Devand looked amongst his comrades, and saw only fear in their eyes.
It was unlike the fear he was used to seeing upon the faces of the many young lads (and lass) that made up Istuinn's trainees. He was familiar with the hesitation shown before cliff-diving into the waters of the cold pool nestled amongst the rocks just a short hike from the village, and he was certainly familiar with the fear of loss upon the return of mothers and fathers from scouting missions. This, however, was a fear unlike anything he'd ever seen or felt.
It was the cold, hard fear of death.
He couldn't blame them. They were all young, facing an uncertain future of war, all filled with a vague hope that they would survive and struggle through the battles of life together. No one could be left behind, lest they all die inside.
But Devand knew. He knew that no one was safe, not against the evil the was preparing to charge down upon his village in the form of scimitars and bloodthirsty cries. It could be me, he thought with a shudder, while buckling his sword belt, it could be any one of us.