Everyone froze for a moment at the sound of the first shot, then the officer gave a single, short order: “Leave what can’t be carried.
Now.” There was no time to hesitate.
Oren set down the crate he’d been carrying, while the other soldiers began doing the same, crates left beside the wall, some never even opened, others left half-tied.
Taren grabbed one small bag holding what he’d managed to gather of the most important medicines, and signaled everyone to move toward the back door.
The second shot came closer, and with it broken shouting from the north, men calling to one another in a language Oren didn’t fully understand, but he didn’t need to understand it to know what it meant.
They came out of the building in a tight line, the officer at the front reading the map with quick eyes before pointing toward a narrow alley between two damaged houses.
“This way,” he said.
“Not the road we came in by.” They moved quickly, their boots striking scattered stones, and Oren felt the weight of his own breath in his chest more than he had in any training before.
He heard another sound, closer this time, a metallic clash followed by the scream of a man from their group, then saw one of the soldiers fall to his knees, gripping his leg.
“Keep going!” the officer shouted.
“Taren, help him!” Taren bent without hesitation, gripped the wounded soldier’s arm and lifted him onto his shoulder, and the two continued moving, slower than the rest but without stopping.
Silen approached them without being asked, taking the other side of the soldier’s weight, sharing the burden with him as they moved through the narrow alleys.
A small explosion struck near them from behind, perhaps something ignited inside the building they’d just left, and the ground shook beneath their feet for a second, stones scattering from a nearby wall.
No one looked back, and they kept running toward the alley the officer had pointed to.
At a narrow turn, they found the road partly blocked by an overturned cart taking up most of the space, leaving only a small gap on one side, not enough for everyone to pass through quickly.
“We won’t wait to clear it,” the officer said sharply.
Oren glanced quickly at the cart, then at the wooden crate lying beside it, which seemed to close the narrow space even further.
He focused for a moment, felt that familiar pull in his head, and pushed the crate away from the path along with a push of his hand; it slid a few paces along the ground, opening a slightly wider gap, enough for people to pass through one after another more quickly.
No one said anything about it; there was no time for comment, they only crossed one after another through the opening, and kept running.
Behind them, the sounds began drawing closer, many footsteps, shouted orders, and another shot struck a wall so close that Oren felt a stone fragment scratch his arm without stopping to check it.
Upon reaching a slightly wider clearing between the houses, the officer paused a moment, checking directions, and looked at Daren.
“The gate there,” he said, pointing to a rusted metal gate half-closed at the end of the clearing.
“If it’s locked we’ll lose minutes we don’t have.” Daren approached quickly, set his hand near the rusted lock without touching it directly at first, then gripped it and tried to move it, but it didn’t budge.
He focused a moment, trying to soften part of the rusted metal around the hinge, until he felt its resistance ease slightly, and pushed the gate with his shoulder, and it opened with a sharp creak.
The group passed through, one after another, while Daren held the gate until the last person had passed, then closed it behind them as much as he could, knowing it wouldn’t hold anyone for long, but might buy them a few extra seconds.
Along a long path through the empty fields behind the village, the group continued moving as fast as it could, the wounded soldier still carried between Taren and Silen, his face pale, his breath coming hard with every step.
At one point, Silen stumbled over a stone hidden among the grass, and nearly lost his balance and fell with the wounded soldier, but recovered quickly, gripping the soldier tighter with his arm, and looked at Taren.
“Don’t let him fall,” Taren said, his voice broken with exhaustion.
“I won’t,” Silen answered, his voice not without tension, but steady.
They kept carrying him without stopping, until they reached a slightly elevated area where the rest of the group that had gone ahead of them waited, the officer scanning the horizon behind them with tense eyes, while counting the soldiers present one after another.
Not everyone was there.
The officer paused mid-count, his face hardening, then counted again in silence.
No one commented aloud, but the silence that settled over the group for a moment was enough for everyone to know what it meant.
“No time,” the officer said finally, in a low but decisive voice.
“We move.” The rest of the way toward the agreed withdrawal point took a long time, broken by brief pauses whenever they heard a sound that raised suspicion, then resuming movement once they were sure the way was temporarily safe.
At one point, the group was forced to hide inside a damaged building for long minutes, while a group of enemy soldiers passed at not too great a distance, their voices reaching clearly enough to freeze everyone in place, breaths held, Oren feeling his own heartbeat in his ears more than at any time before.
Silen sat beside him, still bearing part of the wounded soldier’s weight, who’d been propped against the wall between them, and kept complete silence, only his eyes moving between the wall and the road outside, until the voices finally drew away and the group’s breathing slowly recovered.
It didn’t take long after that before they reached the gathering point where transport carts waited for them, and other soldiers who looked relatively rested compared to their own state.
Everyone returned to the camp in the evening, exhausted, dust-covered, some carrying small wounds they hadn’t noticed until things had settled.
The wounded soldier was taken directly to the treatment tent, while Oren, Daren, and Silen stayed close to one another, checking themselves and their clothes in silence.
The officer recorded his notes on a page in quick handwriting, without lifting his eyes from the page much, then announced in a calm voice, not directed at anyone in particular: “We weren’t able to secure most of the equipment.
The mission wasn’t completed.” No one commented.
There was nothing to say, and the officer didn’t seem to be expecting a comment at all.
Oren sat on the edge of a wooden crate beside his tent, examining a small scratch on his arm, while Daren sat across from him, checking his tools scattered in his bag to make sure nothing had been lost during the escape.
“We lost at least two,” Daren said, in his usual calm voice, without lifting his eyes from the bag.
“Maybe three,” Oren added.
Neither said anything else for a few minutes, only sitting in a shared silence, until Silen arrived carrying two bowls of soup, and set one in Oren’s hands without asking if he was hungry.
“Don’t ask me about the taste,” he said, sitting beside them.
“But at least it’s warm.” Oren took a sip and found it nearly flavorless as he’d expected, but drank it anyway.
After a few moments, Taren spoke, sitting nearby examining his hand injured by a small scratch, in a calm voice directed more at himself: “That’s the last storehouse we’ve lost this month.
Villages are falling faster than we can make up for.” Silen looked at him a moment, then asked, in a calm tone carrying no excessive curiosity, but something closer to a simple attempt to understand: “Who even are they?
The ones who attacked us?” Taren shrugged, wrapping a piece of cloth around his hand.
“Mercenaries and local factions funded by the enemy army.
They attack small villages, cut supply roads, and try to weaken the Empire’s grip on these regions bit by bit.” “Why these villages specifically?” Silen asked.
“Because they’re easier.
No large garrisons, no strong walls.
They take what they can, leave the rest burned, then move on.” Taren paused a moment, then added in a less sharp tone: “Every time they take a village or a storehouse, supplying the front gets harder, and we get weaker in the next area.” Silen asked no further question.
He only listened, looking at the bowl of soup in his hands, then said more quietly: “There was a woman in that village asking about another village’s name.
I wonder if she made it somewhere safe.” No one answered, but Oren felt the question hadn’t really been directed at anyone at all.
Once they’d finished eating, the atmosphere around the camp began to settle further, the soldiers’ voices turning into scattered murmurs, some cleaning their weapons, others resting on blankets, the firelight dancing quietly among them.
Daren sat working on a small piece of metal he’d found among his tools, trying to fix a damaged part of it with slow, careful motions, while Silen lay on his back beside them, looking at the sky.
“You know,” he said after a brief silence, “when I go back, I’m going to plant a whole field of onions.
Not just because I love them, but because they don’t spoil easily, and can be sold nearly all year round.
My father always grew a little, but I want a whole field.” “And the whole village’s smell will change,” Oren said, with a faint smile.
“You’ll get used to it,” Silen answered with confidence, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Everything good has a strong smell at first.” Daren laughed quietly without lifting his eyes from the metal piece, and continued his work, while Oren kept watching the stars above them for a few minutes, thinking for a moment of Marin, and of the gray fabric folded in his bag, before his attention returned to the quiet conversation between his two companions.
The calm continued for a while, the camp settling gradually into its usual rhythm, until they heard a distant sound, faint, like thunder out of its season.
Everyone paused a moment, some soldiers raising their heads, but no one moved yet.
A few silent seconds passed, then came another sound, closer this time, accompanied by a faint tremor Oren felt beneath his feet.
Daren rose slowly, looking toward the front, while Silen suddenly sat up straight, his talk of onions cut off mid-sentence, unfinished.
The third sound was far louder, and something near them shook with it, an empty crate falling from a wooden shelf a few meters away, and the voices of soldiers rose, moving quickly between the tents.
An officer came out of his tent shouting orders not entirely clear from this distance, while lights began moving at the far edge of the camp, and other sounds began rising, closer and more urgent than at any time since their return.
Oren looked at Daren, then at Silen, who now stood fully upright, his eyes fixed toward the source of the light and the noise, without uttering a word.