It was a cunning trap, one which would have claimed me had I not been called to the center of our small column moments before the storm struck.
We had come upon a curious contraption, one which looked as though it should have been on part of a train rather than sitting isolated in the woods in front of a small house. It was of fairly new construction, and the bright blue paint on its sides stood out in the pale morning light. We could smell the snow on the air, and we knew there was a storm coming.
Isaiah hastily gathered up the weak and the wounded, ushering them into the safety of this structure. It was then that the center of the column came under fire, and I rushed back to assist Bram with the securing of our flanks and our rear guard.
No sooner did I reach the middle than the storm hit. As per our custom, we hunkered down where we were to wait it out.
For almost an hour, the storm raged, more sound and fury than actual snow, but still, it kept us rooted to our spots.
Finally, when the air cleared and we could stand upright once more, we were pleased to see that the season was right and that we were still in the forest. Too often, we had come out of the storms to be in places entirely different.
Our pleasure was short-lived.
As we withdrew to the contraption in which Isaiah and the others had sought shelter, we came to a stop and gazed with dismay upon it. The paint was long gone, the wood weathered. Glass no longer remained in the frames, and there were trees growing where none had been before.
Wordlessly, I climbed into the confines and searched it. I found old signs of a battle. Spent cartridges and splintered wood. I also found a single word carved into the back wall.
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