The battlefield had grown eerily still, the sounds of gunfire and explosions replaced by the mechanical hum of engines and the muffled groans of the injured. Near the ruins of the collapsed barn, the focus shifted to the wine cellar bunker—a relic of Sacra Hill’s past now serving as a lifeline for thousands of trapped civilians.

  Though the barn above had been destroyed in the assault, the wine cellar had miraculously held firm, its stone walls and reinforced beams withstanding the Austorian attack. But the entrance—two large metal doors—was buried under a massive pile of rubble. Inside, civilians huddled together, exhausted and injured from the chaos of the battle. Small air holes and narrow windows had preserved breathable air, but fear and injuries from the initial bombardment lingered, leaving many on edge.

  SFC Draken stood beside the engineers working tirelessly to clear the debris, his gaze shifting between their progress and the arriving convoy. Trucks and APCs rolled onto the field, their tires grinding over the uneven terrain as they offloaded crates of water, food, and medical supplies. Soldiers moved swiftly, distributing rations and setting up triage stations as the medics prepared to treat the wounded.

  “Focus on clearing those doors,” Draken called out to the engineers, his voice calm but commanding. “We need them open yesterday.”

  One of the engineers wiped sweat from her brow as she adjusted the hydraulic jack pressing against a stubborn slab of stone. “We’re getting there, Sergeant,” she replied, her tone filled with both determination and weariness. “Give us another fifteen minutes.”

  Behind them, a truck unloaded fresh ammunition, its crates swiftly carried to the defensive lines by newly arrived troops. Another vehicle backed into position, medics unloading stretchers and kits as they rushed to aid the soldiers and civilians already rescued.

  The engineers worked with measured precision, coordinating to ensure the doors were not further damaged as they removed the debris. Soldiers joined the effort, their tired arms still strong enough to haul broken beams and stone away from the entrance. Bit by bit, the pile diminished, revealing the reinforced metal doors beneath.

  Inside the bunker, the civilians stirred, sensing the commotion outside. Small children pressed their faces to the dusty windows, their wide eyes catching glimpses of movement through the murk. A faint knock echoed from inside the doors, followed by muffled voices calling for help.

  “We’re almost there,” an engineer shouted as the last obstacle was pulled clear. Another grabbed a crowbar, prying open the first of the heavy doors with a groaning metallic creak. As the second door followed, a wave of stale air escaped, carrying with it the mixed scents of stone, dust, and fear.

  Medics surged forward as the first civilians emerged—a young woman carrying an elderly man whose leg was crudely bandaged. She blinked against the sunlight, her face pale but resolute as she handed him over to the waiting stretcher team.

  “Help’s here now,” a medic reassured her, guiding her toward a shaded rest area. “We’ve got water and first aid waiting for everyone.”

  The civilians exited in waves, some limping, others carried on stretchers by the newly arrived troops. Children clung to their parents as they stepped into the light, their wide eyes filled with both wonder and lingering terror. Medics worked efficiently, tending to sprains, burns, and the more severe injuries sustained during the initial Austorian attack.

  Draken stayed near the entrance, directing the flow of evacuees and coordinating with the engineers and medics. He watched as crates of water were quickly distributed, the rescued civilians gulping it down as if it were life itself. Ration packs followed, handed out by fresh troops who knelt to reassure frightened children and exhausted elders alike.

  When the last civilian stepped out—a middle-aged man carrying a limp but breathing teenager—Draken let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. He turned to the engineer team leader and gave her a firm nod. “Good work. Make sure the area is secure—we’re not losing anyone to surprises.”

  Nearby, a young medic approached with an update. “The perimeter’s secure, Triage is ongoing, Sergeant. ISR confirmed enemy retreating out of the area.”

  Draken nodded again, his expression softening as he looked out over the gathered civilians. For the first time in hours, the tension in his chest eased slightly. They had held the line, and now they had saved those they fought for.

  The steady rumble of engines echoed across the scarred battlefield as trucks rolled in, kicking up plumes of dust under the mid-morning sun. A relentless stream of cargo trucks made their way from the Outpost at Yasumin, joining the initial convoy that had already begun ferrying civilians to safety. The once-modest fleet of 55 trucks had swelled to over 200, as the entirety of the Beastkin Unified Army’s transport capacity now fully deployed. Some of the vehicles were unarmed and unarmored carried their precious cargo with Boxer APCs pulling security as they made the return trip to Leythbrook.

  Soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, loading civilians onto the trucks in groups. Parents clung tightly to their children, many of them still trembling from the chaos they’d endured. Elderly civilians leaned on soldiers for support, their eyes heavy with exhaustion yet brightened with a glimmer of hope. Water and ration crates were stacked high in the backs of the trucks, distributed carefully to ensure no one would go without during the four-hour journey to the staging area.

  As the trucks rolled out in intervals, the noise and commotion of the battlefield slowly began to fade. One by one, the vehicles disappeared down the dusty road, their tires cutting deep tracks into the earth. Medics helped injured civilians onto stretchers, ensuring they were secured safely before climbing aboard themselves. Soldiers carried the wounded with care, their faces stoic but lined with the weight of the day’s battle.

  The battlefield remained eerily silent. Smoke drifted lazily across the scorched earth, the remnants of Austorian forces scattered and fleeing in disarray. The Beastkin soldiers stood resolute, their tanks, APCs, and recon trucks forming an imposing perimeter around the smoldering trenches. Draken surveyed the wreckage from atop a burned-out recon truck, the twisted frame beneath him a stark reminder of the battle’s brutality.

  Defeated Austorian soldiers trudged into view—nearly 200 men, their weapons sheathed and their gazes fixed low. A white flag waved in the lead, fluttering meekly in the breeze. The Beastkin held their positions, their tanks, APCs, and recon vehicles forming a jagged wall of steel and power.

  SFC Rudeus Draken stood as he gazed at the approaching force, his lips tightening.

  “Hold your ground,” he ordered, his voice sharp. “Stay ready.”

  As the Austorians drew closer, Draken dropped from the truck, landing on the scarred earth. He strode forward, his rifle loose at his side but his stance rigid with caution. The man holding the white flag stepped forward—a young officer with a trembling grip on the pole. His uniform, streaked with soot and fraying at the seams, barely seemed fit for the role of emissary.

  “What do you want?” Draken demanded, his tone firm.

  The Austorian officer raised his voice, projecting far more confidence than he actually felt. “BEASTKIN! You are ordered by the Empire to hand over your arms and surrender!”

  Draken froze, blinking in disbelief. “What?”

  “BEASTKIN! YOU WILL SURRENDER YOURSELVES!” the man repeated, his voice cracking as though forcing the words through gritted teeth.

  Draken’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. “You do understand that you were defeated, not us. Right?”

  “Yes, but...” The officer faltered, glancing nervously at the force behind him. He cleared his throat and straightened. “You are still ordered to surrender!”

  Before Draken could reply, 2nd Lt. Chip Lancer approached from the Beastkin line, his boots kicking up dust as he stepped forward. “Draken,” he said, his tone low, “what’s going on here?”

  Draken gestured to the Austorian officer. “They want us to surrender, sir. I think they’re scared. If they go back without a victory, I don’t think their king will take it kindly.”

  Lancer nodded slowly, then turned to the emissary. “I am 2nd Lieutenant Chip Lancer, Beastkin Unified Army, 3rd Seraphim Group. Who am I addressing?”

  The young man hesitated. “Common Lord Greit Hammon,” he muttered, his voice stiff with pride.

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  “Lord Hammon,” Lancer began, his tone calm but commanding, “what assurances do you have that we would even consider surrendering after what just happened here? Your forces were routed, and your high nobles abandoned you.”

  Hammon bristled at Lancer’s words, his posture stiffening. “The Austorian Empire does not tolerate defeat! You were slaves—property! You have no right to speak to me as equals!”

  Lancer sighed, his patience wearing thin. “And yet here you stand, defeated by us. Tell me, Lord Hammon—what happens to you if you return home empty-handed?”

  Hammon faltered, his gaze dropping to the churned earth. Images of his estate flashed through his mind: his father, mother, sisters, brothers, his servants, the quiet fields far from the capital. He imagined them drenched in blood, his house reduced to ash. His voice trembled as he replied, “If I return without victory, my family will be executed. My men’s families will face the same fate. Our homes, our lives—they’ll be gone.”

  Draken chimed in, stepping closer. “And you think surrendering us changes that? You think parading us in front of your king will undo what’s already done?”

  Hammon’s eyes narrowed. “What proof do I have that you won’t simply kill us here and now?”

  Lancer shook his head. “We don’t operate like your Empire. The Beastkin Unified Army adheres to a strict code of honor. Surrender, and you’ll be disarmed, taken to Leythbrook, and processed as prisoners of war. From there, you’ll be transported to our POW camps, where you’ll be fed, housed, and cared for. No harm will come to you or your men.”

  Hammon’s voice cracked as he asked, “And what guarantees do I have that your code means anything?”

  Lancer’s gaze hardened. “Because we’ve already given our word. The code General Thompson taught us isn’t something we take lightly. You have my oath.”

  Hammon turned to look at his men—farmers, laborers, boys barely old enough to carry swords. Their faces bore the weight of defeat, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He thought of their families and the inevitability of death if they returned to Austoria. He straightened, meeting Lancer’s gaze. “If I surrender, you will treat my men fairly?”

  “They will be cared for,” Lancer replied firmly. “Three meals a day, shelter, medical care, and humane treatment. You can rest easy on that.”

  Hammon hesitated, glancing back at his ragged force one last time. Then, with trembling hands, he extended his sword toward Lancer. “Understood, Lieutenant. We surrender.”

  Lancer accepted the weapon, his grip steady. “You’ve made the right choice, Lord Hammon.”

  Hammon turned to his men, his voice resolute yet laden with defeat. “Lay down your arms!” The order echoed across the battlefield, and slowly, the Austorian soldiers obeyed. Swords, spears, shields, and longbows hit the ground in disjointed clatters, forming small piles of surrender among the bodies and rubble. The men, weary and battered, stood silently, their eyes fixed on the dirt as they relinquished the tools of war.

  Chip Lancer observed the scene with quiet focus, the difference between the two armies—one ancient, one modern—never more stark. His radio crackled to life as he issued instructions. “Transport needed at my coordinates. Empty vehicle for prisoner relocation. Over.” The response confirmed an incoming vehicle, and he lowered the receiver, turning back to the Beastkin soldiers nearby. “Disarm them fully. Gather their weapons and armor. Anything distinct—crests, banners, shields—set those aside for documentation. Move efficiently.”

  The modern Beastkin troops advanced with precision, their movements crisp and practiced. They carried sleek firearms slung over their shoulders, a sharp contrast to the Austorian soldiers’ archaic gear. Pieces of ornate plate mail, intricately decorated helms, and weathered longbows were collected methodically. A tattered red banner bearing an Austorian sigil was unfurled from a lance, folded properly and given back to its owner with honor.

  As the prisoners waited, the Beastkin soldiers moved methodically, ensuring the field would tell a convincing story of death and finality. The plan was clear: make it look as though none of the Austorian forces had survived. Personal items were scattered among the fallen, meant to mislead any who came searching. The grim work continued in silence, broken only by the occasional bark of an order or the clatter of debris.

  Chip Lancer stood near Lord Greit Hammon, the family sword of the Austorian noble resting heavily in his hands. The polished blade shimmered faintly under the gray light, its intricate engravings a testament to the pride and lineage it represented. But here, on this blood-soaked battlefield, it was no longer a symbol of honor—it was a lifeline, a tool to ensure the survival of Hammon and his men.

  “Sir,” Chip began, his tone steady but laced with regret. “I have to place this somewhere they’ll believe you’ve fallen. If they suspect you’re still alive, the consequences could be catastrophic—for you, your men, and your families.” He paused, his gaze meeting Hammon’s. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt from this.”

  Hammon’s eyes flicked to the sword, the weight of his lineage pressing down on him harder than ever. Memories of his estate, his family’s long history, and the blood that had forged their name came flooding back. But so did the knowledge of what awaited them should he return empty-handed or thought to been captured. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his voice tight. “What... what do you need from me?”

  Chip held the blade carefully. “I’ll need a glove and some of your jacket. It needs to look convincing—like you went down fighting.”

  The nobleman’s hand trembled as he unfastened a glove and tore a strip of fabric from his tattered jacket. He couldn’t bring himself to watch as Chip walked toward a fallen body, crouching low to ensure the sword would lie in a position that told the right story. Carefully, Chip placed the weapon in the stiff fingers of a dead man, adjusting the pose to look as though the blade had fallen from Hammon’s grip mid-battle.

  Hammon turned away, his shoulders trembling as he tried to hold back the flood of emotions. He spoke in a low voice, barely audible. “When... when they see this, they’ll know. My family will mourn me, but at least they’ll survive. That’s more than I could hope for if I returned alive.”

  Chip stood and walked back to Hammon, his face solemn. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said quietly, genuine remorse in his eyes. “This isn’t something anyone should have to do.”

  Hammon nodded, but didn’t look at him. The pain in his chest was raw, a mixture of grief, humiliation, and reluctant acceptance. “You did what had to be done.”

  Moments later, the rumble of an approaching truck signaled that it was time. The prisoners began boarding, their heads low as they climbed onto the vehicle under the watchful eyes of the Beastkin soldiers. As Hammon climbed aboard, he spared one last glance toward the sword buried in the hands of the dead. He looked away quickly, gripping the edge of the truck as though it were the only thing holding him upright.

  As the last truck was nearly loaded, 2nd Lieutenant Chip Lancer approached Draken, his footsteps crunching on the loose gravel. Draken was standing over the trenchline looking out across the former battleground.

  “Hey Draken,” Chip called out, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “We’re ready to roll. Time to jump on.”

  Draken didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he fished a silver flask from his pocket, its contents sloughing inside. He uncorked it with a practiced motion and poured the amber liquid onto the cracked earth. The sharp, distinct aroma of Burgai whiskey wafted into the air, catching Chip off guard.

  “Burgai?” Chip asked, his nose wrinkling slightly. “That’s expensive, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Rudeus replied, a small, bittersweet smile crossing his face. “After this, I’m giving it up. What we’ve been through today, what we’ve done and what we can do now... it tells me drowning in this stuff isn’t me anymore.” He tightened the cap and glanced at the burning horizon. “This equipment, our training, and sticking together—that’s what’s going to sustain us. Not this.” Draken stated as he looked at the now empty flask.

  Chip nodded slowly, his earlier amusement giving way to a quiet respect. “That’s not bad wisdom, Sergeant.”

  Rudeus knelt down, his fingers lightly brushing the dirt as he whispered a brief prayer for his fallen comrades. The words were simple, spoken under his breath, but the weight behind them was evident. 10 years he witnessed defeat after defeat with the Beastkin Resistance, now one battle washed away those bad memories and losses. With a final look at the field, he stood and tossed the empty flask onto the rubble, its silver catching the light as it tumbled and landed with a soft clink.

  “Let’s go,” Rudeus said, his tone steady but edged with finality. He climbed onto the truck, the soldiers already aboard greeting him with tired but welcoming smiles.

  The truck’s engine roared to life, sending a deep vibration through the steel frame as SFC Rudeus Draken moved inside the last transport. A wave of cheers and laughter greeted him as he found his seat among the soldiers, their faces streaked with dirt and sweat but glowing with an unmistakable sense of camaraderie.

  “Make room for the Sergeant!” a corporal called out, shoving aside his gear to clear a space. Draken eased onto the bench, his rifle resting across his knees, offering a small nod of gratitude to the group.

  The truck lurched forward, kicking up clouds of dust as it rolled over the uneven terrain. The air was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and charred earth, but within the confines of the truck, a different atmosphere began to take hold—a rare moment of relief. The soldiers glanced at each other, their exhaustion momentarily giving way to quiet pride for surviving against impossible odds.

  “You all fought like hell out there,” Draken said, his voice steady as he looked around at his men. “I couldn’t ask for better soldiers.”

  A low murmur of agreement rippled through the group, followed by a young private breaking into song—a rough yet familiar tune that had circulated through the ranks during training exercises. His voice cracked and stumbled at first, but when others joined in, the melody grew stronger, harmonizing with the steady hum of the truck’s wheels.

  “Out of the trenches, through the fire we go,

  Side by side, friends against a foe,

  We rise, we roar, we stand as one,

  Never undone, ‘til the fight is won.”

  The song lifted the spirits of the weary troops, their voices carrying over the rumble of the convoy as each truck took its place in the procession. Soldiers in other vehicles could be seen tapping to the rhythm or shouting verses, their camaraderie infectious even across the steady line of transports.

  Draken leaned back against the truck’s steel frame, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The distant silhouette of Sacra Hill faded slowly into the golden morning light. It had been a hard-fought victory, yet the sight of its smoldering remnants left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. So much was lost, but so much was gained—the lives they saved, the line they held, and the enemy routed.

  Beside him, the corporal spoke up, breaking his reverie. “You holding up okay, Sergeant?”

  Draken nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Better than I thought I’d be. Just... thinking about how close we came to losing it all.”

  The truck rolled on, its engine steady and strong as the convoy pushed toward Leythbrook. The soldiers quieted gradually, the song giving way to soft chatter and moments of reflection.