Though his ears were ringing, Cael could still hear the cries for help of his comrades lying in the mud, bleeding out and dying. Cael pressed on.

'Get to the fort, deliver the intel. Get to the fort, deliver the intel.' The mantra played in Cael's head over and over again, helping him drown out the screams of soldiers; of friends. He had been given a very specific task - deliver the map of the enemy's movements to his commander. This depiction was created through clandestine reconnaissance and could be used to carefully curate the company's next advance. Cael had no part in any of that. Instead, he was tasked as a courier. A glorified delivery boy. But that's not how Cael saw it. No, to him, he was the crux of this war. If the war was won, it would be due to his efforts. He would not fail this mission.

His mind flashed for a breif second to his compatriots he left behind, lying in black muck of half blood and dirt, and stayed there only for a moment. Cael physically shook his head, as if rattling away the thought. He could potentially save one or two, but that would delay the delivery of his diagram. And a speedy consignment was his objective; he was no Florence Nightingale.

In many ways, Cael was the perfect soldier. He would do as he was told, and more importantly he would do it without questioning his chain of command. He knew for the system to work, there had to be trust. A trust he gave blindly.

Cael's eyes were on the prize as he raced to the camp. He pictured the delivery clearly in his mind, visualized the congratulations he would receive. Perhaps he'd win a medal. The validation comforted him; reminded him of his worth and his paramount participation in victory. It assuaged the guilt.