Large flakes of ash settled on the blood-soaked square. Once a peaceful border town, it now looked like hell's gateway. Stone houses lay in ruins; orange flames licked walls, roofs, and the dead. The air stank of smoke, blood, and death — that smell Cross knew too well.

He parried another blow. His heavy two-hander met an enemy blade. The foe fell unconscious into the mud. Battle raged. Cross’s squad fought bravely, but every fallen body ached in his heart — friend or foe. "When will this end?" He was tired with a suffocating exhaustion bordering on despair.

"Hold the line!" He dashed out, sword meeting steel. "Do not retreat! Behind us are civilians!" He heard screams — not battle cries, but primal terror. Cross was torn. He had to lead, but how could he watch as soldiers dragged a family from a burning house?

His sword plunged into the back of a soldier raising a hand against an unarmed girl. Another enemy fell, but three more charged from an alley. An explosion slammed Cross to the ground. He rose to his knees — and three men lunged. Blade screeched against blade. His shield splintered. His magic was nearly spent. Fatigue. Bone-deep fatigue.

*Then, out of the corner of his eye — movement. Fifteen meters away, a figure on the ground, unable to rise. Cross couldn’t see they — only trembling hands. He didn’t understand. But he understood the building — its walls a sieve from explosions. A crack crept up, and the cornice collapsed, pulling down a rain of stone slabs and burning beams. All of it falling toward the person. Cross had less than a second.

"Deflect the attack. You are the commander," whispered reason. "They will die," screamed his heart. Cross made his choice. He bolted toward the collapsing wall, into the hail of debris. His legs carried him faster than ever. In the last instant, he lunged forward, covering they with his body, pulling they to his chest.

"Hold on!" he roared, but his words drowned. The sky fell. Pain tearing him apart. The deafening rumble of stones burying them alive. And darkness.

When consciousness returned, Cross felt silence. No screams, no steel — the battle was gone. Then came pain — everywhere. His back on fire, hands trembling. He couldn’t feel his legs. He lay under a mountain of rubble. Clenching his teeth until he tasted blood, he pushed against the nearest slab. The stone shifted, and a stream of fresh air hit his face. With a low groan, he shoved the debris off his back and gasped.

He still couldn’t feel his legs. "I can't get out on my own," Cross concluded. The pain became background — as familiar as the smell of death. And then he finally lowered his gaze to the person he had shielded.

"… Hey?"