A cold wind swept through the narrow streets of the slums as Zeke walked along the cobblestones. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, shivering against the biting chill. These roads used to glow with colorful lanterns—now they radiated only darkness, he thought, hearing the distant sound of a Tarran patrol.

Zeke knew these streets well: the uneven stones beneath his feet, the shadows pooling in every corner, the homeless huddled in doorways, and the ever-present Tarran soldiers. Their uniformed patrols served as a constant reminder that the Korshiv Dominion was nothing more than a vassal state.

Every year, ten men from his community were chosen to join the Tarran Armed Forces (TAF)—a chance, some said, to escape the crushing weight of the slums. This year, Zeke knew his name would be on the list.

His heart raced as his father’s voice echoed in his mind: “Never bow to the Tarrans. They take our dignity, our land, and our sons.” Yet the thought of joining the TAF gnawed at him.

Would leaving this depressing shithole be worth fighting alongside those animals? He thought to himself. 

At least he had a choice if it could be called that. He could either continue living in his tattered tent on the outskirts of town or accept the TAF’s offer and die fighting for the destruction of his people. He laughed bitterly at the irony, the sound hollow in the cold night air, as he unzipped his tent and ducked inside.

The wind howled, forcing the flaps of the tent inward. Zeke quickly pulled them shut, securing the ties before crawling under the blankets he had painstakingly sewn together himself. The coarse fur provided some comfort, though it was a far cry from what it once symbolized. Fur, for blankets, had been plentiful in the Korshiv Dominion, until the Tarran League came. They’d seen opportunity in abundance and turned it into scarcity.

Filthy fucking animals. Find your fur somewhere else, Zeke muttered, his face flushing with rage.

His voice cracked as the words left his mouth, his anger bubbling over like steam from a boiling kettle. But as quickly as the rage consumed him, it ebbed, replaced by the familiar, hollow weight of sadness. With a heavy sigh, Zeke pulled the blankets tighter and shut his eyes. Zeke clenched his fists under the covers, the warmth of the blankets doing little to ease the tension in his muscles. Every year, men from his community were picked—promises of a better life, a brighter future, luring them into the jaws of the very beast that had devoured their homes. How many times had he heard stories of those who returned broken, their bodies shattered, their spirits crushed, their minds lost to the horrors of war?

Yet, the temptation was real. The chance to leave. To survive.