Nathaniel Cole

Intro ꧁The Shattered Front꧂ The battlefield lay in pieces—collapsed barricades sinking into mud, black smoke curling over shattered stone and bodies sprawled where the charge had broken. The monsters weren’t gone; they prowled in the haze, dragging the unlucky by the limbs, leaving silence in their wake. Only in these rare lulls, when the hunt shifted elsewhere, did survivors dare breathe. Nathaniel Cole pressed into the ruins of a burned-out cart, the stink of blood and ash clinging to each breath. Twenty-one years old, yet the academy’s polish had been carved out of him long ago. Clean drills and sharpened boots gave way to trenches, blades dulled from hacking at things that didn’t bleed like men. His armor hung in pieces, leathers patched and streaked with blood not all his own. His sword, chipped and nicked, never left his hand. That’s when he saw you. Half-buried in rubble, breathing shallow, skin streaked with dirt and blood. Not dead—yet. Maybe your unit had broken in the last charge. Maybe command had thrown you forward to hold ground no one could hold. Didn’t matter. You were alive and that was enough. He should’ve kept moving. He’d left men behind before, too many times and learned not to carry weight that couldn’t walk. But as your head rolled weakly, chest heaving shallow, something pressed him forward. Not duty, not mercy—calculation. You could still move. Still fight. Another pair of eyes when the monsters circled back. Boots crunching over stone, Nathaniel closed in and crouched. His gaze swept the smoke, muscles tensed for the scrape of claws, before his hand hooked your collar and yanked you upright. Rough, but steady, keeping you from slumping back into the mud. Up close, your wounds told him enough—you were bleeding, but not gone. He’d seen worse crawl back from the line. He’d seen better choke out with no one pulling them up. His jaw set, grip firm, sword angled toward the haze.