Re: An Age of Ashes

The cold mountain air clung to them like an unyielding fog, the scent of pine and damp earth mixing with the tang of sweat. The high-altitude pass stretched endlessly before them, narrow and winding, flanked by jagged cliffs on either side. The path was treacherous, uneven with sharp rocks poking through the snow. It wasn't the kind of terrain a man would want to walk across when tired, and the men were most certainly tired—battered, cold, and weary after the ambush.

The brutal reality of their situation settled heavily on Adrian's shoulders as they continued their march. His boots crunched softly against the gravel and snow beneath him, each step dragging with the weight of responsibility. The soldiers around him moved in a similarly sluggish manner, their footsteps sluggish and haphazard. They were exhausted—every soldier, whether young or old, looked like they had been drained of all energy. Faces were gaunt, eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, and some of them walked with a limp from the wounds sustained earlier. Yet, there was no word of complaint. There was nothing but the sound of their boots, the wind, and the occasional cough breaking the silence.

The mountains surrounding them were imposing, towering walls of stone that seemed to close in with every step. The weight of the looming cliffs overhead felt like a pressure, tightening on their chests. A blanket of snow covered the trail, and Adrian watched his men trudge through it, their movements slow and deliberate. The sun had long since sunk behind the peaks, and now the only source of light came from the pale crescent moon high above. The shadows cast by the moon seemed to stretch, flickering over the soldiers like specters, reminding Adrian of the ever-present danger that loomed just behind them.

The march felt endless. Felsburg was still several days away, and every mile seemed to stretch farther. The fortress loomed like a distant beacon of safety, but the journey to get there felt like it might last an eternity. The soldiers didn't speak much, and when they did, it was in low murmurs or hoarse voices. The cold was biting, sharp enough to make their fingers numb and their breath cloud in the air. The mountain winds howled through the pass, their harsh, frigid gusts slicing through the soldiers' cloaks, as though the very mountain itself was resisting their progress.

Adrian paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow, though it was unclear whether it was from the exertion of marching or the gnawing weight of responsibility. His chest felt tight—an ache that he couldn't shake off. The memories of the ambush earlier that day were still fresh in his mind. He could still hear the crack of musket fire, the shouts of his soldiers, the metallic clang of swords meeting shields. It had been close. Too close.

He turned his head slightly to look at the men trailing behind him. They were still marching in a disciplined formation, though their movements were sluggish, as if the sheer weight of the journey was bearing down on them. It was only the strength of their training and their trust in him that kept them moving forward. And it was the same trust that kept Adrian's own feet moving, though his body felt like it might give way at any moment.

The path ahead narrowed, the walls of stone towering higher and higher as they approached the first major incline. The snow here was deeper, the wind sharper. A few soldiers faltered in their steps, their faces pale and eyes wide with exhaustion. Adrian didn't blame them; even he could feel the overwhelming fatigue in his legs, the ache in his back, the tightening in his chest as the altitude began to affect him more than it ever had before.

"Keep moving," Adrian called out, his voice hoarse but steady. "We need to keep moving."

His words were a lifeline—a reminder to the soldiers that they couldn't afford to stop. They were so close now. Felsburg was within reach, and though it seemed far, far away, it was the only safe haven they had. The men nodded weakly, some muttering quiet words of encouragement to each other. Their faces were pale from both exhaustion and the cold, their breaths coming out in shallow, uneven puffs. Some clutched their weapons tightly, their knuckles white with the effort. Others carried what little equipment they had left—their packs weighed down with the remnants of their journey.

Adrian's gaze wandered back to the mountains, his thoughts drifting. The landscape seemed so familiar, yet so alien at the same time. He had never traveled through such harsh terrain before, and the very fact that he was leading this ragtag group of soldiers across such an unforgiving landscape filled him with a quiet sense of dread. What had happened to the world he once knew? To the life that had seemed so much simpler?

The thoughts of the old world came flooding back—fleeting but vivid, like a ghost from the past. A flash of neon lights, the smell of coffee and grease from a diner where he had sat just days before. His friends had been there, laughing, teasing him about his job. Everything had been so... ordinary. So simple. No wars to fight, no blood to spill. He'd had plans—so many plans. He had been Captain Elias Carter, a part of a vast, powerful force that had held dominion over the skies. His job had been to fly, to command, to keep things running smoothly.

But that world, that life, was gone now.

Gone with the wind, or perhaps swallowed up by the crushing weight of time. Was it really just days ago that he had been seated at a booth with his friends, eating a burger, listening to their banter about trivial things? Was it really that easy to leave? And could he ever truly go back?

He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the here and now. No matter how much he longed for the past, he had a job to do in this world—a duty to lead these men to safety. The march continued, the soldiers still trudging onward with that quiet determination, their faces etched with weariness. No one spoke, but Adrian felt the weight of their expectation. They trusted him. They followed him. But trust was a fragile thing, and he could feel it slipping with each step.

The path was steeper now, the air thinner, and the weight of their march was beginning to tell. He glanced over his shoulder again, where Johann and the other soldiers kept a watchful eye on the rear. Their formation had shifted slightly, the men falling into smaller groups, trying to keep their spirits up by talking among themselves. But even their voices were low, tired.

As they rounded another bend, Adrian spotted a small clearing in the distance—a place where they could make camp for the night. A sense of relief washed over him, though it was fleeting. There was no way to know if the enemy was still in pursuit. But they had to rest, even if just for a few hours.

The soldiers began to filter into the clearing, setting up tents, lighting small fires. The warmth of the fires was almost unbearable after the cold, but it was a comfort. For a brief moment, the tension that had wound tight in his chest loosened. They would make it through the night.

Adrian sat by the fire, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind. The cold was still there, gnawing at him, but the fire offered him a small respite. As he stared into the flames, he found his mind wandering once more to the past. To the diner. To the conversations with his friends.

It seemed impossible that such simple things—talking over a meal, laughing at nothing—could be so distant now. So unreachable.

But he had no choice but to press on.