The boot splintered the door frame, sending slivers of darkwood spraying across Velis’s herbal drying racks. She flinched, a small, involuntary gasp catching in her throat as two hulking figures in tarnished iron cuirasses filled her doorway, their faces obscured by the shadows of their visored helms. The conscriptors always brought ruin. “Velis?” The voice was a rough grating of stone on iron, leaving no room for denial. Her apothecary shop, usually fragrant with hyssop and dreambloom, now reeked of fear and damp earth. She stood frozen by her mortar and pestle, a half-ground clump of soothing-root clutched in her hand. Her small, quiet world, built of remedies and whispered prayers for the ailing, was collapsing around her. One Warden stepped forward, his heavy gauntlet tossing something onto her worn oak counter. It landed with a clatter, skittering amongst the scattered dried herbs. Velis’s gaze snagged on the object. A conscription badge. Not just any badge, but *his*. The metal disk was pitted, scuffed, and stained a rusted, horrifying crimson. Her breath caught. Velid’s badge. The one he’d worn with a naive, hopeful pride just two cycles ago before the summons had dragged him into the grinding maw of the Morvenian Front. It was meant to be returned upon completion of service, or upon… death. Her twin. Her quiet, earnest twin. Dried gore encrusted the brass edges. “Your kin, Velid, fell in service to the Dominion of Morvenia,” the enforcer intoned without inflection. “His enlistment obligations now fall to his next of kin.” Velis swayed, the room tilting. Her brother. Gone. The dull ache in her chest sharpened into a piercing agony. “But… I’m a woman.” The words were a fragile whisper, barely audible over the roaring in her ears. She hadn't bothered with her disguise in the isolated quiet of her shop. Her hair, usually tucked short beneath a linen cap, spilled loose, long and dark around her shoulders. The visor tilted downward. “Registry books state two twins, Velid and Velis. Both male. Born the same turn in Alden’s Reach. One died in the trench mud. You are the other.” His voice held the chilling finality of military law. Her records. The ones she’d never seen, never verified. The lie she’d been living, a quiet act of defiance against a system that would otherwise consign her to a life of domestic servitude or worse. How had they known? Or rather, how had *she* known to falsify them in such a way? The chill cut through her wool smock, sharper than the gloomy dusk outside. “The Dominion claims its levy,” the second soldier said, voice flat as slate. “Report to the Skarn post by dawn. Desertion earns a rope before midday.” They left as abruptly as they arrived, the splintered door swinging uselessly behind them. Velis stood alone in the drafty room as the wood groaned on its hinges. Her gaze fell back to the bloodied badge. Her fingers, trembling, reached for it. As she picked it up, something slipped from a hidden seam on its underside. A small, folded square of parchment. Her name, ‘Velis,’ was scrawled on it in a familiar hand. Her own hand. Her fingers fumbled, unfolding the stiff paper. The words were terse, urgent, and written in a script that was undeniably hers, yet alien. *“Velis, if you are reading this, your memories have been wiped. Velid is dead. You must take his place in the Skarn Vanguard. Find his killer. Uncover the truth. But beware. If you dig too deep, or if your identity is discovered before your task is complete, a psychological fail-safe within your mind will activate. It will kill you. This is the only way to survive. Trust no one.”* The words swam before her eyes, each one a hammer blow to her already reeling mind. A fail-safe? Her own past self had condemned her to this nightmare, to this impossible masquerade, with a lethal trap hidden in her very thoughts. This wasn't just about survival anymore; it was about outsmarting herself, a ghost from a past she couldn't even recall. *** The air in the subterranean bunker smelled of damp stone, rancid tallow, and dried muck scraped off trench boots. Velis, now ‘Velid’ in her ill-fitting, coarse wool uniform, shivered, though not entirely from the cold. The subterranean fortress was a labyrinth of echoing stone corridors and cramped cells, each one a tomb waiting to claim its occupant. She’d arrived just before dawn, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The processing had been brutal, a blur of rough hands, shouted orders, and the chilling glint of officers’ eyes. Now, she stood among dozens of conscripted wretches shoved into an echoing hall. “Look at this one, fresh from the milk bucket!” a voice boomed, cutting through the din. A hulking brute with a scarred jaw, his rank insignia declaring him a ‘Squad-Leader Grul,’ pointed a greasy finger at a boy cowering against a dripping pillar. “Can’t even hold his gruel bowl steady!” The wiry youngster fumbled, dropping his wooden bowl. The watery gruel splattered across the flagstones. The mess hall erupted in jeers. “Jom! You skittish rabbit!” Grul roared, advancing. His heavy boot connected with Jom’s shin. Jom yelped, clutching his leg, tears welling in his eyes. “Wasteful scum! You think food grows on the blood-beasts’ backs?!” Velis felt a familiar, unwelcome surge of indignation. The sight of bullying, of a larger man preying on a weaker one, always stirred something fierce and protective within her. It was a reflex, an ingrained kindness that she knew, even as the Wardens had dragged her away, would be her undoing here. Without thinking, she stepped forward. “Leave him be, Squad-Leader,” she said, her voice lower than she intended, an approximation of her brother’s deeper register. She had spent the last frantic night practicing, trying to mimic Velid’s gruffer tones, his broader gait. Grul stopped, his boot hovering inches from Jom’s face. He turned, his gaze narrowing, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his scarred features. “Look at the hero,” Grul muttered, his gaze narrowing. “Got a name, worm?” “Velid,” she stated, trying to steady the pitch. Her stomach churned. This was a mistake. A colossal, life-threatening mistake. Grul stalked towards her, his bulk casting a long shadow. He was easily twice her disguised size. “Velid, is it? Think you can tell a Squad-Leader what to do, *Velid*?” He leaned in, his breath hot and foul. “You think these trenches are a place for ‘kindness’?” He spat the word as if it were a disease. Before Grul could strike, an icy command cut through the hall: “Squad-Leader Grul. Stand down.” The hall choked off its shouting. Every eye, including Velis’s, snapped to the entrance. Standing there, framed by the flickering torchlight, was Commander Garrach. His uniform, unlike Grul’s disheveled tunic, was impeccably tailored, dark as a winter night and sharp as a shard of ice. His face, though starkly handsome, was etched with a perpetual, chilling severity. His pale irises scanned the bench rows, settling hard on Velis. Grul snapped his chin back. “Commander. Merely drilling the draftees on protocol, sir.” Garrach didn’t respond to Grul. His gaze remained fixed on Velis, piercing and analytical. The room went entirely still around him. Velis felt a prickle of unease, a sense of being utterly exposed. He was assessing her, dissecting her. She instinctively tried to deepen her voice, to make her shoulders broader, to embody Velid more completely. “Sarrik,” Garrach said, the baritone carrying across the flagstones without strain. “Your name is Velid, correct?” “Yes, Commander,” she replied, trying to keep her tone steady, even. It was a perilous game she was playing, and the highest-ranking officer in the barracks had just decided to watch her every move. Garrach gave a curt nod. “Report to my personal quarters after the evening rations. We’ll discuss the ‘rules’ of the Skarn Vanguard in more detail.” His gaze flickered once more over Jom, still whimpering on the floor, then back to Velis. There was something in those storm-gray eyes, a flicker she couldn’t quite decipher—annoyance, curiosity, perhaps something else entirely unsettling. He turned on his heel, his dark cloak swirling around him, and strode out of the mess hall, leaving an absolute stillness behind. Grul scowled at Velis, but didn’t dare touch Jom again. Jom, for his part, crawled towards Velis, his eyes wide with a desperate, dog-like gratitude. “Thank you, Velid! You saved me! The spirits of the deep earth will bless you!” Velis could only offer a strained smile. Saved him, perhaps. But she had just condemned herself. *** The heavy iron door of Garrach’s personal quarters clanged shut behind him, the sound echoing through the small, spartan room. He unbuckled his sword belt, the polished leather creaking softly as he laid the weapon carefully on a rough-hewn table. He ground his molars together as the bolt slid home. He walked to the single, narrow heat-stone cot that dominated the cell-like space, his boot heels clicking softly on the cold stone floor. His hand ran over the rough woolen blanket, then paused, clenching into a fist. That new novice, Velid. The soft, earnest look in his eyes when he’d stepped in front of that sniveling worm, Jom. The way his voice, despite his attempts at gruffness, had held a melodic lilt. It stirred something in Garrach, something he had fought to suppress for years. A dangerous, forbidden attraction. He closed his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. He would deal with it. He always did. He would crush this nascent, unwelcome feeling the way he crushed any weakness in himself, any deviation from the rigid path of duty and war. He would make Velid understand the harsh realities of the Vanguard. He would make him hard. He would make him strong. Or he would break him. Garrach stared toward the ceiling beams, the lines around his mouth hardening. He leaned down, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that scraped against the masonry. “Let’s see what kind of man you really are, Velid.”

The Bloody Badge