It had been a couple of days since the conversation with her parents, and Bistrena hadn’t slept well or eaten much since. She felt physically nauseous and exhausted, avoiding her parents at all costs. To keep her mind off things, she stayed out late, sneaking in to avoid confrontation and leaving early to keep busy. She ran two or three times a day, trying to fill her time with anything other than thoughts of the future. Relief finally washed over her when she made up her mind about what to do. The urge to fight burned within her and the idea of doing nothing felt like drowning. She had made her decision.

If Bistrena joined the Guard and went to the frontline, she might never come home. The thought of leaving her parents behind was painful, and staying meant getting letters from her brother, Cinereus, would become even harder. She dreamed of finding him on the battlefield, but then what? No, she needed to stay, no matter how difficult that conclusion was. Still, being an anchor for her parents was weighing too heavily on her; she needed space, time to herself, and a way to contribute to the war effort. Otherwise, she felt she would go mad.

She hadn’t told them. Not because she didn’t care—if she didn’t, she’d already be on the front lines. But because she couldn’t stomach the long conversations, the pleas to reconsider, the weight of their worry pressing on her like a stone. It was her decision, her life. They’d understand someday, or they wouldn’t. Either way, she couldn’t let their fear dictate her future.

The office was dark and dusty, mid-morning rays filtering through slat blinds and illuminating the steam rising from her mug of instant coffee. Bistrena sat alone, save for the receptionist—a frail old mare with bifocals perched precariously on her nose. When Bistrena had requested papers for the Baltimare Civil Defence, the receptionist had rolled her eyes, rummaged in a bottom drawer, and handed her a manila folder and a pen, instructing her to fill it out and wait for the recruitment officer to return from a lunch appointment.

The metal-framed glass door rattled open, and a stallion trotted in. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a tan service uniform adorned with a silver bar at his neck and two medals pinned neatly below. A thin band of pink scar tissue peeked above his collar. At first, he stood side-on to Bistrena, but he quickly turned to notice her. She tried to avert her gaze from the missing ear and the jagged chunk taken out of the side of his head, but it was too late; she could feel his eyes studying her for a reaction. She gulped thickly, not disturbed, but wondering if Cinereus would return home with similar wounds, if he came home at all.

After a few seconds of scrutiny, his face flickered with a politician’s smile as he extended a foreleg toward the office at the back. “If you’ll come with me, miss, we can discuss whatever you came here for.”

The “office” was barely more than a cramped cubicle, likely converted from an old bathroom, judging by the faded tiles lining the walls. A rusty, grimy little window—no bigger than a sheet of paper—let in just enough grey light to dimly reveal the mess of electrical cables coiled through a hole in the base of the wall. The cables powered a single hanging bulb, a battered cathode-ray monitor, and a portable transceiver radio that looked like it had been pulled straight from a museum display.

The recruitment officer gave the cord on the bulb a sharp tug, and it flared to life with a harsh, buzzing yellow light. The sound was strangely soothing, like the hum of a honeybee. “Go ahead, take a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the only chair—a sagging metal thing that had certainly seen better days. “I’m Lieutenant Wheatstone, Civil Defence Recruitment. Let me guess, you’re here to sign up?” He extended his foreleg for the file, and as he reached out, his cuff rolled back, revealing a network of thin scars on his wrist.

Bistrena tried not to stare, but Wheatstone noticed and gave her a slight, knowing smile as he flipped open the file. “Bistrena, is it?” he asked, glancing up. She nodded. “Alright, Bistrena,” he continued, “any health issues I should be worried about?”

“None that I know of,” she replied, steadying her tone.

He made a mark in the file and then paused, studying her. “So, why the Civil Defence? Why not the Army?”

She wrapped her hooves around the lukewarm mug of instant coffee she had no intention of finishing. “My brother volunteered,” she said, her voice stable but soft. “So my family already meets the royal decree—one per family. And my parents…” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “they need me here. But I still need to help. So… here I am.”

Wheatstone nodded, sympathy flickering briefly across his otherwise stoic expression. “Understandable. Keeping things together on the homefront is just as important. And hey, the Civil Defence might not have the same prestige, but you’ll get your hooves dirty all the same,” he added, with a slightly wry smile. “A lot of folks think this is the ‘safe’ option, but you know that’s not exactly the case, right?” he asked, a hint of irony in his voice as he handed the file back to her.

“I don’t care where they put me,” she said quietly but firmly. “As long as I can do something that matters.”

Wheatstone met her gaze, and for a moment, something softened in his expression. “Good answer.”

He shifted in his chair, leaning back with a faint smirk. “I know the feeling, believe me. I was at the front long enough to pick up a few souvenirs.” He chuckled, motioning to his collar where a thin scar crept up his neck. “Apparently, they don’t take returns on shrapnel. But I’m told I make quite the cautionary tale.”

Bistrena’s gaze flicked to the scars on his foreleg, the stiffness in his movements. Her mouth opened to ask something, then closed. She wasn’t sure if he wanted sympathy, but the slight bitterness in his words felt like something she understood. “Do you miss it?” she asked softly, surprising herself.

Wheatstone met her eyes, an eyebrow raised as though weighing whether to answer. “Some days. But war has a way of reminding you you’re replaceable, whether you’re in a trench or sitting behind a desk.” He gave a short, humourless chuckle. “Now I get to vet recruits. Just as dangerous, in its own way.”

They shared a moment of silence, and then he cleared his throat, pushing the manila folder toward her. “Alright. You’re eligible. You’ll need to pass a medical and fitness evaluation at Crystal Peak Training Center. If that all checks out, you’ll start training soon after.”

Bistrena gave a small nod, a sense of relief settling over her—not quite satisfaction, but close. She felt the inevitable, nagging doubt rise up, but she ignored it, steadying herself with quiet resolve. This was the right choice, she told herself. Or, at the very least, the necessary one.

“Where do I sign?”

Wheatstone ducked down and rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a form and sliding it across the desk along with a pen. He leaned back, giving her an approving nod and the faintest hint of a smirk. “Right there, Bistrena. Welcome to the Civil Defence. You’re part of something bigger now, and that counts for more than you’d think.”

He paused, a glint of whimsy flickering in his eyes. “And if they ever try sticking you behind a desk? Make a better run for it than I did.”

Author's Note

A very short chapter, I'm a bit busy in real life, and wanted to post something. Please like and comment with any thoughts, if you'd like to see something in particular you can always comment and I'll have a think about it!

That's all for now.

-PaleFace