The logic of their decision was put to the test as they approached the Darsion patrol. Nico and Leoill, their hands raised in a signal of surrender, stumbled toward the vehicle. The Darsion soldiers inside, cold and weary themselves from the long, fruitless patrol, regard them with suspicion and pity.
They were two boys, after all, and even in Fjellheim, that fact couldn't be entirely ignored.
"We mean no harm! Do what you will with us!" Nico yelled out, standing alongside Leoill.
The soldiers proceeded to disarm them, confiscating Nico's precious knife, and bound them with plastic ties. The back of the vehicle was cold and cramped, filled with the stale air of war.
The journey was long. They were no longer controlling their fate, but prisoners, their survival now completely in the hands of Darsion. The patrol eventually reached its destination: a temporary Darsion outpost, heavily fortified against the cold but showing clear signs of strain.
'Well, would you look like that. This is where all of them came from in pursuit of us...' Nico thought.
The soldiers were weary and on edge, their faces grimed with frost and fatigue. The outpost wasn't a place of comfort, but a desperate bastion against the brutal weather. Nico and Leoill were taken to a small, frigid room, stripped of their tattered uniforms, and given fresh, though worn, clothes -- black prison uniforms.
They were offered food -- not the tasteless gruel they had been surviving on, but real, hot rations -- and water. It was a moment of brief, bittersweet relief. The exhaustion was so profound that even with their new, vulnerable state, they found a small, uneasy sense of security.
"Guess you were right, huh Nico?" Leoill whispered.
"Don't push our luck, we've only got here today..."
Just as they began to feel a false sense of safety, the door to their room slid open. Standing there was not a soldier, but a figure with some authority who was unlike any Darsion they had seen, eye-to-eye.
He was tall, with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes that seemed to take in every detail. He wore a crisp, clean uniform that was not Darsion military, but bore a different insignia: a single, intricate bird. He was an officer, a scientist, or something in between.
He said nothing at first, simply walking around them slowly, his gaze lingering on the fresh wounds on Nico's arm and Leoill's still-bandaged eye.
Just as the specialist was about to speak, his hand still suspended in the air, a loud bang echoed through the room. A crimson hole appeared in the center of his forehead, and his eyes, wide with surprise, stared blankly for a second before his body hit the floor with a sickening thud.
"Wha--"
The sudden violence was so shocking that Nico and Leoill froze, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
A tall, imposing figure swaggered into the room, a smirk playing on his lips. This was Captain Popper, a ruthless and feared captain known for his brutality. He held a smoking sidearm casually in his hand, a look of contempt on his face as he stared down at the specialist's corpse.
The two soldiers who had captured Nico and Leoill were chuckling, their lack of concern for the dead body on the floor utterly unsettling. The Captain's gaze fell upon the two boys, his smirk replaced by a scowl.
"We don't need any 'specialists' here asking questions. You two belong in a cage," he snarled.
With a rough shove from the other soldiers, Nico and Leoill were pushed from the room and dragged down a long corridor. The corridor ended at a heavy metal door, which opened to reveal their new environment: a cramped cell filled with the misery of dozens of other soldiers.
There were nearly 24 prisoners, many from the same platoons that came after the sixth division was defeated, all sharing a single, brutal fate in this forgotten corner of Fjellheim.
***
The heavy metal door of the cell slammed shut which was different from the slam of a patrol vehicle door -- it was the sound of a world closing behind them. It left Nico and Leoill in a new, chilling kind of darkness.
The air was thick with a mixture of sweat, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of old blood. The space was a single, cramped box of rusting metal, filled with the faces of dozens of other soldiers.
They were all here -- Petrus, Ilbaria, and Darsion alike -- a collective of the defeated. The prisoners watched the new arrivals with interest, their gazes as cold and empty as the Fjellheim air outside.
"Nico, they seem like trouble..." Leoill whispered, breaking a sweat.
"Don't worry. Also, in here, call me Lai, and I'll call you Ill. We don't want them to have our names." Nico replied.
"Wait, why is that a concern?"
"Just go along with it."
They sat down, their bodies emaciated and their uniforms tattered. Nico and Leoill, still reeling from the events of the last few hours, were just two more faces in the crowd.
'This isn't a community, that's for sure. A fragile ecosystem of misery,' Nico thought.
The subtle vying for a place in a corner, the way a few pairs of eyes followed every movement, the weary resignation in the hunched shoulders of an old veteran -- all of it spoke something that you couldn't hear physically and Nico was curious about it.
'Is there a prisoner hierarchy in here? If so, I'll need to find the top dog.'
"Hey, Lai. I'm going to go somewhere more open. It's too crowded in here," Leoill said.
"I'll stay here, you do you?"
Leoill, who was about to move toward a more open patch of floor, was stopped by a barely perceptible shake of the head from an older prisoner, a man whose face was full of scars. His gestures were screams at Leoill's instincts: don't make a sound, don't make a move, don't draw attention to yourself.
After what felt like an eternity, the man at the back of the cell -- the undeniable leader of this collective -- finally made his move. He was a large, imposing figure, his face full of old scars, and his eyes gray.
He simply looked at Leoill, then at Nico, his gaze lingering on their clean clothes and the faint signs of their recent struggle. He gave a slight nod, and a few prisoners shuffled aside, making a small path for him to approach.
He didn't speak. He simply stopped in front of them and stared, menacingly. He didn't show any signs of aggression, but his silence was more intimidating than any confrontation. Then, he spoke:
"Who are you, and what makes you so special that you've survived Fjellheim to be brought here?"