Chapter One: The Edge of Oblivion

The bitter air of December 1944 clung to the men like death’s whisper, damp and heavy. Mud slicked the trenches, and the scent of cordite and rotting flesh wove through the chaos. Midril tightened his grip on the M1 Garand, his knuckles white against the cold steel. The Germans were advancing, relentless and unyielding, their shouts punctuated by bursts of machine-gun fire.

"Midril! Over here!" Sergeant Wallace’s voice cut through the cacophony, raw and desperate. Midril turned, his eyes locking onto a fallen comrade—Private Jenkins, blood pooling beneath him in the churned earth.

The world narrowed. Explosions thundered around him, drowning out reason. Midril didn’t think. He moved.

Sliding out of the trench, his boots sinking into the morass, he bolted toward Jenkins, dodging fire. Bullets hissed past, some so close he felt the heat on his cheek. Jenkins groaned, his hand outstretched, his eyes pleading.

“I’ve got you!” Midril shouted, though the words barely carried over the din. He grabbed Jenkins by the collar, hauling him over his shoulder.

The scream of shells pierced the air—a sound every soldier dreaded. That awful whistling, growing louder, closer. “Incoming!” someone yelled, but Midril barely heard it over the roar of his own heartbeat.

His eyes darted to the trench ahead. It was too far. He’d never make it with Jenkins on his back. Panic surged, but Midril pushed forward, his legs straining, the weight of his injured friend threatening to pull him down.

The first explosion hit. Earth and flame erupted in a geyser, throwing soldiers like ragdolls. The ground beneath Midril shook violently, threatening to swallow them whole. He stumbled, almost dropping Jenkins, but caught himself.

Then the second shell came.

There was no time. The trench was still twenty yards away, and the air was alive with fire and shrapnel. Midril’s instincts screamed to drop Jenkins and run, but his heart defied logic. Gritting his teeth, he scanned the battlefield and saw it—the base of a massive oak tree, its gnarled roots forming a shallow hollow.

He dove into the ditch, dragging Jenkins with him. The roots enveloped them like a skeletal embrace, the bark rough against his back. Midril clutched Jenkins close, shielding him as best he could.

“Hold on, Jenkins. Just hold on…” His voice cracked, the words as much for himself as for his friend.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a photograph—a woman with dark curls and a warm smile, a child perched on her lap, his grin as wide as the sun. He pressed it to his chest, his lips trembling.

The ground shook as if the world itself were dying. Shells rained down in a symphony of destruction, each one a hammerstroke of death. Midril squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the end. The photograph crumpled in his fist.

Then… nothing.

The silence was deafening.

Midril’s ears rang, but there was no more whistling, no more explosions, no more screams. He opened his eyes slowly, expecting to find the shattered remains of the battlefield—or worse, nothing at all.

Instead, he saw green.

Not the green of military fatigues or shattered trees, but vibrant, unspoiled life. Tall grass swayed in a gentle breeze, kissed by golden sunlight. The sky was impossibly blue, with clouds drifting lazily across its expanse. Birds sang, their melodies foreign yet soothing.

Midril blinked, his breath catching in his throat. The oak tree was still there, but it stood proud and whole, its bark unscarred by war. He scrambled to his feet, his boots sinking into soft, mossy ground. Jenkins was gone. The blood, the mud, the horror—all gone.

“Where… am I?” His voice wavered, lost in the vast tranquility.

The photograph was still in his hand, unblemished. He stared at it, his fingers trembling. The faces of his wife and child smiled back at him, as if untouched by the violence he had endured.

A soft rustle drew his attention. He turned to see a figure emerging from the trees—a woman draped in flowing silver robes, her hair shimmering like moonlight. Her eyes, deep and ancient, fixed on him with an intensity that stole his breath.

“Midril,” she said, her voice a gentle melody. “You have been spared.”

“Spared?” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “Why? What is this place?”

“This is Eryndor,” she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. “A land untouched by war, a refuge for those who are chosen. You were brave, Midril, and selfless. That courage has brought you here.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he stammered. His mind raced, torn between disbelief and desperate hope. “My platoon—they’re still out there. I need to go back.”

The woman stepped closer, her gaze softening. “You cannot. Your world is beyond reach now. But here, you may find peace. Perhaps even answers.”

As the woman turned and beckoned him to follow, Midril hesitated. His hands clenched into fists, the photograph still pressed against his palm. Guilt gnawed at him, a weight heavier than any shellfire. He had survived while others had not.

But as he looked around, at the vibrant life that pulsed in every leaf and blade of grass, he felt something stir within him—a glimmer of hope, fragile yet undeniable.

He took a step forward, then another, following the woman into the unknown.

For the first time in years, the specter of death felt distant. But in its place was a question, echoing in the corners of his mind: Why me?

Eryndor awaited, its secrets unfurling like the petals of a flower. And in the heart of this strange, untouched world, Midril would find his answer—or his reckoning.