Guilt.

Fraihn's eyelids fluttered open, the dull ache behind his eyes telling him that he wasn't fully recovered yet. He tried to take in his surroundings, but everything was blurred, the edges of the room coming into focus slowly. His entire body felt like it was on fire, his muscles straining against the sharp stabs of pain radiating from his abdomen and legs. He tried to move but quickly realized something was wrong.

The cold metal of the handcuff pressed tightly against his wrist. Panic surged through him as he glanced down. Not just his hand. his left foot, too, was chained to the bed.

A prisoner.

He struggled to sit up, a groan escaping his throat as every part of his body screamed in agony. Each breath was labored, his chest feeling like it had been crushed beneath the weight of a building. His vision swam as he blinked away the light-headedness, his heart pounding in his ears. 

Moments later, the sound of boots, heavy, deliberate echoed down the hallway outside. Fraihn's muscles tensed. He had heard that sound before. He knew it well.

The door opened and two men, clad in black Imperial uniforms, stepped into the room. Their faces were blank, their eyes cold. Each wore the insignia of the Imperial Military Investigation Bureau, the IMIB, emblazoned on their jackets.

Their presence could only mean one thing, he was in deep trouble. They were ruthless, known for executing anyone who disobeyed orders or betrayed the Empire. Soldiers who deserted or made a wrong move were dragged before them, and none returned alive.

One of them, a tall man with sharp features and cruel eyes, reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Without a word, he tossed it onto Fraihn's lap, the crinkling sound of it hitting his blanket cutting through the tension in the room. Fraihn's hand twitched, but the chains kept him from grabbing it. It didn't matter. He knew what it said before he even looked.

"You're under arrest." The taller of the two men said "You'll appear before the court in two days. I suggest you get well quickly."

They stood there for a moment longer, their expressions unchanging. Then, without another word, they turned and left, the door clicking shut behind them.

The moment they were gone, Fraihn's strength left him. His entire body sagged into the bed, the pain in his chest and limbs were brutal.

The door opened again, softer this time. Fraihn didn't bother to look up, he had no strength left to fight. A nurse from before entered, this time with a glass of water in her trembling hands. She hurried over to his bedside, her face pale as she placed the glass to his lips.

Fraihn drank greedily, the cool water easing the dryness in his throat. She seemed hesitant, unsure whether to speak, but then she leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You're not alone." She said, her eyes darting toward the door as if she feared someone might overhear.

Fraihn looked up at her, confused. What did she mean

But before he could ask, another thought broke through the fog in his mind, a question far more pressing than his fate. 

"How many survived?"

The nurse's expression darkened, her eyes filling with sorrow. She hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly, as if the truth itself pained her to say.

"From the 4th Battalion of the 2nd Imperial Transport Division... only 65 survived. And from the 2nd Battalion of the 1st Imperial Infantry Division, 348."

Fraihn stared at the ceiling, his chest tightening with grief. Sixty-five.

His breath hitched, and the pain in his chest grew unbearable, but it wasn't physical anymore. It was guilt. Crushing, unrelenting guilt. The faces of the soldiers he had commanded flashed in his mind bright-eyed, hopeful faces that had looked to him for guidance.

And now, they are gone. All but a handful.

Tears welled in his eyes as he thought back to the mission. They had set out with three hundred young souls, eager to serve their Imperium, to fight for its glory. And now, only a fraction remains.

"This is my fault."

The thought echoed in his mind, consuming him. He had led them into battle. He had given the orders. He had sent them to their deaths.

His hands trembled as the memories flooded back images of the wounded, the dead, the chaos of the battlefield. Blood-soaked earth. Bodies strewn across the ground. The stench of death clinging to the air like a suffocating shroud.

"I killed them," Fraihn whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes burned with unshed tears. "I killed them..."

The nurse's voice cut through his spiral of despair. 

"You saved them, Captain."

Fraihn's head snapped up, his red-rimmed eyes locking onto the nurse's. Her gaze was steady, her face filled with a small smile as she looked down at him. 

"You saved them." She repeated, her voice firm yet kind. "If it weren't for you, none of them would have survived. You did everything you could."

Her words were a lifeline, but Fraihn couldn't grasp them. His chest heaved with sobs he tried to hold back, but they came anyway violent, uncontrollable. The tears streamed down his face, and for the first time since the battle, he let himself cry.

The faces of the fallen haunted him, their voices echoing in his mind.

Fraihn sobbed harder, his body shaking as he curled into himself. Every face he had lost, every soldier who had fallen under his command, flashed before his eyes. Blood, screams, pain. 

He could see Private Étsi, always wearing a bright smile, dreaming of being a firefighter after his service. Fraihn recalled the way he would crack jokes to lighten the mood. But then came the moment that shattered everything.

In a split second, an enemy shell exploded nearby, sending shrapnel flying. Fraihn remembered the horrific sight of Étsi being torn apart, his cheerful laughter replaced by a haunting silence. The memory of his young face, twisted in pain, haunted Fraihn. "I should have been there," he thought, guilt suffocating him.

Then there was Private Morales, a quiet young man who had joined the army to escape a life of poverty. Fraihn remembered Morales's shy smile, the way he had looked down at his boots when speaking to anyone. Fraihn had always tried to encourage him, to make him feel like he belonged.

"You're going to make a great soldier," he had told Morales during their training.

But Morales had never wanted to be a soldier. He had wanted to be a painter, to capture the beauty of the world in his art. When the bullet hit him, Fraihn had seen Morales's hand lying lifeless in the dirt, fingers curled as if reaching for something just out of reach.

As the memories consumed him, Fraihn began to cry, the pain of loss erupting from deep within. It was a gut-wrenching, uncontrollable sobbing that shook his entire body. The nurse, sensing his turmoil, moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, her warmth enveloping him like a blanket against the cold reality.

"You're not alone, Captain." She whispered in his ear again, her voice a soft balm against the agony. It was the warmth he hadn't felt in years.

For a moment, Fraihn surrendered to the embrace, letting the tears flow. In that moment, he felt less like a soldier haunted by guilt and more like a brother mourning the loss of his family.

But the reality of his situation loomed large. As she slowly pulled away, the nurse's expression was filled with compassion.

She wiped the tears from his cheeks gently. "You need to be strong. They would want that for you."

He vision blurred as the tears came out, and the unstoppable crying took over.