The barracks were alive with the chaotic energy of preparation. Zera stood in the middle of it all, her jaw set, her dark eyes scanning the room as recruits and veterans alike scrambled to secure their gear. The air buzzed with tension and the sharp metallic tang of oil and steel. Outside, the distant rumble of artillery echoed through the hills, a grim reminder of the war that had become her reality.

  Her uniform was crisp, its dark gray fabric a stark contrast to the pale morning light filtering through the small windows. The insignia on her chest marked her as a military doctor, but it carried little weight among the soldiers she treated. Here, rank mattered less than survival, and survival meant stitching wounds, setting broken bones, and doing whatever it took to keep people alive for just one more day.

  Zera tightened the strap on her medical bag, its contents meticulously organized. Bandages, sutures, vials of antibiotics—everything she could carry into the field. The weight of the bag was familiar, almost comforting. It grounded her, reminding her of her purpose amidst the chaos. Yet today, the weight felt heavier than usual, as if the bag knew the gravity of what lay ahead.

  Her orders had come in the night: a direct deployment to the front lines at Leafheim. The city had been under siege for weeks, its defenders barely holding out against the relentless assault of the Imperium’s forces. Reports painted a bleak picture—streets reduced to rubble, hospitals overflowing, supplies running dangerously low. It was exactly the kind of situation Zera had trained for, and exactly the kind of situation that terrified her.

  She’d spent the early hours of the morning packing her things, moving through her small quarters with mechanical efficiency. There wasn’t much to pack—a few changes of clothes, her medical textbooks, a photograph of her and Joe taken years ago when they’d first met. She’d held the photo for a long moment, her thumb brushing over his face, before slipping it into the pocket of her bag. She didn’t know when she’d see him again, or if she’d see him at all.

  “Zera,” a voice broke through her thoughts. She turned to see Captain Harlow, his broad frame blocking the doorway. His face was lined with age and experience, his gray eyes carrying a weight that only years of war could impart. “We leave in ten minutes. Are you ready?”

  She nodded, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. “Ready, sir.”

  He gave her a curt nod and disappeared back into the hallway, barking orders at the soldiers assembling outside. Zera took a final look around her quarters, then slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the cold morning air.

  The transport convoy was a ragtag collection of armored trucks and personnel carriers, their once-pristine exteriors now scarred by bullet holes and layers of grime. Zera climbed into the back of one of the trucks, settling onto a bench beside a group of soldiers who looked as though they hadn’t slept in days. Their uniforms were worn, their faces gaunt, but their eyes carried the steely determination of people who had nothing left to lose.

  “First time at the front?” one of them asked, a young man with a patchy beard and a rifle slung across his lap. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, studying her for any signs of weakness.

  Zera met his gaze evenly. “First time at Leafheim,” she replied. “Not my first time in the field.”

  He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and leaned back against the truck’s metal wall. The conversation around them was sparse, punctuated by the occasional nervous laugh or whispered prayer. Zera kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her mind already running through scenarios she might face when they arrived. The wounds, the infections, the deaths she wouldn’t be able to prevent—she’d seen it all before, but it never got easier.

  The convoy rumbled forward, the engine’s growl drowning out the soldiers’ quiet murmurs. As the city came into view, Zera felt her breath catch in her throat. Leafheim was a warzone. Plumes of smoke rose from shattered buildings, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and metal. The streets were lined with rubble, the remnants of homes and businesses reduced to twisted wreckage. The sounds of gunfire and distant explosions punctuated the eerie stillness, a stark reminder that the battle was far from over.

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  The truck came to a halt in what had once been a bustling marketplace. Now, it was little more than an open-air triage center. Tents had been erected amid the debris, their canvas sides flapping in the wind. Soldiers and medics moved with grim efficiency, their faces set in expressions of grim determination. Zera stepped down from the truck, her boots crunching against broken glass and gravel. She slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way toward the largest tent, where Captain Harlow was already giving orders.

  “Dr. Zera!” he called out as she approached. “You’re in charge of this sector. Prioritize the critical cases and stabilize as many as you can. Evac’s not an option right now, so we’re on our own.”

  Zera nodded, her mind already shifting into triage mode. “Understood, sir.”

  The next few hours passed in a blur of blood and chaos. Zera moved from patient to patient, her hands steady even as her mind raced. She sutured wounds, administered painkillers, and barked orders at the young medics working under her. The tent was filled with the sounds of moans and cries, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the stench of sweat and fear. Every now and then, the ground would shake as another shell exploded nearby, but Zera didn’t flinch. There was no time for fear.

  One patient, a soldier no older than twenty, clutched her hand as she cleaned the shrapnel wounds on his leg. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, but he managed a weak smile. “Am I gonna make it, doc?”

  Zera squeezed his hand gently. “You’re in good hands,” she said, injecting a dose of morphine into his arm. “Just hang in there.”

  He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as the drug took effect. Zera moved on to the next patient, her heart heavy but her resolve unshaken.

  As night fell, the temperature dropped sharply. The triage tent was dimly lit by a few flickering lanterns, their weak glow casting long shadows across the bloodstained ground. Zera stepped outside for a moment, needing a breath of fresh air. The sky was a deep, starless black, and the cold bit at her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself, her mind drifting to Joe. Was he safe? Was he thinking of her?

  “Dr. Zera,” a voice called out, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned to see Captain Harlow approaching, his expression grim.

  “We’ve got a situation,” he said. “A patrol was ambushed about two clicks from here. Survivors are pinned down, and they’ve got wounded. We need you to go with the rescue team.”

  Zera’s stomach tightened, but she nodded. “I’ll get my bag.”

  Minutes later, she was climbing into an armored vehicle with a team of soldiers. The ride was tense, the silence broken only by the occasional burst of static from the radio. Zera gripped her bag tightly, her mind racing through the possibilities. When the vehicle came to a halt, the soldiers disembarked quickly, their weapons at the ready. Zera followed, sticking close to the team leader as they made their way through the darkened streets.

  The sound of gunfire grew louder as they approached the ambush site. The team moved with practiced precision, their movements swift and silent. Zera’s heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to focus. When they reached the survivors, the scene was as grim as she’d expected. Two soldiers lay on the ground, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles. A third was propped against a wall, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage around his abdomen.

  “Doc, over here!” one of the soldiers called, motioning to the wounded man. Zera dropped to her knees beside him, her hands already moving to assess the damage. The wound was deep, but not immediately fatal. She worked quickly, her fingers deftly stitching the torn flesh as bullets whizzed overhead.

  “We’ve got to move!” the team leader shouted, his voice barely audible over the chaos. Zera finished tying off the stitches and helped the soldier to his feet. With one arm slung over her shoulder, she half-carried, half-dragged him toward the waiting vehicle.

  The ride back to the triage center was tense, the wounded soldier’s labored breathing the only sound in the cramped space. Zera kept one hand pressed against his wound, her other hand gripping the side of the vehicle to steady herself. When they arrived, she helped him onto a stretcher and followed him into the tent, her exhaustion forgotten in the face of her duty.

  Hours later, as the first light of dawn began to break, Zera finally allowed herself to sit down. Her body ached, her mind numb from the events of the night. But as she looked around the tent, at the lives she’d helped save, she felt a small flicker of hope. The war was far from over, but for now, they’d won a small victory.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph of her and Joe. Holding it tightly, she whispered, “I’ll make it back to you. I promise.”