The road to Bryngal wasn’t as long as they’d expected — but it was far from easy. The dirt path wound through dry fields and low hills, flanked by gnarled trees that looked tired of standing. The sky had been gray since midday, hinting not just at a shift in weather — but something deeper.
They arrived shortly after the fourth horn. The sun hung low, hidden behind sparse clouds, and the city of Bryngal rose ahead with its short walls and scattered towers, like weary sentinels. Movement stirred at the gates, local banners fluttered, and signs of reinforcement were everywhere: carts full of supplies, makeshift standards, and uniforms — varied in cut, unified in purpose.
Their group was directed to the northeastern camp, just outside the city. Tents stood in uneven lines, gathering soldiers, militiamen, recruits, and adventurers. It was a functional chaos — messy, but not without order.
The tent assigned to Gunnar and his companions was far too small for the number of bodies crammed inside, and the thick canvas did little against the wind. The blankets were coarse, the ground harder still. But it was shelter — and that was something.
Jeliel had disappeared since their arrival, likely tucked in with the other adventurers. Tolvad tried to give instructions to the boys, but few were listening. Beric spent the afternoon exploring the area, returning with exaggerated tales of a knight riding a wolf and a watchtower that breathed smoke.
That night, exhaustion blanketed the camp. Silence broke only for the occasional snore, cough, or resigned sigh. The cold crept in slowly, slipping through the seams of the canvas like an unwelcome guest.
Gunnar lay with an empty stomach and aching limbs. He tried lying on his side. On his back. Face down. Nothing worked.
Then came the smell.
First, just a scent — warm, savory, tinged with sweetness. Caramelized onions in fat. Fresh bread toasting. A memory of home, disguised in steam.
Without thinking, he followed the aroma to a makeshift structure beside the supply shack. A fire ringed with stones warmed a large pot, from which the scent drifted like a comforting spell.
Behind it, a slender young man stirred the contents with a wooden spoon far too big for his narrow hands. His purple hair was tied in a loose knot, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His face, lit by the coals, seemed too serene for a place like this.
Stolen story; please report.
Gunnar hesitated.
“Gonna stand there until the soup goes cold, or do you want a bowl?” the man asked, not looking up, his voice curling with a half-smile.
“I... uh... sorry. I just smelled it.”
“Not your fault. Good food’s rare out here.” He turned with a nod. “Grab a seat if you want.”
Gunnar approached and sat on an improvised wooden stump, his eyes never leaving the pot.
“I’m Gunnar, from Dunverin. Are you… the cook?”
The young man chuckled.
“Among other things. People call me Julius. I’m from Dorel, near Morvain. Technically just another recruit. But I figured out quick — bad food sinks morale faster than a surprise attack.”
He handed over a rustic bowl filled with steaming soup.
“Here. Before some sergeant smells it and decides to confiscate the pot.”
Gunnar took it as if it were a rare gift. One taste — and his eyes widened.
“This… this actually tastes like something real.”
Julius smiled, pleased.
“I watch. I listen. Sometimes you can learn more from how someone chews than from what they say.”
Gunnar ate slowly, casting a curious glance at the man beside him.
Maybe something was beginning here — in the space between hot broth and cold wind.
“I’ve been here for... about a week, I think,” Julius said, blowing on his own soup. “But no one’s assigned me to anything. No training, no trench duty. Not even latrine detail.”
“What? Why?”
“Think I got lost in the paperwork,” he said with a shrug. “Big mess with all the new recruits… I slipped through the cracks.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“Of course not!” he said, mock-offended. “What if they remember and hand me a shovel smaller than my sense of self-preservation?”
Gunnar laughed — the kind of laugh he hadn’t let out in a while.
“What do you think of all this? The war?”
Julius stirred the soup, thoughtful.
“Honestly? I don’t even know why it started. Somebody got angry at somebody else for some noble reason, and now we all have to pretend we understand.”
He shrugged again.
“And yet… you still came,” Gunnar said, watching the firelight flicker.
“I did.” Julius nodded. “My village didn’t have much. When the draft came… it was go or be the one left behind. I thought maybe I’d find something here. New people. A place. A purpose.” He smiled faintly. “So far, I’ve found onions, firewood, and silence. That’s already more than I had.”
Gunnar nodded slowly.
“I came for my uncle and aunt. For my cousin, Johan… maybe a little for me too, if I’m being honest.”
Julius pointed his spoon like a sword.
“Then know this — this right here is my battlefield.”
“And you’re winning.”
“Always.”
They both smiled. For a brief moment, the war felt far away.
Julius leaned in slightly.
“And you, Gunnar… do you want to fight?”
The question hung in the air, like the rising steam.
Gunnar stared into the embers. He thought of Dunverin. Of Ada. Of Johan. Of Olaf’s forge. And of that quiet ache that never said its name.
“I don’t know if I want to. But I don’t think I have much choice.”
Julius nodded.
“Even so… if you ever get a choice to eat, come by. There’s always a bit left.”
Gunnar smiled — small, but real.