Still catching our breath. War moved on without asking.
On the fifth day, the new assignments arrived - faster than expected, far ahead of what their bodies could handle. Two days sooner than they thought likely. Nearly three weeks before readiness. The notice gave only facts, cold and clipped, ignoring how each person felt. Eastern coalition forces. Second wave. Move into northern lands. Leave within two days. Bring complete gear.
Everything packed. Like the gear mattered most. Like fixing tools came before healing those who wear them.
Bren finished reading, stayed silent. Since the fight, something shifted in him - not sadness, but a smoothness, like wood worn thin by constant touch. Food went in without thought. Rest came if time allowed. Work got done, steady and low-key. The absence of dread surprised him; it ought to feel freeing yet felt off, since dread once meant some part within still cared enough to resist.
Still hurt, Orren's arm stayed broken beneath the bandages. Tighter he pulled the wrap, silent when passing the medic. Not a soul spoke up, though they saw. Speaking meant removal, separation from their circle - an act none now chose on purpose.
Forty-eight hours passed while they got ready - hours filled with silence that felt like mourning. Sorin's sleeping roll remained where he left it, inside the soldiers' room. Handling it fell to someone. Not one among them moved. By day two, dawn light touched Ysse as she arranged the bedding at the line's edge. That small act stood for all they offered. It counted. It did not count.
Hours slipped by while Kael pored over the record book whenever silence allowed. Little by little, the shorthand started making sense - Orren's breakdown offered structure, meanwhile matching code tags to familiar names revealed faint links. Most labels made sense at first glance: frontline duty, backup role, auxiliary tasks. Two still resisted understanding. His own tag showed up again, tucked into tiny notes on another page, near a mark, nearly invisible.
A shape just like the one marked on his weapon.
For quite a while he just stayed there. Only after did he shut the cover. His gear got packed next, piece by piece. Off he went to track down the rest. Time had nearly run out - two days flat. Conflict pays no mind to clocks, never has.