Together, We Return

The trench raid had been a success. Nine of them had cut down dozens of Imperial troops and reduced even the smaller trench to scorched ruin — if that was not success, what was?

Of course, it had not been without cost. Two men from the assault team were dead. One of them was Buffon. The corporal who had always snapped and snarled at Ashlyn.

Idiot. I told you so many times to shave.

Buffon had inhaled poison gas and choked to death on it. His bluish, swollen corpse was proof enough.

You grow a beard like that and the mask can't do its job. How many times did I say it?

"…Idiot," Ashlyn muttered again, her voice raw and rough. Unlike the other soldiers, she had not taken so much as a scratch. All of it thanks to Sergeant Villef, who had put himself directly in front of her. He had insisted more than once that it was only sound tactics, but that did nothing to quiet the churn in her chest. Truly, nothing could.

Not long after the fighting ended, the poison gas that had filled the trench was torn apart and scattered into the open air. At the same moment, the first light of dawn came down and laid the night's work bare for anyone to see.

"Ugh—"

"Ghhk—"

At the horror of the scene, soldiers tore off their masks and began vomiting onto the ground. Ashlyn, too, went blank for a moment under the shock of it.

"Ah…"

The Imperial corpses her explosive spell had thrown apart were scattered in shapes that defied description. The sight itself felt like an insult to the human form.

But this had not been the work of Golden Dragon cultists, nor the savagery of some beast. It was all Ashlyn's doing. Ashlyn, born to the noble destiny of a mage, had swept her left hand once and done this in an instant.

There was no denying it.

Bile climbed her throat. Even so, she could not throw up the way the soldiers did. Better to die than let her men see an officer do that. Fists clenched so tightly they shook, she held herself upright — and behind her, Sergeant Villef spoke lightly.

"We need to pull out now."

"…Right. We don't have time to stand around."

The man's words snapped her mind back into place. The moment right after seizing a position was when they were most vulnerable. Imperial counterattacks could come at any time. And in the first place, nine — no, seven — people could not hold this place indefinitely. Stirring it up once had already achieved everything the operation required.

Ashlyn turned her head toward him. Her eyes narrowed at once with questions.

"What is that? What are you carrying?"

Like the other soldiers, Sergeant Villef had taken off his mask. Over one shoulder he carried a sack she had never seen before, packed full of flat aluminum cans that shone a dull silver-gray.

"Canned goods."

As if realizing that alone was not enough of an explanation, the man added lightly, almost cheerfully. His yellow eyes glittered.

"Imperial cans aren't half bad."

"……"

"Plenty of meat in them, too. I'll share some with the platoon later."

Her stomach turned again. Whether it was pure physical nausea or revulsion at a man calmly talking about the taste of meat in a place littered with blood and shredded flesh, she could not tell.

"We're going back."

Ashlyn answered in a voice colder than she had meant. Turning fully away from Sergeant Villef, she looked down at the recovered bodies of her own soldiers and murmured,

"Together. We're going back."

The Kran trench was in a festival mood. Ashlyn took the praise poured over her with an expressionless face.

"A mage really is a mage!"

Battalion Commander Major Brandon looked thoroughly pleased.

"How many times have I requested a mage corps officer from higher up — and they send me talent like you this late. It's enough to make a man bitter."

"Exactly, sir. Second Lieutenant Wintercrown is the pride of our battalion."

As the major and the captain tossed compliments back and forth, Ashlyn swallowed a cold laugh inside.

You only found out I was a mage after I arrived.

Even so, she had no intention of correcting them on the point. The correction that actually needed making was something else entirely.

"Sergeant Villef's help was considerable. If he hadn't guided us, even reaching the enemy trench would have been difficult…"

"This is medal material. We ought to call in a reporter. A brand-new officer, barely assigned, pulls off a successful trench raid — what a picture that makes, eh?"

"Sergeant Villef…"

"For now, we'll grant a reward leave to the brave Fourth Platoon volunteers who joined the raid. In a week I'll arrange for them to rest properly in Parieri, not the rear!"

Parieri was the capital of Paros. Ashlyn's lips moved restlessly.

"……"

At first she had thought her superiors were simply drunk on victory and saying whatever came to mind, but one fact gradually became unmistakable.

They're deliberately shutting down any mention of Sergeant Villef.

Whether they were afraid the credit the battalion wanted to monopolize would be stolen by the Fenrir Detachment, or whether they simply hated a werewolf drawing attention, she could not say. Most likely both.

Ordinarily Ashlyn would have challenged them on the spot, but she did not have the strength for it now. She meant to raise it properly once she had recovered a little more.

"I'll take my leave."

"Yes, yes. You must be exhausted — go rest."

"Good work."

Dragging her heavy steps out into the trench corridor, Ashlyn heard the sharp clink of a toast behind her and stopped dead where she stood. A thin sigh slipped through her teeth. With the adrenaline of combat drained away, what remained was bone-deep exhaustion and cold.

So this is war, is it?

Afterimages kept rising before her eyes. The face of a terrified Imperial soldier. Two bodies lying where they had fallen. Corporal Buffon's face, swollen and blue. Ashlyn shook her head alone.

The first time is hard for everyone.

In time she would grow used to it as well. Like Sergeant Villef. Humming through the carnage, composed enough to gather spoils.

But.

Ashlyn swore it to herself.

I will never take spoils. Never do that kind of thing.

It was not that Sergeant Villef had been wrong. He was a Wildman soldier, and he had acted exactly according to his place. But Ashlyn was a mage. Blood of the noble Wintercrown line, no less. Different station meant different conduct. Only then could she keep believing in the calling given to her.

Her left hand still burned with residual heat. Swallowing the rising nausea, Ashlyn walked quickly toward the wash area.

She needed to clean up, and then write letters to the families of the men who had died.

I made a mistake.

Like other werewolves, Gennady was generally in good spirits right after a fight. Elevated might have been the better word. A light came into his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifted, and the usual severity of his features eased a little.

For werewolves, this was instinct more than choice. A reward system stamped into the blood, perhaps.

In a way, humans were the ones being absurdly finicky about it. Nothing was funnier than people who did the killing and then put on a tragic face.

Fortunately, after more than a decade in the army, Gennady was reasonably practiced at dealing with humans. He had picked up any number of small techniques over the years. "Appropriate emotional display" was one of them. He had learned to smile when humans were glad, and to keep his face blank when they were sad or gloomy. In other words, he could read their feelings and skillfully perform in step with them.

His fellow werewolves grumbled that Gennady was putting on airs when he matched the mood like that, that he was too busy watching human faces — but Gennady still chose to wear a mask in front of humans. The reason was simple. It made the work easier. There was nothing to gain by needlessly putting them on guard.

And yet.

Gennady's always-perfect mask had slipped a little this time. The pleasure had shown through.

Was it because the trench raid had been too successful? No — Gennady had tasted far larger victories than this. Besides, by any measure this had been a very small operation.

Even so, the elation ran far higher than usual. The blood in every limb and vessel felt like molten rock; every single thing before his eyes stood out with vivid clarity. A cheerful rumble rose unbidden in his throat.

Why, exactly, was I this happy?

In truth, Gennady had known the answer from the start.

Of course. Because I hunted — no, fought — and won with her.

For a werewolf, not to be happy would have been the strange part. There was no moment more joyous for one of them than hunting successfully with an imprinted mate.

And so he had packed a sack full of Imperial meat cans and hummed to himself with pleasure.

I'll hand a few out to Fourth Platoon and take the rest back to the detachment bastards. Tell them to stop stealing the meat from the rations here.

But Gennady's high spirits did not last long after that.