A war He Doesn't Remember

The scent of burning wood reached him first.

It clung to the cold night air, thick and heavy, curling around his senses like invisible tendrils. Beneath it, the metallic tang of sharpened steel lingered, accompanied by the distant murmur of voices.

Then came the lights.

The mist thinned just enough to reveal them—a sea of flickering torches, stretching across the valley below.

The camp sprawled before him, tents scattered in uneven rows, their fabric worn and dirt-streaked. Some had been hastily patched together, their seams barely holding. Others sagged, beaten down by weather and war.

Figures moved between them—soldiers clad in dented armor and tattered cloaks, their boots sinking into damp earth. Some sat near campfires, hunched over tin plates, their quiet conversations blending into the night. Others worked—hammering weapons into shape, tending to restless horses, securing the ropes of their makeshift shelters.

It looked like a war camp.

It felt like a war camp.

But something about it was wrong.

Rael didn't know how he knew.

He just did.

The moment his boots touched the ground, heads turned. Conversations died.

Then, without hesitation—they knelt.

The sound of armor shifting, of knees hitting the dirt, rang through the air. A hundred men, their heads bowed in silent reverence.

Rael's stomach twisted.

It was one thing to pretend.

Another to have an entire war camp kneel before him.

"They've been waiting for you," Bale murmured at his side. His voice was even. Measured.

Rael exhaled slowly. His face remained still, unreadable.

Inside, he was drowning.

"...Rise," he said.

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation.

That was the most terrifying part.

---

They led him through the heart of the camp, past the torches and the men who watched him as if he were something more than human.

He forced himself to observe, to memorize.

To understand.

A training ground lay near the center, recruits sparring in the dirt, their wooden swords cracking against each other. A grizzled instructor barked orders, stepping in occasionally to shove a trainee into the correct stance.

Further ahead, a line of wounded sat outside a large tent. Some had bloodied bandages wrapped around their heads, others cradled broken arms. A medic moved between them, pressing fingers against pulses, muttering under his breath.

Near the edge of the camp, a makeshift prison cage held three bound men. Prisoners, their armor and colors different from the others. One of them stared at Rael with something close to recognition.

It was all so perfectly imperfect.

A war camp, exactly as one should be.

And yet…

It felt like a story being filled in around him.

Like someone had taken the broad strokes of reality and filled them with just enough detail to be convincing—but missing the tiny imperfections that made the world feel real.

His gut twisted.

This war?

It wasn't supposed to exist.

But it did.

Because now, the world believed in it.

---

"You're awfully quiet, my lord."

Rael turned his head slightly. Dain, the youngest of the soldiers who had accompanied him, was watching him with an easy smirk.

"Is that so?" Rael said.

Dain nodded. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Seeing as how I've only just returned from the dead, I think I'm allowed a moment of silence."

Dain laughed. "Fair enough. Just try not to break the camp by brooding too hard."

"Noted."

Dain grinned, but his gaze flickered—just briefly—toward Bale. As if waiting for something.

Rael caught it. He didn't know what it meant.

He stored it away anyway.

---

Inside the war tent, they placed a map in front of him.

A sea of ink-covered parchment, lines and symbols stretching like veins across the surface.

Bale pointed to a section near the far right. "The Dominion forces hold the eastern pass. If we strike at dawn, we can cut them off before reinforcements arrive."

Rael stared at the map.

The words barely registered.

Not because the plan didn't make sense. Not because he wasn't listening.

But because his mind was caught on a far simpler question.

Who is the Dominion?

He didn't know.

He should have known.

He was their commander. Their leader.

But he had no memory of them.

No memory of this war.

No memory of the battles that led them here.

He forced himself to speak. "How many men do we need?"

Bale didn't hesitate. "Two hundred at minimum. Five hundred to be safe."

Rael nodded, pretending to consider. "Then send six hundred."

Bale's lips twitched. Approval.

"Overwhelming force. Clever," he murmured.

The others nodded.

Rael had no idea what he was doing.

But for now?

It worked.

---

Later that night, when the camp had settled, Rael stood outside his tent, staring at a world that wasn't supposed to exist.

It looked peaceful.

It wasn't.

Rael clenched his hands.

This war wasn't real.

And yet, here it was.

If reality itself was shifting around him, how far did the changes go?

And more importantly…

Who was writing the story?

"Quite the performance."

Rael turned.

The old man stood there, leaning on his staff, watching him.

"For someone who has never led an army," the old man mused, "you're doing a remarkable job pretending."

Rael's jaw tightened. "What do you want?"

The old man shrugged. "I'm merely curious. Does it bother you?"

Rael narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"That you're playing a role you didn't choose. That you're walking a path someone else paved for you."

His fingers twitched. "I'll decide my own path."

The old man chuckled. "Will you?"

He tilted his head.

"Then tell me, Rael… who is the enemy you're fighting?"

Rael's breath hitched.

His mind scrambled for an answer.

And found nothing.

His stomach dropped.

He was leading an army. Marching to war.

But he didn't know who they were fighting.

A shiver ran down his spine.

The old man's smile deepened.

"Interesting, isn't it?"

And for the first time since waking in the ruins—

Rael was afraid