Captain Otunba stood at the front of the dusty mess hall, a relic of the old Forun Republic now repurposed by Greenland command. The room was a makeshift assembly point, reeking of oil, sweat, and the thick tension of fresh soldiers about to be shaped into war machines. Sunlight poured through slanted blinds, striping the floor with gold, but the warmth did nothing to comfort the twenty recruits lined before him. They were young—most barely out of boyhood, with Forun blood in their veins and uncertainty in their eyes.
Otunba scanned the room, his face carved from years of campaigns, battle-hardened and weathered by the cold judgment of command. He was tall, imposing, and always adorned in his deep green captain's coat, crisp despite the dirt surrounding them. His voice, when it came, was low but thundered through the silence like distant artillery.
"You are here because you made a choice," he said, his eyes locking briefly with each of theirs. "Whether it was for food, shelter, a cause—or just survival—I do not care. You wear the Greenland colors now, and that makes you soldiers. My soldiers."
He took a step forward, boots clicking with authority.
"But I know what you are. Forun sons. Your hearts bleed for the dirt you were born in. Some of you still whisper songs of the lost republic, of Asa the ghost and his pack of freedom rats. I do not care for ghosts. I deal in steel and fire."
Gad stood in the third row, quiet, face unreadable. Inside, he was fire pretending to be ash. The message had already been sent, folded into a prayer slip and tucked into the seams of his boot before lights out last night. It had been picked up by a sympathizer during the morning drills—his father's network still lived in the cracks of Greenland control. Asa would know: Ember Line was next. The trap was ready to spring.
Beside him, Jimi clenched his jaw. He could still see his father's body—limp, eyes glassy, sprawled in the mud after the purge of Lower Terhan. Killed by men who wore Otunba's uniform. And maybe Zeke too—his older brother had vanished in that same purge, dragged away by the Greenland dogs. No one ever confirmed if he died. Jimi had joined to escape that past, to mold his hate into something... useful. Maybe even honorable.
Otunba continued, "Your first test will not be simple drills or basic command. No. We do not have time for games. You've been assigned to Operation Throatburn. Three targets. Durnhal. Ashen Fold. Ember Line."
The room stilled.
"Durnhal," he said, pacing. "The jewel. Capital of your past lives. You'll see it fall again, this time from within, because we don't want monuments—we want obedience. Ashen Fold is a strategic ridge. Cut the supplies, control the spine of this dying land."
He paused, and for the first time, his voice shifted—softer, but sharper.
"And then there is Ember Line. That's where your ghosts still burn. Where Asa the Butcher and his ragtag resistance think they still breathe freedom. That's where this war will end."
He let the silence hang for a beat too long.
"There will be no survivors at Ember Line. Anyone not in Greenland green dies."
Gad blinked once, then twice, but his body did not flinch. Inside, the fire grew. They were marching right into his father's arms. But he would not smile, not yet.
Jimi's stomach churned. Ember Line. If Zeke was alive… that was where he would be. Among the last fighters. He wanted to ask—wanted to scream. But he knew better. Otunba was not a man you interrupted.
Otunba walked up to a young boy in the front row—couldn't be more than sixteen, cheeks still soft.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"E-Ellar, sir," the boy stammered.
"From where?"
"South Reach, sir. Near the rivers."
Otunba's eyes darkened. "Then you saw your village burn. And now you serve the ones who lit the match."
Ellar looked down. "I… I want to live, sir."
"You want to live?" Otunba repeated. "Then follow orders. Kill when I say. Die when I say. That's how you survive."
He turned from the boy, disgusted.
"I will not lie to you. Many of you will die. But if you live—if you make it through this—you will be reborn. Not as Forun trash. But as Greenland soldiers. Elite."
Gad and Jimi didn't speak on their way out of the mess hall, walking side by side in heavy silence as the afternoon sun beat down on the dusty camp. The murmurs of the others trailed behind them—nervous chatter, jokes made out of fear, the usual shield young soldiers build when facing the abyss.
Finally, Gad broke the silence, his voice low.
"You believe him?"
Jimi's jaw tightened. "I believe he thinks Ember Line will be a massacre."
Gad looked straight ahead. "Maybe it will be."
Jimi looked at him, suspicious. "You got people there?"
Gad shrugged. "Don't we all?"
Jimi said nothing. He looked at the horizon—toward Ember Line—and wondered if Zeke was out there, hiding in the shadows, still fighting. Still breathing.
He also wondered if, in the end, he would have to choose between the uniform on his back and the blood in his heart.
And as the sun dipped behind the hills, a wind blew across the camp. The fire beneath the ice began to stir.