The Western Front: Fire on the Horizon
The far west is a land of rugged foothills and windswept brush, where jagged peaks loom like silent sentinels over scattered settlements. Life here is harsh but steady—at least, it was. Now, an army marches, leaving a trail of scorched earth and smoldering ruins in its wake. Villages crumble beneath their advance, the quiet hum of frontier life replaced by the crackle of flame and the distant thunder of war drums. The people of the West have little time left to flee, to fight, or to watch the horizon darken with the smoke of what once was.
"Nothing but rock and dust." The words are bitter, stolen by the howling wind. "And yet we’re still here." A knowing glance, a steady step forward, boot against loose stone. The valley does not welcome, nor does it warn. It simply watches, waiting to see who will endure—and who will be lost to the dust.
"Inspection at first light." The command is given, unquestioned, as armored boots strike the worn cobblestones. Along the docks, warships rest in the tide, their sails furled like waiting beasts. "The conscripts—are they ready?" A pause, a considering glance. A nod. "They will be."
Beyond the watchtower, the sea stretches endless and gray, but no one looks outward. The next battle will come soon enough.
A boot shifts through the smoldering debris, embers flaring briefly before fading back into darkness. "Still warm." The air is thick, stifling, the heat of the dying fires still clinging to the ruins.
"Any sign of them?" The voice is low, wary, barely rising above the wind that howls through hollowed homes.
"Price went up." The merchant barely glances up, tallying coin with ink-stained fingers. "It was half that yesterday." The reply is sharp, but not surprised. The market sets its own rules. A smirk. A knowing look. "Yesterday isn’t today." The deal will be struck, one way or another. Business never stops, and neither do those who know how to play the game.
"Move faster." The order is given without a glance, boots grinding into the dirt as soldiers break camp. Fires are stamped out, ashes scattering into the wind. "Scouts report no resistance ahead." The voice is steady, clipped, relaying only what matters. The officer nods once, already looking beyond—past the trees, past the ruin left behind, toward the next march.
The west remembers every fire, every loss, every name swallowed by the ashes.
