The Carrion Reaper

The journey from Draymoor had been long and grueling, the days filled with the endless creak of the carriage, the jostling of the passengers, and the rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth. The landscape had gradually shifted, from the familiar rolling hills of Draymoor to more rugged terrain, the trees thinning and the air becoming crisper with each passing mile. After several days of travel, they finally reached their first destination: the border town of Ranshold.

Ranshold was a small settlement perched on the edge of Vareldrin's borders, where the kingdom's influence began to thin. The town's narrow streets were lined with old stone buildings, their faded facades speaking of a place that had seen better times. The sounds of merchants haggling, children playing, and the occasional clinking of armor filled the air. A faint scent of smoke and iron lingered from the forges in the town's outskirts.

Valen stepped out of the carriage, stretching his stiff limbs, his boots crunching against the dirt road. Dorin was beside him, equally eager to stretch, though his face held a mix of exhaustion and excitement.

"Ranshold, eh?" Dorin muttered, looking around with wide eyes. "Not exactly a bustling metropolis, but I guess it'll do. Could use a good meal, though."

Valen glanced around, taking in the sight of the town. It wasn't much, but it was a step closer to the warfront. There was a subtle tension in the air, the kind that always seemed to precede something significant. The locals gave them curious looks, as if sizing up the newcomers, their gazes wary and calculating.

As the volunteers made their way into the town square, Valen noticed a group of men gathered by the well, talking in low voices. They were dressed similarly to the soldiers Valen had seen back home, leather armor, weapons at their sides, but their posture was more relaxed, less disciplined. These were men who had seen war but were not part of the organized army. They were mercenaries, men who sold their swords for coin rather than for duty.

One of the men, a tall figure with a scar that ran from his forehead down to his jaw, noticed the newcomers. His eyes were sharp, assessing them with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. His dark hair was tied back in a messy knot, and his hands were clasped around a worn mug of ale.

"Not from around here, are you?" the man asked, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Valen stepped forward, his posture respectful but cautious. "No, we're just passing through. We're heading to the front lines."

The mercenary raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "A brave lot, then. Heading to fight a war that's been going on for far too long. You'll need more than bravery if you want to survive out there."

Dorin snorted. "We've got plenty of that. More than enough to make it through."

The mercenary laughed, a deep, throaty sound. "I like you. Your friend's got a sharp tongue. Name's Varik," he said, extending a hand. "If you're serious about this, I might have a few tips for you. Not all of them will come from the training fields, you know."

Valen shook his hand, his interest piqued. "Valen. I appreciate any advice."

Varik looked around, ensuring no one was listening too closely before leaning in slightly. "First piece of advice: trust your instincts more than your training. Training can only get you so far when the blood starts flying. You'll find that out soon enough."

Valen nodded, absorbing the words. They felt true, especially considering what he'd already seen of war, the way it was unpredictable, brutal, and utterly different from what anyone could teach you in a training yard.

"There's also another thing you should know," Varik continued, his tone lowering. "The front lines aren't just about honor and glory. You'll be fighting for survival. For yourself. For the man next to you. Not some noble cause. You'd do well to remember that."

Before Valen could respond, a young woman approached the group, carrying a bundle of firewood. Her clothes were simple but well-worn, and there was a quiet strength in the way she moved. Her sharp blue eyes locked onto Varik as she set the wood down beside him.

"You're scaring them, Varik," she said with a wry smile, her voice light but laced with a hint of teasing. "They're already nervous enough."

Varik chuckled. "Let them be nervous. Better to face the truth now than later."

The woman turned her gaze to Valen and Dorin, offering a warm smile. "Don't mind him. He's just trying to toughen you up. I'm Elira," she said, her eyes scanning their faces with a mix of curiosity and concern.

"Dorin," Dorin said with a grin, flashing her a playful look. "And this is Valen. We're just passing through, heading to the front."

Elira's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "Ah, the front. The one place no one truly wants to go, but everyone ends up." She paused, studying them. "You've got courage, I'll give you that."

Valen felt a pang of discomfort at her words. He had once been proud of his decision to volunteer, but hearing the matter-of-fact tone in Elira's voice made him question his certainty. Was it courage? Or was it just something he had to do?

"What's it really like?" Valen asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "The front, I mean."

Elira's face hardened slightly, her expression growing distant. "War is chaos. But it's not all about the battle. It's about the men you meet along the way. About how long you can hold onto what makes you human. The frontlines aren't just about fighting, they're about holding onto something that keeps you from breaking. You'll need to find that in yourself—because when you lose it, that's when the real battle begins."

Varik watched her for a long moment before adding, "She's right. The front will change you. It's not like what you think. The first time you see a man you knew fall, it'll shake you. But you'll learn to move forward. That's what this is about: surviving long enough to keep moving."

The weight of their words sank into Valen's chest, a knot forming in his stomach. He had no illusions about war, but hearing the raw honesty in their voices made it feel more real, more tangible. He was about to face a reality he couldn't control, a world where survival and morality blurred.

"We should get moving," Varik said, standing up and brushing the dust from his pants. "The soldiers at the front will want to know who's coming. If you're lucky, you'll find a few people who can make things easier. If not, well…" He shrugged, giving a half-hearted grin. "Good luck."

As they left the square, heading toward the makeshift camp where the army had set up its first staging point, Valen couldn't help but feel the weight of what was ahead of him. He had learned nothing of gods in the last few hours, but he had learned something about the human spirit, that it was fragile, that it could be bent and broken, but also that it could endure.

And that endurance, perhaps, was what would see him through.