hadn't thought much of it then.
A group of knights passed along the line, inspecting armor, checking straps. One of them stopped in front of Nino, gaze flicking down, then up.
"Verhain," the knight said, reading from a small slate. "Western branch."
Nino answered before thinking. "Yes."
The knight's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "You're early."
"I was told to be."
"Good." The knight tapped the slate once. "You'll be assigned to the third aerial support unit. After the ceremony."
Aerial.
Nino felt something settle into place inside him, heavy and final.
The knight moved on.
Third aerial support unit.
In the novel, that unit had been mentioned exactly once—only to note how few returned.
His fingers curled slowly into his palms. He forced them to relax. Panic would only make him noticeable. And being noticeable was how extras died faster.
Around him, conversations resumed in hushed fragments.
"Did you hear the Duke of Ashenwald is commanding this front?"
"No—really?"
"They say her dragon scorched an entire regiment last winter."
"Enemy or ally?"
"…Does it matter?"
Nino's breath caught for just a moment.
Duke of Ashenwald.
The name echoed differently than the others. He hadn't skimmed her chapters. He'd read them carefully. The villain introduced not with a tragic backstory, but with aftermath—burned fields, melted steel, silence where cities had been.
The Ashen Duchess.
In the original story, she wouldn't matter yet. Not like this. Not in the first campaign.
A horn sounded again, longer this time. The officers straightened. Conversations died instantly.
A commander stepped forward, his presence filling the yard without a word. He wore full armor, polished but scarred, and the crest on his chest marked him as royal command.
"Listen well," he said.
His voice carried easily.
"You stand here because your names were called."
The pause that followed was deliberate.
"You will stand here again because you survive."
A few men shifted, uncomfortable.
Nino didn't.
His eyes stayed fixed ahead, but his thoughts raced.
I know how this goes.
Names would be read. Units assigned. The ceremony would follow. And after that—
After that, the story moved forward, indifferent to the bodies left behind.
He remembered closing the book one night, barely registering the line that described the western Verhain branch disappearing from the narrative entirely.
Not even a death scene.
Just absence.
The commander raised his hand.
"Prepare for immediate mobilization."
Metal rang as weapons were adjusted. A ripple of tension passed through the ranks.
From somewhere deep within the fortress, a horn answered—long, resonant, unmistakable.
The emergency call.
Nino's jaw tightened.
This was it.
The moment where an extra stopped existing.