The soldier and his companions charge screaming into combat, brimming with adrenaline and misplaced optimism. Nervous for his first real fight, his more experienced squad sweeps him along like a leaf in the wind, his sweating hands wrapped in a death grip around his rifle. He's not even sure what they're fighting for; visions of gold and glory aside, all he knows is that when Chief says jump, the only appropriate answer is to leap for the sky and wait for permission to come back down.

From somewhere up ahead the sound of gunshots mingles with swords clashing and the occasional scream. The soldier rushes forward, eager to reach the action.

He rounds the corner of a building and his legs suddenly go watery and numb. Men and women continue to flow past as his feet just simply refuse to carry him forward any further. The ground is carpeted with bodies, both the Chief's troops and the city guard. The street is slick and red with blood and worse things. A trail of corpses lies clear to the next bend in the street and he does not want to know where they lead. It's only the thought of what will happen to him if he deserts that keeps him moving.

He sprints forward to catch up and finds his squad engaged with a lone enemy swordsman. The man should be hopelessly outnumbered, and yet- The soldier stumbles to a halt. Half his squad are on the ground, dead or dying, and the remainder stand in a whirlwind of blood. The lone man twirls and slashes, hot sun glinting off a blade that's grotesquely oversized even for his tall frame. The soldier doesn't understand how he can possibly wield such a monstrous sword with such graceful ease. It's nothing more than a silver blur, spatters of red flicking off it in arcs of gore. A little whimper escapes the soldier's throat as he begins to understand how well and truly fucked they are. The enemy's Talented, has to be to have survived this long much less even lift that enormous blade, and he hasn't even started throwing magic yet. As if hearing the soldier's thoughts the man launches a burst of flame, incinerating the last of the soldier's squadmates.

It's not a quick death, or an easy one. Bile rises in the soldier's throat, threatening to choke him, and he swallows hard. The enemy swordsman snaps his wrist, spraying blood casually off his blade, and then turns to look directly at the quaking soldier. He stalks forward, sword held horizontally out to one side, unhurried. The soldier fumbles his rifle up – and freezes, overwhelmed with horror as the man comes close enough to see his face. The enemy's eyes, shadowed under his long, unruly black hair, are glowing the spine-chilling, eerie red of a Talent in the grip of bloodlust or anger.

When he was very small, the soldier's grandmother had often muttered an incantation against evil. A superstitious woman, she read too many legends and saw angels and demons around every corner. He and his siblings had always laughed at her stories. He isn't laughing now. A half-remembered prayer wails through his mind.

The man pauses an arms-length from the soldier, seemingly waiting for something. The world goes quiet as the demon and the soldier experience a moment of stillness. Even the background sounds of battle fade away as he stares into those awful red eyes, even now clearing to a deceptive jewel blue. With a start he remembers himself and jerks his rifle to his shoulder.

“Pfft.” The demon makes an amused sound and scribes a half-circle in the air with his blade. His gun knocked away, the soldier finds himself sprawled on his backside, gasping for air with the demon's blade a line of lethal ice at his throat. The demon speaks for the first time. “You're just a pathetic kid. Why did they even let you out with the rest?” Without waiting for a reply he withdraws the sword and plants his booted foot in the middle of the soldier's chest, sending him flat out onto the ground. “Killing you's not worth it.” The man turns his back to walk away.

Anger chokes the soldier for a brief second, his fear of the demon washed away in a flood of pure untainted rage. He spots his dropped rifle and he rolls, scrabbles for it in the dirt, taking comfort from the feel of the molded grip. The demon is still walking away and he takes careful aim from his prone position. One shot, to the back of the head. He's wearing body armor but even a demon can't be completely immune to a bullet through the brain. He squints into the scope, his own ragged breathing too loud in his ears, his entire world narrowed and concentrated to the view through the tiny square of plastic.

Holding his breath, the soldier licks his lips and squeezes the trigger, bracing for the crack and recoil. The only thing that happens is a sad click as the rifle jams. Panic begins to claw its icy way up his spine as he tries to remember what to do, a quick five-minute overview of the weapon and a couple of weeks' sporadic practice his only experience with it. He wrestles with the gun, desperately trying to clear the jam for another shot before it's too late.

A cold shadow falls over him, blocking out the light.

He looks up.

The demon stares down.