As much as he hated to admit it, sometimes Miroslav wondered why he’d decided to become a soldier. The poor food, the sleepless nights, the comrades who didn’t act like comrades, the days of constant traveling in fear of ambush or combat: this was no way for anyone to live.

But then he thought of his old home, and he quickly suppressed any feelings of dismay. There was no room for that kind of thing in the Dawn Rush. Commander El-Haddad had made that very clear. So, once he’d gotten over his brief bout of grief, Miroslav shook his head to clear it and went back to the task at hand – sharpening his sword.

It was early in the morning, the sun barely peeking over the distant mountaintops of the Madaran Wastelands. The desert heat hadn’t set in just yet, and the young siren could comfortably sit outside his barracks tent without feeling like he was going to ignite. The time for that would come eventually, when he was inevitably sent out to scout ahead for the third time this week. But for now, he could enjoy the tense morning peace as freely as he could.

One swipe, two swipes, three swipes more of his whetstone, and Miroslav could feel the edges of his sword again. It had been almost a week since the Dawn Rush had last seen combat, and he had admittedly let the task of keeping his equipment in prime shape fall to the wayside a bit. Fortunately he had polished his armor and cleaned out the inside of his pistol last night before the Commander could dress him down for not doing so, and now that his sword was nice and sharp again, he wouldn’t have to worry about receiving another one of El-Haddad’s lectures that it almost seemed to take pleasure in giving.

Sighing with relief, Miroslav pocketed his whetstone. As the light of dawn slowly started to creep across the camp, he took a moment to inspect his sword before sheathing it.

An arming sword, standard issue, rested in his right hand. In spite of his recent tune up, the deep nicks cut into parts of the blade made it clear that the weapon had been used by another, perhaps long before it had fallen into Miroslav’s care. Briefly, he wondered what that soldier had been like: what kind of legacy they had left behind. The sword likely wouldn’t have come to him if they were still alive, after all.

He wondered if they had ever made it to knighthood, or if they had died a squire or lowly foot soldier. He wondered if whatever had become of them, good or bad, would come to pass for him as well.

Enough, Miroslav heard the Commander’s voice in his head. There’s no use dwelling on what might have been.

With that thought, he sheathed the sword, placing it safely back in the scabbard on his left hip and looking back to the horizon, watching as the sun hauled itself into the sky, inch by inch.

“You think we’ll get sent out on a scouting mission again today?” a familiar voice came from behind him.

Smiling, Miroslav turned to face the young felid as they came out of the tent and took a seat next to him on the rocky desert earth. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “Captain Ciel said they want to attack the enemy camp at the oasis to the south by the end of the week.”

“And they and the Commander always need you, me, and Safa specifically to make sure that the Jinn camp hasn’t moved in the week that we’ve been here.”

Miroslav laughed dryly. “You know it,” he said. “Miroslav, Ryder, and Safa, the best scouts in the Dawn Rush.”

“And also apparently the only ones,” Ryder added.

“God,” Miroslav scoffed. “It’s like El-Haddad and Ciel want us to get captured.”

“Or killed.”

“Yeah. Or that.”

Ryder sighed and leaned back on their hands, looking up at the clear, brightening sky. They started to say something, but bit their tongue before the words could escape.

Miroslav glanced at Ryder. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’s almost been five years.”

Miroslav froze.

The next full moon would mark the fifth anniversary of the beginning of the Second Continental War: when, in the dead of the summer night, the Tiro Federation invaded the nation of Madara’s southern provinces. After almost a hundred years of peace, the Alliance of Six Nations suddenly had to scramble to organize its forces, just barely managing to counter the Federation before they could take all of Madara.

The war had been raging ever since. Miroslav may not have been an active participant in it until just last season, but once the war had come to his doorstep in his home country of Terina, it was no longer something to watch from afar. It had become a part of his daily life.

The sky was dark less than an hour ago, but now it's a sickly burnt orange. The fire engulfing your home has spread from one house to the next, including yours, devouring everything you knew with the ravenousness of a stray dog. You stumble through the burning streets, and you swear you can hear your baby sister crying out for you. You look for her, your eyes and lungs stinging from the smoke choking out the city.

“Miroslav?” he faintly heard Ryder’s voice penetrate his thoughts. He snapped out of his daze.

“Right, yeah,” he said. “Five years. It’s hard to believe.”

Ryder picked at the sleeve of their gambeson. “How much longer do you think it’ll go on for?”

Miroslav stared at his friend. How was he supposed to know? The war slogged on with no end in sight for anyone, including him. It would be a lie to say that he never asked himself the same question, but every time he tried to find an answer to it, all he found was another battle, and another step he had to take on the path to knighthood that he had no idea was even there.

He wanted to share these thoughts with Ryder, but the look in the felid’s eyes stopped him. Although they weren’t making eye contact, Miroslav could see in the way their hands shook and their eyelids sagged that Ryder hadn’t slept last night. Normally this wouldn’t concern him – God only knew that he himself could barely sleep most nights – but whereas Miroslav and the rest of the soldiers simply lay awake in bed, waiting for sleep to come, Ryder would make themselves busy. Whether they went through their sword drills, looked over the maps of the area that the squires had access to in order to formulate their own plan of attack, or even just paced around camp until dawn, so long as they were awake, they were not someone who could be found sitting still. And in recent weeks, Miroslav could see the toll that was taking on them.

“I-” he was about to answer, but was cut off by the sound of footsteps. Snapping his head up in the direction of the sound, he saw a human around his and Ryder’s age running towards them. His warm brown skin and dark hair pulled back into a top knot were unmistakable, and the two relaxed once they realized who it was.

“Safa,” Ryder said, smiling as the boy approached. “You’re up early.”

Safa doubled over, resting his hands on his knees and panting.

“...are you okay?” Miroslav asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Safa said, waving him off and standing back up. “The Captain just made me run a few laps around camp, uh… for reasons.”

Miroslav was about to ask what those reasons were, when Safa spoke again.

“The Commander wants everyone to meet by the mess tent in ten,” he said. “It says we’re finally moving out.”

The three exchanged a glance. If Safa were joking, which in all fairness he usually was, he would have had a small twinkle in his eye, and the slightest curve of his lip would have suggested that he was fighting back a smile. But neither of those signs were present. Instead of mischief, there was a hint of fear in the human’s eyes, and his mouth was drawn into a tight line.

 Which meant that, sometime today, the Dawn Rush would be moving in on the Jinn camp in the south. If they were successful, they would have access to all the water they could drink, food from the village that surrounded the area, and beds to sleep in that weren’t just thin strips of cotton wrapped in fabric that covered the ground of a barracks tent. That, and the Tiro forces would be pushed – if only a little – further south, back to the endless mountain ranges they called home and away from the occupied Madara and the rest of the Six Nations.

If they failed… Miroslav didn’t want to think about that, and he wasn’t going to allow himself to. Even small losses wound up costly in war.

Standing up, Miroslav made sure all his supplies were in order – his scabbard was tight around his waist, his armor wasn’t coming loose anywhere, and his pistol was loaded. When everything seemed in order, he nodded apprehensively to his friends.

With that, the three set off for the mess tent, unsure what waited for them outside the camp.