The train shuddered to a halt with a final, exhausted wheeze of steam, the brakes screeching like a wounded animal. I stepped off onto the makeshift platform—a few planks thrown over churned mud—my boots sinking immediately into the thick, sucking sludge that passed for ground here. The air hit me like a slap: heavy with the acrid bite of gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood, and the underlying rot of something long dead. This was no Paris station with its grand arches and bustling crowds; this was the edge of the world, where Europa's fields had been scarred into a wasteland. My pals battalion followed, Pierre clapping me on the back with forced cheer, Marcel hefting his pack like it weighed nothing, and Jacques trailing behind, his spectacles fogged from the humid mist rolling off the nearby river.
We were a motley crew, still in our crisp khaki uniforms that hadn't yet seen the grime of real war. Training back in the barracks had been a joke—a week of marching drills, rifle handling, and shouted lectures about the Empire's mechanized horrors and those infernal mages. "You'll face enchanted bullets that explode or chase you down," the instructors had warned, but it sounded like tall tales then. Now, as we formed up in ragged lines, the distant thunder of artillery made it all too real. The sergeant, a wiry man with a perpetual scowl named Leclerc, barked at us: "Move out! March to the front—double time through this muck. The Republic needs you yesterday!"
The path ahead was a nightmare of mud, a viscous sea that clung to our legs with every laborious step. Rain had pounded the area for days, turning what might have once been farmland into a quagmire pocked with shell craters brimming with foul, stagnant water. My calves burned after just a few minutes; Pierre muttered curses under his breath, his artist's finesse useless against the relentless pull. Marcel, ever the strongman, powered ahead, joking about how this was "good for building character." Jacques slipped once, face-planting into the slime, and we hauled him up laughing—nervous laughter, the kind that masks the knot of fear twisting in your gut.
We hadn't marched more than a kilometer when the sky seemed to shift. Not clouds, but shapes materializing from the haze—ethereal flying machines, sleek and otherworldly, nothing like the cumbersome aeroplanes our Republic engineers were tinkering with back home. These were the Empire's mages, perched on constructs of shimmering arcane energy, wings of light pulsing as they dove low from their lines. Cloaks fluttered like banners of doom; their hands glowed with unnatural fire. "Ambush!" Leclerc shouted, but it was futile.
They opened fire without warning. Not with standard rifles, but with those cursed enchanted bullets—streaks of malevolent light hurtling toward us. The first one slammed into the ground mere meters from our flank, detonating with a thunderous crack that shook my bones. A geyser of earth, fire, and shrapnel erupted, flinging men skyward like rag dolls. Two from our company were caught full in the blast: one vaporized into a red mist, the other torn apart, his screams cut short. The air filled with the stench of scorched flesh and ozone.
Marcel was next. A bullet grazed his arm, but that was enough—it exploded on contact, ripping his hand clean off in a horrific spray of blood, bone fragments, and charred tissue. He collapsed into the mud, clutching the mangled stump, his face contorted in agony. "My hand! Merde, my hand!" His screams were primal, echoing across the field, piercing through the chaos like a knife. Blood pumped from the wound, mixing with the muck; he thrashed, eyes wild with shock and pain.
Panic swept us. Some men bolted, abandoning formation in a desperate bid to flee back toward the train. But those bullets... they weren't done. The tracking ones curved mid-air, defying physics, homing in like vengeful spirits. One veered sharply left, slamming into a runner's back—he jerked, collapsed face-first into a crater, twitching as secondary explosions ripped through him. Another chased a group of three who had clustered together for cover; it detonated in their midst, bodies crumpling in a chain of fiery blasts, limbs scattering. I dove behind a low rise, heart hammering, praying the mages hadn't marked me.
As quickly as they struck, the mages banked away, their flying machines fading into the distance like ghosts retreating to their haunt. Laughter? I swore I heard faint, mocking laughter carried on the wind. The field was a slaughterhouse now—bodies strewn, moans rising from the wounded.
"On your feet!" Leclerc bellowed, his voice cracking with fury. "Keep marching! Medics will handle the casualties—forward, for the Republic!" Medics did scramble in, their kits slung over shoulders, but I didn't believe it for a second. Marcel's howls faded as they dosed him with morphine and wrapped the stump in hasty bandages, but how many would make it? Gangrene, infection—the front was no place for miracles. Still, we obeyed, hauling ourselves up, stepping over the fallen with averted eyes. The mud seemed thicker now, laced with blood, each step a grim reminder.
The march dragged on for what felt like hours, our column thinned and silent save for the squelch of boots and the ever-present rumble of distant guns. Exhaustion clawed at me, but fear kept us moving. Finally, the trenches appeared—a jagged network of ditches scarring the earth, fortified with sandbags, wooden revetments, and coils of barbed wire stretching into no-man's-land like a thorny crown. The wasteland beyond was hellish: tree stumps like broken teeth, craters pooling with rainwater, the occasional glint of unexploded ordnance.
Leclerc met us at the entrance, his scar twisting as he smirked. "Welcome to hell, fresh meat. Get down there, find your spots. The Empire's not taking tea breaks." We descended into the trench, the earthen walls closing in, damp and claustrophobic. The floor was a soup of mud and filth, rats scurrying boldly among the men. Soldiers already there—veterans with hollow cheeks and thousand-yard stares—nodded wearily, sharing smokes or muttered warnings.
Pierre and I wasted no time; hunger gnawed after the march. We ducked into a nearby dugout, a reinforced burrow shored up with timbers and canvas, lit by flickering lanterns. A dozen men crowded inside, slurping from mess tins. We joined them, doling out our rations: stale bread that could break teeth, tinned beef swimming in greasy gravy, and coffee so weak it might as well have been ditch water. It tasted like ash, but it filled the void. To lift spirits, someone had rigged a radio in the corner, crackling with static but tuned to a station pumping out upbeat marches and patriotic anthems. Laughter broke out as a comedian's voice joked about the Emperor's mustache; for a moment, it felt almost normal.
Then the news bulletin interrupted, the announcer's tone shifting to grave urgency: "Urgent update from the high command: The Great Empire has violated the neutrality of Belgians, invading their sovereign territory in a ruthless push westward. This aggression extends the French front line dramatically, straining our defenses. In solidarity, the Island Nation of Commonwealth has declared war, bolstering our alliance against the Empire and Germano-Hungry."
Groans echoed in the dugout. Belgians—peaceful, caught in the maw. Our line now a sprawling beast, harder to hold. But the kicker came next: "Pals battalions from recent Paris arrivals are hereby redeployed north to reinforce Belgian positions. Prepare for immediate movement."
Pierre slammed his tin down, face paling. "From this pit to another? We haven't even fired a shot!" I nodded, dread coiling tighter. Jacques, who'd joined us quietly, looked like he might be sick. We'd signed up for glory, not this endless shuffle into the grinder.
Just then, the bombardment began. Artillery shells howled in—Empire heavies, precise and merciless—mingled with the return of those accursed mages, their flying machines swooping back to rain enchanted hell. Explosions rocked the trench, earth trembling like a living thing. A shell struck nearby; the dugout's ceiling groaned ominously. "Brace!" someone yelled, but it was too late. The walls buckled, mud and dirt avalanching in a suffocating torrent. We were buried alive—pinned in utter darkness, the weight pressing down like a coffin lid.
Mud invaded everywhere: forcing into my mouth, gritty and choking; clogging my nostrils, turning each breath into a ragged, burning gasp. Lungs filled with the heavy soil, a slow, agonizing suffocation. Pierre's muffled cry cut off beside me; Jacques thrashed weakly somewhere in the press. Panic surged—I clawed desperately at the earth, nails tearing, fingers raw and bleeding. But it was futile—the mass too heavy, unyielding. Visions flickered: Paris cafes, friends' faces, the life we'd abandoned for this folly. Blackness encroached, the pain fading into numb finality.