The anesthetized one.

Octavia crosses the threshold of the church and the country air hits her – clean, sweet, unbearable. She takes a few steps on the stone parvis, then stops. The sun is still there, motionless, indifferent. But now it doesn't make her nauseous. Now it charges her.

Armin walks a few meters ahead, then turns, bows with precision – a deep, regulation bow; back straight and head lowered, he says, still out of breath: "Please forgive my intrusion at the wedding, General."

Octavia approaches him. There is no anger in her step, no haste. Instead, there is something akin to gratitude. "I was expecting nothing less," she replies, and her voice is almost soft.

Lieutenant Virek, behind her, chuckles. A low, muffled sound, soon lost in the rustle of the trees. Then he gestures broadly toward the dirt road leading down to the gate, where a car awaits her.

It is not a modern vehicle. There would be no roads for those here. It is a massive, dark mechanism, with boxy lines and hard angles, as if forged by a war blacksmith. The hood is crossed by brass pipes that barely smoke, and the wheels are wrapped in rings of filigreed cast iron. The roof is low, armored, and tiny gunports protrude from the windows. It smells of something ancient – of locomotives, of clockwork, of a siege engine set on wheels. The engine gurgles softly, like a sleeping animal.

At the rear door, standing straight as a sentinel, is Iria Solvek: Sniper. Squad 1, 13th Platoon. Under the command of General Octavia Bressheart.

The girl has a look that combines delicacy and hardness in an almost unsettling way. Her face is young, with fine, harmonious features, and fair skin dotted with freckles that soften her expression – but not enough. Her eyes are large and intense, and her gaze is steady, aware, almost cold: not the innocent look of a girl her age, but that of someone who has already seen too much. Her lips are soft but pressed into a neutral expression that betrays an iron self-control. Her hair is platinum blonde, almost white, gathered in two small side buns from which thin, stray wisps escape. Above her head she wears a pair of protective goggles, with cylindrical lenses and a brass frame, military style – ready to be lowered over her eyes at the first sign of dust or fire.

Iria does not speak. She does not bow. She simply opens the door with a dry movement and takes one step back, just enough to let Octavia pass.

Octavia brushes her with a glance – a second, maybe two – then climbs in without a word. The car's skin is cold, the interior smells of leather and diesel. She sits, adjusts her cap, and stares straight ahead through the armored windshield.

Iria climbs in after her, silent as a breathing shadow. She sits by the window, gloved hands resting on her knees, heavy rifle between her feet, and smiles like a child ready to go to the playground.

Then it's Lieutenant Virek's turn, who settles next to Octavia with the calm of someone who has done this a thousand times. Finally Armin, the last one, closes the door.

The engine roars louder. The mechanical car coughs out a cloud of steam and begins to move, descending the gravel driveway, pulling away from the villa, the church, the wedding, the cruel blue sky.

"Report," says Octavia.

The engine rumbles dully, the mechanical car jolts over the stones of the driveway, and inside the air grows instantly denser, heavier. Armin, sitting across from the Lieutenant, clenches his hands on his knees and breathes. Then he starts over, as if he needs to say it right, once and for all.

"I apologize again for the intrusion, General. I would not have—"

Lieutenant Virek, next to Octavia, chuckles again. That low, barely muffled sound, always out of place yet exactly where it belongs. "Oh, Armin," he interrupts with an almost paternal lightness, "don't worry. There's no one in the world who was more eager to see you again than Octavia."

Silence for a second. Then Armin nods, and Iria sketches a smile. Small, fleeting, almost imperceptible, but thoroughly amused.

Octavia says nothing. She does not contradict the Lieutenant. Perhaps because it is true.

Armin clears his throat and continues, more confidently. "The 11th Platoon, under the command of General Marcus Thorne, has been wiped out on the western front. An ambush. Coordinates 47 by 12. We have no precise details yet on the enemy forces, but the survival rate was… negligible."

Octavia listens with an immobile face, her eyes fixed on the armored windshield that cuts the landscape in two.

"One squad managed to escape," Armin continues. "They took cover in the Kaelen Forest, beyond the eastern ridge. They transmitted one last fragmented message – something about a retreat, a rendezvous point – then nothing. Communications have been silent for 4 hours. The tracks, according to the scouts who dared to approach, vanish at the forest's edge. As if they were swallowed."

The silence that follows is different from the one in the church. It is not embarrassed or civil. It is the silence of those who smell death.

"The order," Armin concludes, "is to go and recover the squad. Dead or alive. But to bring something home."

Octavia closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, her gaze has changed. There is no trace left of the woman who watched the sky through stained glass. There is only the general. The anesthetized one.

"The Kaelen Forest," she repeats, savoring the name as if it were a map unfolded before her. "Uncharted lands. No updated maps. No reliable communications. And Thorne, getting himself wiped out before even asking for reinforcements."

Lieutenant Virek adjusts his glasses. "The Army General will be furious."

"The Army General," Octavia replies with glacial slowness, "can go rot. But the soldiers cannot. Not those who are still alive and waiting for someone to come and get them."

The mechanical car takes the main road, leaving behind the countryside, the fields, the blue sky. Ahead, there is only dust and horizon. And a forest that no one knows.

Octavia lowers her cap slightly over her eyes. "How long until the front?"

"Six hours by air," Iria replies. Her voice is low, clean, and does not tremble.

"Then let's hurry," says Octavia. "Death doesn't wait."