The barracks smelled like iron, soap, and too many dreams packed into one room.
Vector leaned back on a wooden crate, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the drizzle. Around him, a group of recruits sat scattered in a loose circle, passing around bread and poorly brewed coffee like sacred treasure. The walls echoed faint laughter, the kind that comes from men too tired to care about dignity.
"Oi, Captain!" one of the recruits Tobara, the nervous girl with a habit of saluting three times spoke up, eyes wide as always. "Is it true you once defeated twelve bandits with just a broken shovel?"
Vector squinted at her, then broke into a grin.
"That's a lie," he said. "It was eleven bandits, and the shovel wasn't broken..., just offended."
The circle burst into laughter. Tobara covered her mouth, giggling through her nose.
Lieutenant Brentford groaned from the far end of the room. "Captain, if you keep feeding them tall tales, they'll start thinking you're some kind of hero."
Vector smirked. "I'm no hero. Heroes die young and smell good doing it. I'm just a bastard who refuses to lose."
"Touching," said Cidney Cavy, arms folded near the door. She was the kind of officer who didn't blink unless there was a reason serious, sharp, and quietly judgmental. "But if you're done serenading your recruits with war fairy tales, the commander wants a full report on the patrol formations before dawn."
Vector groaned dramatically. "Cidney, you ever get tired of being right?"
"Never," she replied without missing a beat.
The recruits laughed again, the sound filling the room with something oddly comforting. The barracks weren't luxurious chipped stone, squeaky bunks, leaky roofs but somehow, the laughter made it feel less like a cage and more like a home.
Hours later, the night settled deep and calm.
Vector stood outside the barracks, the torchlight flickering across his face. The moon, half-hidden by clouds, cast the city of Tortilla in shades of silver and smoke. His hands rested behind his back not in rigid discipline, but habit, born from years of pretending to look official.
The rain had left everything damp and clean. Even the air tasted new.
He took a slow breath.
The smell of oil and wet stone.
The faint creak of a distant gate.
And somewhere faint music drifting from the upper levels of the city, where nobles still danced, pretending war was something that happened to other people.
"Shithole," Vector muttered with a half-smile. "Beautiful, annoying shithole."
Brentford appeared beside him, boots crunching softly. "Sir, scouts report nothing unusual. The ridge seems quiet tonight."
Vector nodded, but his mind wandered.
Quiet nights were the ones that bothered him most. The kind that felt too still like the calm between a sword's swing and its target.
"Keep an extra watch near the west wall," he said. "Just because nothing moves doesn't mean nothing's watching."
Brentford frowned. "Sir, you think the rumors about the ridge are true?"
"I think," Vector said, glancing at the horizon, "rumors usually start with a bastard who saw something real."
(The stars above the city)..
He stayed there long after the others turned in.
The stars over Tortilla weren't bright the city's glow dimmed them,but he could still make out a few. Cold little sparks. Reminders that the world was bigger than the Empire's borders, bigger than any title or war.
He chuckled softly to himself.
"God of War and Strategies, huh?" he muttered. "Stratamorph Cal'culus… who comes up with this crap?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. "If my mother heard that title, she'd throw a boot at me."
The memory of her voice Laura Breckenridge flickered in his mind, warm and firm: "Don't you dare become what they call you, Vector. Let the name serve you, not the other way around."
He smiled faintly. "Yeah, yeah, I know."
A sudden chill brushed his neck. He turned and for a split second, thought he saw someone at the upper balcony across the courtyard. A faint light. A familiar figure standing near the glass railing.
Trilla?
Even at a distance, her posture was unmistakable composed, watchful, and maybe a little tired. Their eyes met for just a moment.
No words.
No gestures.
Just a quiet, unspoken awareness that hung in the cool air between them.
Then she turned, disappearing into her quarters.
Vector blinked, lips quirking upward. "Gahhh… did she just....? Nah. Must've been my imagination."
But as he walked back inside, something in his chest something small and inconvenient refused to stay quiet.
*In the Barracks Once More*
Inside, the recruits were already half-asleep. Tobara was snoring in her armor again; Marvy the messenger had fallen asleep face-down on a stack of reports. Vector stared at them for a moment a bunch of kids trying to act like warriors.
He shook his head, chuckling quietly. "We're doomed."
Then, softer almost thoughtful he muttered:
"Still… maybe we've got a chance."
Cidney's voice came from the shadows, calm and teasing: "Talking to yourself again, Captain?"
"Of course," Vector said, not turning. "It's the only way I get intelligent answers around here."
She smirked faintly, crossing her arms. "The council sent new orders. We're moving in two days. Deployment to the western front."
Vector exhaled. "Two days, huh? Damn… guess peace had a short shelf life."
Cidney tilted her head. "You worried?"
He smiled that lazy, dangerous grin that always made his soldiers uneasy. "Worried? Nah. Just thinking."
"About what?"
He looked toward the barracks window the same one that faced the distant tower where Trilla's quarters stood.
"About how the strangest people always cross paths before a war."
...
And somewhere far above, behind the curtains of her dimly lit room, Trilla leaned against her window again watching the same flickering torchlight from below.
Neither said it aloud.
But both already knew:
Their fates had begun to move.
Slowly. Steadily.
Like the first turn of a wheel that would not stop until the world itself changed.