Seventeen months. That's how long it had been since the Royal Nation took eastern Russia, that was before i left Yakutsk
I hadn't seen the sun since I was nine.
Now I was sixteen, and the light above the tunnels came only from flickering lanterns or the occasional shellfire echoing through the cavern roof. My name is Joseph Aslanov, and this was my seventh deployment. I wasn't a Soldat yet—not officially—but the others already treated me like one. When you survive long enough, the uniform stops mattering.
The calm before battle is worse than the fight itself.
There's a silence that hangs in the tunnels—stale and heavy, like breath caught in the throat of the Earth. We'd dug in at Sector 4C-Delta, a rocky outcropping deep beneath what used to be Irkutsk. Somewhere beyond the black rock ahead, the Golden Empire was doing the same thing we were: waiting. Tensions don't rise like a storm out here. They crawl, slow and quiet, until the shooting starts.
I sat with my back against a wall of packed dirt and steel rebar, sharpening a trench knife with one hand, gripping a stimpack in the other. A ration tin, half-empty, sat beside me untouched. Hunger was easier to ignore than fear.
A low whistle echoed down the trench line. Officer's signal—quiet, but sharp. I stood.
Across from me, a Vanguard sat with his helmet off, humming something old and mournful. Two Morticians passed down the line carrying crates of ammonia stims and bandages. One of them, a girl maybe a year older than me, met my eyes and offered a nod. No smile. Just the nod. That was enough down here.
We were all waiting.
"Orders?" someone asked down the line.
"Soon," came the reply. Always 'soon.'
The battle would come tonight. That much we knew. Scouts had spotted Imperial movement through the west tunnel—their insignia burned into worn-out uniforms, their breath visible in the cold like steam from a dying engine. That meant they were close, too close.
And this time, we weren't pulling back.
The Royal Nation wanted to make a stand here. Why this sector mattered, none of us knew. Maybe it was symbolic. Maybe it was a vein of coal or an old cable route that used to power something important. Or maybe someone with shiny boots on the top floor of some bunker decided this patch of dirt was worth dying for.
We didn't get told why.
Only who. And when.
And the who was always the Empire.
The tunnel stank of rust, coal dust, and sweat. A scent you couldn't wash out of your lungs.
I moved down the line, boots crunching in the gravel. Our squad was holed up in a dugout just behind the second barricade. Cramped, low ceiling, barely enough room for five of us—but it was ours.
Rook was the first one I saw.
Not a Rook—the Rook. That's what we called him. His real name was Gavril, but no one used it. He was massive—built like the tunnel walls themselves. His armor was dented from cave-ins, his coat patched with soldered iron. He didn't speak much. Didn't need to. He was sitting in the corner, oiling his Mining Bomb Launcher with care, as if it were a sleeping animal.
"You hear anything?" I asked him.
He grunted, shrugged, and handed me a piece of coal-wrapped bread. I nodded my thanks.
On the other side of the room, a Mortician was fiddling with a syrette kit. Lanya. Thin as wire, eyes always tired. She was too clever for this war—said she used to be a chemist before the bombings. She joked once that all her patients now either died too fast or healed too slow.
"You stocked?" I asked her.
She didn't look up. "Enough for maybe half of us."
"Good odds."
"Best you'll get," she muttered.
Then there was Makar.
He was the oldest—twenty-three—and somehow still alive. He wore the uniform of an Officer, though barely. His insignia had been scratched out with a knife, only the metal pins left on his collar. He used to give orders. Now he only offered advice, spoken like a brother rather than a commander. People listened when he talked. I did, too.
"Empire's gonna hit the eastern chokepoint first," he said quietly, looking over a faded map lit by a cracked lantern. "They'll try to flood us out. Push us into the mines."
"And if we don't go?" I asked.
He looked up. "Then we drown in blood."
No one laughed. That was just how it was.
Finally, there was Nahele—our Jæger. Quiet, twitchy, wiry. Born in some western tunnel we'd never heard of. Nobody knew what side he started on, and nobody asked. He laid traps like an artist. Sulfur bombs, pox rounds, acid flares. He kept them wrapped in cloth and scripture torn from burned books.
When he noticed me watching, he whispered, "You'll smell the Empire coming. Copper and incense. It's always the same."
We all knew what he meant.
They burn prayers before they fight.
The dugout fell quiet again.
Just the drip of mineral water in the dark, the scratch of Rook's whetstone, the faint buzz of lanternflies. Above us, the distant echo of a mine cart being pushed too fast—one of ours, or one of theirs.
It didn't matter.
Soon, the tunnel would roar.
But for now—just dust, silence, and the heartbeat in my ears.
Makar sat cross-legged on an overturned munitions crate, one hand on his rifle, the other wrapped around a tin cup of broth that had gone cold hours ago. I sat across from him, just out of reach of the lantern's dim light.
He looked up. "You sleep last night?"
"Hard to," I muttered. "Ground's loud. Like something's shifting under us."
"Ground always shifts," he said. "Means nothing. Means everything. Depends if you believe the mines are alive."
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure I wanted to believe that either way.
Makar leaned back and tapped his boot against the dirt floor. "You ever get used to this?"
"What—waiting?"
"No. Living like you're already dead."
I shrugged. "I'm only sixteen. Ask me in ten years."
"If you're still here in ten years, you've gone numb. That's worse than dead."
He tossed the cup aside. It clattered somewhere behind the sandbags.
I leaned in a little. "What's it like? Giving orders?"
His face tightened slightly. "Tiring. Everyone thinks you know what's coming. You don't. You just lie faster than they can panic."
"…Did you lie to us before?"
Makar didn't hesitate. "Yes. Every time."
He gave a thin smile. "Sometimes, though, the lie becomes true. That's the trick. You tell people they'll live—and maybe they will."
There was a long pause.
Lanya broke the silence, walking in with her medical satchel slung over her shoulder.
"Looks like it's almost time," she said, eyes flicking to the ticking pocket watch in her hand. "Sentries report movement down East Tunnel One. Heavy boots. Choral chanting. That's Empire."
"Choral?" I frowned.
"Knights," Makar said. "Fanatics. They chant before battle. Makes them feel holy. Makes it easier to kill."
Outside, the trench line was stirring.
Shouts echoed through the tunnels. Rook stood and wordlessly lifted his launcher, the runes etched into its casing catching a glint of lamplight. Nahele had already vanished, probably setting traps in the blind corners again.
Makar stood slowly, dusting off his coat. He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"This is your seventh deployment, right?"
I nodded.
"Then you know how this goes. Don't be a hero. Watch the walls. If it gets bad, fall back to the second post. We hold, or we die."
Lanya zipped her pack and tightened her gloves. "And if you do die, try not to make it messy. I'm running low on gauze."
That almost got a smile out of me.
Then—
BOOM.
The world shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. A section of the trench wall cracked as a second explosion thundered behind it. Lanterns swung wildly. Distant shouting turned into screaming.
"They're here!" someone bellowed.
Makar cursed under his breath. "To the line. Now!"
We rushed out into the chaos.
The trench was lit by muzzle flashes and the dull orange of a breach flare bouncing across the walls. Empire troops were flooding in through a collapsed tunnel section—silhouettes in plated armor, carrying pikes, shields, and battle rifles. The chanting was louder now, echoing with unnatural rhythm:
"Gold above, blood below! Cleanse the stone! Cleanse the foe!"
A Vanguard ahead of me was thrown backwards, his shield shattered. A mortar blast rocked the flank. The Empire was pushing hard, straight through our chokepoint.
I ducked behind a barricade, leveled my rifle, and took aim.
No time to think.
Just breathe, and pull the trigger.
The first shot cracked through the tunnel, loud as thunder. I didn't see where it landed—just the flash, then another, then another. I fired back, rifle kicking against my shoulder. Someone screamed. I couldn't tell whose side they were on.
Makar shouted, "Hold the breach! Rook—seal that side wall!"
The old builder was already loading a mining charge into his launcher. He aimed high and fired—the shell arced into the darkness, struck a support beam, and collapsed a sliver of tunnel. Not enough to stop the Empire. Just enough to slow them.
"Joseph!" Lanya's voice snapped through the noise. "On your left!"
I turned and fired just as a knight surged forward—his armor stained, blade raised, chanting something in a tongue I didn't recognize. The round struck his shoulder and spun him back into the dirt.
My hands were shaking.
The line was fraying.
Makar ducked beside me, dragging a wounded trooper back behind the barricade.
"We can't give them this tunnel," he growled. "If they break through here, they'll flank the entire line."
"But we're outnumbered!" Lanya snapped. "We're outgunned, and I've only got one stim left!"
Makar didn't blink. "We hold."
The Empire kept coming. Wave after wave—shields raised, rifles barking, pikes swinging. Dust and blood filled the air. I counted three shots left. Then two. Then one.
A grenade landed near Nahele's tripwire. She saw it a second too late.
Boom.
The cave lit up in flame and stone. The right flank collapsed inward. Two Royal Nation soldiers were buried on the spot.
"Right side is gone!" someone screamed.
Makar's voice was hoarse now. "Fall back to Tunnel Three! Go, go, go!"
I hesitated—just for a moment. I saw the flag we'd hung near the entry wall—tattered, half-buried in dust, but still there. Blue and gold. Ours.
Then Lanya grabbed my arm and pulled. "Joseph! Move!"
We ran.
The ground buckled as charges detonated behind us—Rook's failsafe, sealing the main breach with rubble and fire. Our boots pounded the stone. My lungs burned. My ears rang.
We didn't win. But we weren't dead.
Not yet.
We reached Tunnel Three—narrower, darker, fortified. Reinforcements were already setting up sandbags and laying wire. New faces. New eyes.
Makar bent over, coughing into his sleeve. Lanya slumped beside a wall and tore open a gauze packet with her teeth. Rook leaned silently against the support beam, his launcher smoking.
Nahele didn't make it.
Nobody said her name, but we all looked toward the empty space where she should've been.
I reloaded my rifle with shaking hands. The metal was slick with dust and blood.
"Three more hours," Makar said. "Then they'll hit this line too."
I nodded slowly. "We'll hold."
He looked at me—just for a moment—and nodded back.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We will."
after the battle
Diary Entry — Joseph AslanovFebruary 3rd, 1927Tunnel Three, Eastern Front
They finally gave me the badge.
Soldat.No more "Recruit," no more "Boy," no more "Kid from Yakutsk." Just Soldat Aslanov now.
They handed it to me in the mess hall, if you can believe that. No ceremony. Makar just tossed the patch on my tray between the powdered stew and half a biscuit. Said, "You earned it."
I didn't feel proud.I didn't feel anything, really.
Lanya clapped me on the back. Rook gave me a nod. Even the new rookies whispered my name like I mattered.
But I keep thinking about Nahele. She never got her patch. She never even got her boots back.We buried what was left of her near the collapse tunnel. a Rook carved her name into the rock. Said it was the least we could do.
They told us we'd be rotated off the front in a month. Maybe longer, depending on how bad the rail damage is. The thought of not fighting feels... strange. Unreal, even.
But I let myself dream.Just for a second.
Maybe I'll see a real sun again. Maybe I'll step onto grass and feel it under my boots. Maybe, if this war ever ends, I'll find a place where I don't have to sleep with my rifle beside me.
I don't know what's left of the surface. I don't even know if there's a world worth going back to.
But I want to live long enough to find out.
— Joseph
end of chapter 2