The stench of iron, blood, and spent gunpowder twisted in her nose. Children lay slumped between crates—hands still clutching empty canisters or frayed rope, lips cracked from whispering too many commands into shattered relay runes. Others simply didn’t move. Only their chest heaving heavily.

  Vierna’s knuckles whitened against the edge of the scrying table. Looking at the frontline was like looking at a dying man, refusing its inevitable fate.

  She watched a mage—someone who once conjured fire with a flick of the wrist—now sputter out a single spark, no brighter than a firefly. A musketman raised his weapon, but the runes barely glowed—faint and flickering like an ember on wet wood. Crossbows lay discarded in the mud, stripped of strings and bolts, no more useful than scrap.

  Back then, the platform that sent supplies to the front worked in the blink of an eye. But now it wouldn’t even activate. The runes glowed dimly before flickering out, leaving the much-needed supplies stranded in a line that didn’t seem to move.

  She looked at Halwen. He was elbow-deep in exposed runes and complicated glyphs, sweat matting his graying hair, still trying to stabilize the casting array beneath the platform. The other researchers stood nearby, muttering spells and flipping through manuals, but none dared touch the main weave. One wrong pulse could blow the entire circuit. Halwen was the only one willing to risk it—senior, experienced, and stubborn enough to shove his hands into the problem. His effort only met him halfway. The relay held, but just barely, like a house lashed together by rope and duct tape.

  It came like a spark— A flicker of thought, catching in the dry kindling of her resolve.

  I want to help.

  Even if she could only bring one or two bottles of elixir, it didn’t matter. Doing nothing felt worse than helping just a little.

  She thought that if only she had remembered the storage spell, maybe she could’ve brought more than one or two bottles of elixir to the front. Maybe even a whole crate at once.

  She closed her eyes, trying to claw back scraps of memory from the orphanage’s dusty shelves. She had seen the storage spell before—just a glance. But the truth was, she’d never learned it. Too focused on catching up the basics. She had thought everything else could wait.

  Now she cursed that choice.

  And then she remembered.

  Lina.

  Of course. Lina had used it without a second thought.

  Vierna ran away from the relay table. Her eyes swept through the chaos around her.

  Was Lina back in Storage Room C again? Or had she wandered off somewhere else? Maybe she’d just found a quiet spot to slack off—now that Herr Halwen had stopped barking orders altogether.

  Where had she last seen her?

  She turned sharply and ran—nearly colliding with a technician crawling on all fours. Then the side bay. Empty. Just broken chalk lines and a toppled sigil plate. Not here.

  She tried the northeast wall—where runners queued with ammo belts looped across their shoulders. No sign.

  And then, near the back, wedged between a snapped mana rail and a toppled ration bin—she saw her laying on the floor.

  Panting. Face pale behind the mask. One hand limp at her side, the other still clutching an empty waterskin like she’d forgotten how to let go. She wasn’t bleeding. Just… not moving.

  Behind her, a single crate stood half-open. On its side, the letters were still visible, scrawled in bright red

  "Lina!"

  The masked girl didn’t lift her head. Just groaned.

  “Ughhh… is Herr Halwen sending you to yell at me? He knows that he can scream directly to my skull right? Tell him that I’m trying not to melt here. Or better yet, tell him that I actually melted and join my camel ancestor for real now. Carry my memory or whatever.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You do realize the teleport platform’s jammed now, right?”

  Lina sat up halfway. Blinked. “What?”

  Vierna pointed toward the glowing circle in the distance, where crates were bottlenecked in a growing pile.

  Lina stared at it. Then back at the crate behind her. Then back at the platform.

  “…So why the hell did I push this damn box all the way there!?”

  Vierna crouched beside her. Even now, Lina was still… ridiculous.

  “Look—I need you to teach me. That storage spell you use. How does it work?”

  Lina squinted. “Why? You need a place to dump all your typo notes and magic scribbles?”

  Vierna exhaled sharply. “Now that I think about it, maybe I would. But right now, I want to deliver supplies to the front.”

  Lina blinked. “What? You want to walk through that bloodbath? There are actual monsters out there. And besides, there’s no order telling anyone to do that.”

  Vierna met her eyes. “Somebody has to. The adults are just standing around, waiting for Herr Halwen to give the word. But he’s ten lems deep inside that teleport array.”

  “So what? Even if we help them they’ll probably punishes us anyway.”

  “I’m fine with that,”

  Lina stared at her. “Why do you suddenly care? This place did cruel things to us. They’re using kids as soldiers. Just let them die, if we’re lucky we can slip when things fall apart”

  “If this place falls, then what? Even if we slip out where will we go? who’d take us? Vierna insisted

  “Why do you assume other places will be much worse than this place? Do you know that as a fact?”

  “I just want to help the place that let me know you.” Vierna said.

  “Oh gods, that was disgustingly sweet. Just so we’re clear—I love boys,” Lina muttered, scratching at her hair, “Ughhh. Fine. Fiiine. But you owe me. And not that nutrient paste sludge from the research center. I want something real. Like—meat. Or sugar. Or meat dipped in sugar.”

  Vierna blinked. “That would kill you faster than any monster imaginable. Besides, it is not even a thing.”

  “It is now.” Lina sat up straighter, rubbing her temples. “Alright. Listen close. Storage spell’s not that hard, but if you mess it up, you’ll either lose your item in the void or implode your own shoulder.

  They crouched behind a broken pillar, just far enough from the depot’s chaos to concentrate.

  Lina dragged a flat piece of slate between them and began sketching a crude rune with the stub of a chalk stick. “Alright. Storage spell. This here?” She tapped the rune. “Think of it like a lid. You open it—you get a little pocket of space”

  Vierna nodded quietly, watching as Lina handed her a single mana elixir bottle.

  “Start small, store that” Lina said.

  Vierna focused on the rune. Her first attempt sputtered—the bottle shimmered faintly, but nothing happened.

  Lina clicked her tongue. “Again. And do it like you’re caressing me, not yanking a stubborn mule.”

  On the second try, the rune glowed but flickered out too fast, like a spark without fuel.

  Third try.

  Vierna steadied her hands, focused her intent, and pictured the bottle sliding into an unseen fold behind the rune—like slipping something into a hidden sleeve.

  The bottle blinked out of existence with a soft pulse.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Vierna’s eyes widened. “It worked.”

  Lina grunted. “Well, at least you didn’t blow off your pretty little shoulder.”

  Vierna then grabbed another potion—then a pouch of bullets, a bundle of bolts, anything she could find that the front line might need. Her hands moved faster now, the rune flaring with each item tucked into the space like it had always been waiting for her to figure it out.

  Each one vanished into the rune with more confidence than the last.

  After a while—when it felt like she’d only just begun—she reached for another item.

  She touched the rune. It shimmered. Buzzed. Then stopped.

  “Is it broken?” she asked.

  “No,” Lina said, squinting at her. “You just ran out of room. You didn’t get a whole storage depot at the start, just a little pouch.”

  Vierna frowned. “Well, at least this would let me carry more than before—but it was still far too little.”

  She glanced around. The storage spell was a good start, but using it alone wouldn’t be enough. Not for what the front needed. Her eyes swept the room, searching for anything that could help.

  Then she spotted it..

  Shoved in a shadowed alcove near the wall: a supply trolley. Half-buried under collapsed crates and torn canvas. One wheel bent. The handle slightly rusted. Probably meant for moving ration bins or spare tools.

  Vierna didn’t say a word. Just walked over, kicked the crates aside, and hauled it out with both hands. It wobbled unevenly as she dragged it into the light.

  She started loading—quiet, focused.

  A few mana elixirs into the trolley’s shallow frame.

  The rest packed into her storage glyph.

  Whatever wouldn’t fit, she tied into a makeshift sling—using belts, rope, loose fabric scraps. Improvised

  By the time she was done, she looked less like a mage and more like a burden animal—silver hair tied back, shoulders hunched under the weight of too many straps and tied bundles. The trolley creaked in front of her like it resented being woken up.

  She glanced back once.

  “Off I go,” she said flatly. She put both hands on the trolley and pushed.

  It moved. Slowly. Too slowly.

  Then—another pair of hands joined hers on the rusted frame.

  Lina sighed. “I can’t let my scribe do all the hard work now, can I?”

  Vierna smiled. Just a little.

  In a way, she should’ve seen this coming.

  Together, they pushed forward. The trolley clattered and squeaked with every uneven turn, its one good wheel wobbling like it wanted to quit. But it moved. And so did they.

  They passed the chaos of the supply depot—

  the runners shouting into broken relay stones, the scholars dragging crates with ink-stained hands, the kids too tired to speak, just staring at nothing.

  They exited through the side arch, ducking beneath a half-collapsed lintel, and stepped out into the open.

  The main road leading to the northern gate stretched before them—broad, scarred, and packed with movement.

  And overhead… the sky cracked open.

  Flying mana beasts swooped and dived, shrieking as flak and focused spellfire tore through their wings. One spiraled down just ahead—hit clean through the spine—its corpse slamming into a rooftop with a wet, boneless crunch. Blood. Bone. Guts. A spatter across the cobblestone like it had always belonged there.

  Another fell behind them—limbs still twitching as it hit, its body leaking green steam.

  This was just weather now.

  They darted forward at full speed—heads down, hands gripping the trolley’s rusted frame like it was the only thing keeping them upright.

  Through the arch.

  Past the gate.

  Their legs burned. Every breath scraped the inside of their ribs like sandpaper.

  Rust rattled beneath their hands as they pushed. The trolley bucked over uneven stone, nearly slipping once on a streak of old blood. Neither girl said a word. They couldn’t. Their lungs were too full of heat, their throats too dry for complaint. Sweat streaked the dirt on their necks, soaking the collars of their uniforms. Even their eyes stung—not from emotion, but from grit kicked up during the sprint.

  Still, they ran

  They reached the depot. It rose from the earth like a half-remembered wound a hastily conjured camp of hardened clay and jutting slabs. Formed by combat mages. Held together by exhaustion.

  The stink hit immediately.

  Blood, powder, burnt mana oil. Inside, the depot pulsed with frantic energy—injured soldiers dragged in and patched up just enough to be pushed back out. Teenagers loaded spell-charged bolts. Tarps sagged above crates. No one rested.

  Vierna and Lina shoved the trolley into the chaos.

  "You there. You two—stop!"

  A levy officer pushed through the din, coat stained with ash and blood, jaw clenched tight.

  His eyes scanned their collars.

  "You are research subjects. What the hell are you doing here?"

  Vierna opened her mouth first, but the words tangled before they even formed.

  “We, uh… we—”

  “We’re under direct order from Lead Coordinator Herr Halwen,” she said, voice steady. “We’re supposed to bring this supply to the first line of defense" Lina said. She didn’t blink. The lie slipped out as naturally as breath from her nose.

  The officer frowned, glancing at the overcrowded depot then towards the luggage the girl bringing.

  "As you can see, the relay’s still full of supply," he muttered. "The problem is,we can’t send them toward the forward position, the teleportation device went down while there’s no order to send it by foot."

  There hadn’t been time. No signal from Rellgardt, who was still coordinating the aerial defense. No voice from Berbaris, who was still fighting in the front. And Halwen—he hadn’t left the relay core in hours.

  The officers were paralyzed. Not from incompetence—but from waiting for orders that would never come.

  Lina looked at Vierna. Vierna looked back—not confused, not hesitant. As if saying: I'll go farther, if I have to.

  "Well then, please excuse us," she said, moving to push the trolley again.

  "Don’t you hear what I said? There’s no order to send the supply crate by foot."

  Lina didn’t pause.

  "Our orders are clear, Officer. Send this supply to the front line. If the relay can’t do that, then we just need to go there ourselves."

  "I said—there’s no order to send the crate by foot."

  Lina stopped, finally meeting his eyes.

  “Look, Officer. We can stay and chat here—maybe brew a little lavender tea while we’re at it, to calm our nerves. But then you get to explain to Herr Halwen why his two girls smell like flowers and biscuits instead of blood and gunpowder.

  And trust me— Herr Halwen’s not a fan of lavender.”

  The levy officer froze.

  He remembered Halwen screaming over a mislabeled crate—something about magenta red and raspberry red. Worse—the contents had been correct. Only the label was the wrong shade. The junior officer had been on the verge of tears.

  If Halwen could tear into a man over that, what would he do to someone who blocked a frontline supply run?

  “Fine,” the officer muttered, “but the road to the front line is dangerous. Flying beasts everywhere.”

  Then louder, to the side, “Henry. Hans. Follow these two ladies. Make sure they arrive at the forward line—and make damn sure they don’t die.”

  Two officers stepped forward—barely older than Lina and Vierna. Muskets slung across their backs, gray uniforms marked with the crest of Aschezug.

  Relay recruits, then.

  Vierna and Lina nodded silently and resumed their push.

  Hans and Henry jogged ahead, eyes scanning the sky. Every few dozen paces, one of them would stop, take aim, and fire—each shot sharp and clean. A winged mana beast dropped hard against the stones, its body tumbling before it even hit the ground.

  Young, yes. But clearly chosen for their aim.

  After a long stretch of silence, Vierna murmured under her breath, “Under direct order of Herr Halwen?”

  Lina shrugged without looking at her. “Well, it can’t be helped, right? Besides… Halwen did shout directly to our head.”

  The four of them reached the forward position—just behind the trench moat, behind where General Berbaris’s forward unit held the thinnest slice of ground.

  Everything ahead was in motion.

  The trench crews were climbing out, not down. Reinforcements surged past them, boots splashing through churned mud, breath ragged from exhaustion and orders shouted too fast to follow. Every spare hand was being thrown toward the front.

  Somewhere in the chaos, two voices cut through the wind—half-whispered, but clear.

  “Shouldn’t General Berbaris have fallen back to this point?”

  “He should. But I think full retreat would’ve snapped the line.”

  No one questioned Lina and Vierna as they passed. No eyes turned. No orders barked.

  They pushed the trolley over the final rise.

  And there—just a breath from the killing zone—they stopped.

  This was the front.

  They finished unloading what they could—trolley half-emptied, storage runes flickering with strain.

  Then they looked up.

  The line was holding—but just barely.

  Muskets lay scattered across the mud. Crossbows too. Some snapped. Some discarded empty. No time to reload. No bolts left to fire. Mages crouched behind shattered stone, hands trembling, eyes hollow from overcasting. A few just stared forward, too tired to even chant.

  No one came for the supplies.

  Not because they weren’t needed—but because no one could stop long enough to get them.

  And that was when Vierna moved.

  She scanned the line—then the supplies. A rough instinct kicked in.

  Her hands worked fast. Grabbing. Sorting. Carrying.

  “Damn it—I’m out!” a musketman barked, ducking behind a collapsed barricade as his weapon clicked uselessly.

  Then—without a word—Vierna’s hand reached in front of him.

  A full pouch. Bullets and gunpowder, bundled tight.

  He blinked. “Thanks—”

  She was already gone.

  Moving to the next mage. Then the next.

  An elixir dropped into one hand. A set of mana bolts laid beside a teenager who hadn’t blinked in minutes. A replacement trigger stone snapped into place. A bandage. A cartridge. A spark-burst vial.

  One after another, she delivered what they didn’t even have time to ask for.

  Then—voices started rising through the noise.

  “Hey—look!” a mage called out, panting between spells. “We’re getting supplies!”

  Another turned, blinking at the sight of Vierna slipping another vial into a trembling hand. “Those are… research subjects? What the hell are they doing here?”

  The realization spread like breath on glass

  But then… the trolley ran dry. The rune shimmered one last time, then faded. The trolley held nothing but splinters and grit.

  Vierna didn’t say a word.

  She just stood, turned, and pushed the empty trolley back the way they came.

  Lina blinked after her. “Seriously?”

  She groaned—loudly, dramatically, arms flailing just enough to prove a point.

  “Ughhhhhh—Vierna, waiiiiiiit!”

  Then she bolted too. The four of them returned to the relay depot, panting and slick with sweat.

  The officer there looked up from a log sheet, eyes narrowing. “What the hell—”

  “We need a refill,” Lina said, not even slowing.

  “Look, we—”

  “Uh! Save it for Herr Halwen,” she snapped, “now General Berbaris even told us to keep doing this.”

  “Damn it all…” the officer muttered.

  He waved them past and pointed at the ruined trolley.

  “At least change your damn cart. That thing looks like it’s been chewed by a mongrel.”

  “Henry! Hans! Take that bigger trolley, Roger! Ben! Help them!”

  They loaded. Stacked. Secured. Then pushed. They resupplied. Then back again. And again.

  They were exhausted. Vierna’s legs shook beneath her, and Lina’s breath came in shallow rasps. But neither stopped. Vierna kept her grip on the trolley—not for duty, but for the only place that had ever resembled a home. Lina stayed beside her—not for orders, not for Halwen—but because Vierna wasn’t going to walk through this alone.

  Then it happened. People noticed. Six young figures. Pushing. Carrying. Running.

  “Damn it—HELP THEM!” someone shouted

  One by one, others followed.

  Because watching two young girls defy the system for common sense—watching them move when no one else would—lit a fire no doctrine could smother.

  This one was hard to write. Not just because of the scale of the battle, but because of what it meant for the characters. I wanted to show what happens when the people who were never expected to matter decide that they do.