Chapter 4: Isabella at the frontlines

"The Soviets whisper peace, the Americans shout war—both are eager to dictate the future of a land they do not own."

Reminder: No game mode for now

The road to the frontlines was a long and arduous one, and what was once a ribbon of dirt carved into the wilderness was now a gaping chasm of mud and planks leading from the capital to the outskirts of Isabella's domain, yet still flanked by oppressive jungle. The armored convoy rattled and groaned as it navigated the potholes of the unpaved roads, large portions flooded from the quick but vicious rains that lashed through the land of Montesoro, the sound of heavy engines drowning out the growing rustle of the forest. Inside the safety of her car, Isabella sat with her back straight, hands folded in her lap, her expression as composed as she could manage. But beneath the surface, unease churned.

She had seen war before, or so she thought. Her father had made certain that his daughter, the future of his regime, was presented with the safe and sanitized version of conflict: immaculate parades of clean-shaven soldiers in spotless uniforms, tanks gleaming in the sun, and rousing speeches that spoke of duty, honor, and inevitable victory. These carefully curated spectacles had been her only exposure to warfare, a reality now crumbling before her eyes.

The first sign of the truth came as the convoy passed a field hospital, located at the rear of the battle lines. The tents sagged under the weight of rainwater and neglect, and outside, wounded soldiers lay on stretchers, some writhing in pain, others unmoving and staring blankly at the canopy above. Isabella caught sight of a medic, his hands slick with blood, shouting orders as he knelt over a soldier whose bandages were already soaked through; with blood or mud she could not tell.

The convoy did not stop, and neither did Isabella’s growing sense of foreboding.

When they reached the base camp, it was not the orderly scene of discipline and resolve she had imagined. Instead, it was chaos. She could see in the distance trenches snaking through the muddy ground, filled with men who looked more like ghosts than soldiers. They were boys, really, barely out of their teens, their faces gaunt, their uniforms torn and stained with dirt. Some clutched their rifles as if they were life rafts, while others stared vacantly at the ground, lost in their own private hells.

Isabella stepped out of the vehicle, the weight of her boots sinking into the mud. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, and decay. A soldier nearby flinched at the sudden noise of her arrival, his wide, frightened eyes darting to her before he ducked his head and retreated to wherever his duty calls. Isabella’s stomach twisted. She had been told these men were her defenders, her protectors. Now, they seemed more like the lost and abandoned, trapped in a nightmare with no end.

Her worries were interrupted by a tall, broad-shouldered officer approaching with a salute. His features were strikingly sharp, his dark hair cropped close in military fashion, his uniform still looking impressive despite the grime of the battlefield. “Presidente Reyes,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I am Major Arturo Serrano. My father, General Serrano, is expecting you. I will escort you to him.”

Isabella nodded, maintaining her composure as she followed the Major through the maze of tents and hastily erected structures that served the functions of war - armories, supply depots, even what appeared to be a jail, to deter deserters no doubt. “Arturo,” she said after a moment, and he glanced behind at her. “For the son of our country's top general, you’ve been conspicuously absent from Valverde’s social and political circles. I don’t recall seeing you at any of the gatherings hosted by my father for many years, not even for my debutante ball.”

The Major smiled faintly, a hint of humor softening his otherwise stoic demeanor. His face does look like his father's, Isabella thought, all sternness and hard edges, but his eyes, however, his eyes were all his. It was dark pools of melted chocolate, a sweetness that the General had long ago lost.

“That’s because I had left Montesoro since an early age, Presidente. My father sent me abroad to study nearly the moment I could walk. I’ve attended military academies in several countries, only recently graduating from West Point in the United States, before returning to serve my country.”

“An impressive pedigree,” Isabella remarked. “Your father must have high expectations for you. And yet, why hasn't he presented you at the Palacio upon your return? Surely a man of your talents would be better suited to lead from the capital, not out here in the trenches.”

“He does,” Arturo replied, his gaze forward, his steps measured and steady. “And I have suggested that I represent my father at the cabinet meetings. A soldier is safer with his boots in shit and mud than a viper's den, he replied. Besides, I do not share all of his views, particularly when it comes to war, and he knows it.”

Isabella arched a brow, ignoring the pointed jab. “And what are your views, Major?”

Arturo hesitated, as if weighing the risk of speaking too freely before her. “I believe war should be fought to protect the people, not to exploit them. What I’ve seen here—what you’ll see—it isn’t just a battle against the guerrillas. It’s a battle for the soul of Montesoro. And if my father has his way, it's a battle we will lose, I'm afraid.”

He fell silent, and Isabella did not push further. They trudged their way steadily into the center of the camp, the occasional boom of artillery fire making her flinch and rattling her teeth. She could see how a man might lose his sanity after having to endure this for months on end, though the Major appeared almost nonchalant.

They reached a large tent marked by the insignia of the military, its size and grandeur setting it apart from the rest of the camp. Arturo held the flap open for her and she stepped inside with a grateful nod. The air felt cooler, but the atmosphere was no less oppressive. A long wooden table dominated the center of the space, strewn with maps and reports, while a basic cot tucked away at the side reflected the General's spartan nature. At the table's head stood General Serrano himself, his imposing figure framed by the faint light filtering through the canvas.