Will Schofield moved through the muddy, war-torn fields of France, the weight of exhaustion pulling at every step. The cold wind bit at his skin, while the sky above remained a dull, oppressive gray. He was alone now. Blake was gone.

The silence of the battlefield pressed in on him, broken only by the distant rumble of artillery fire. The earth beneath his boots was soft with rain and blood, and every step felt like wading through quicksand. His rifle, heavy on his shoulder, was more a burden than a comfort.

Will glanced around, scanning the desolate horizon. Abandoned trenches zigzagged through the landscape, filled with water, mud, and remnants of lives cut short. A shattered farmhouse stood in the distance, its roof blown open like a wound. Smoke curled lazily from the rubble, mingling with the mist that clung to the ground.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. His mission was clear, but the path felt infinite. He was tired—more tired than he had ever been in his life. But the urgency of his task kept him moving. Somewhere ahead, men were counting on him. The letter in his pocket was crumpled but dry, a lifeline for those still in the trenches, waiting to be sent over the top.

Each step forward was a battle against despair. He thought of home, of quiet mornings and sunlight, but the memory felt distant, fading with every hour he spent in this hellish landscape.

Then, a noise—a soft rustling—came from the ruined farmhouse ahead. Will froze, his breath catching. His hand instinctively went to his rifle, eyes narrowing as he crouched, ready for whatever came next.

Lonely, but not truly alone.

The war was always there, waiting.