Page 16 of Fated in A Time of War
I smile—small, more to myself than to him. “I know.”
He huffs something that could almost be a laugh, if there were any humor left in him. But he doesn’t call me a liar. Doesn’t throw the blanket back in my face. That’s something. Not much. Not forgiveness. But progress.
I settle deeper under the crinkling silver. The cold is still here, just pushed to the edges for now. My wrists ache where the cable cuts into them, but the gag is gone. I can breathe without tasting fabric. I can talk without him forcing the words back down my throat.
Krall makes another lap around the room, checks the barricade one more time, then leans against the wall nearest the door. He doesn’t relax—just folds his arms, one boot crossed over the other, rifle propped within easy reach.
My eyes drift shut in the warmth.
I don’t let myself sleep easy. Even in dreams, I keep the picture of him close—how he moves, how he listens without admitting he’s listening, how that grief and rage keep twining together in his eyes.
I wonder what kind of man I’m tied to. And what will happen when he starts to listen.
CHAPTER 5
KRALL
The sound of the city never really dies, even when the city is dead. Metal shifts under its own weight. Glass falls somewhere far off. The wind moans through broken high-rises like a wounded animal. I wake to it all at once, eyes snapping open, pulse already pounding. Shallow sleep—barely enough to keep the body going. The kind that lets every nerve sit on a tripwire.
My hand goes first to the rifle. Warm grip, cold barrel. My thumb brushes the trigger guard while my eyes track the dark corners. Shadows inside the bar lean and stretch with the sway of half-broken walls. Every creak is a potential step. Every sigh of air might be breath.
I check her first. She’s still there, still bound tight, her wrists darkened where the tape bites skin. Eyes closed, but not sleeping—her breathing’s too steady, too deliberate. She’s listening same as I am. Her hair catches the thin light slipping in through the cracks, and that damned insignia at her throat glints like a challenge.
The roof above us is more hole than structure, so I step under it, scanning the jagged teeth of the skyline. No drones or glint of Alliance craft. Just that thick, orange haze drifting betweenbuildings like the air itself is giving up. My comms rig’s dead. Has been since the mech. Even if I could get a signal, who would answer?
Not stranded. Abandoned.
I don’t say it out loud. Not to her, not to Lakka—though the words throb in my skull like a bruise. My brother would’ve told me to hold position, make a safe nest, wait for retrieval. But retrieval isn’t coming. And if Ataxians are combing these streets—and they will be—sitting still is nothing but slow suicide.
I sling the rifle, move to her. She stirs when I crouch down, but she doesn’t speak. Not until I yank the gag back up into place, cinching it hard enough to make sure she gets the point. “Time to move,” I growl.
She makes a small sound—frustration, maybe—but I ignore it, hauling her up by the elbow. She’s lighter than she looks, but every ounce feels like a chain when I’ve got miles of broken ground to cover.
“Walk,” I tell her, nudging her forward with the muzzle at her spine. She moves, but slow. Always just shy of making me shove her. Always testing.
I keep my rifle trained, my other hand close to the strap on her bindings. The ruins of Tanuki sprawl out ahead—jagged silhouettes, streets choked with rubble and the scorched remains of anything that once lived here. The air stinks of old fire and cooked metal. My boots crunch over glass, and her smaller steps scuff against the grit.
She slows again, and my teeth grit with it. I imagine her breaking for it—imagine the rush of the chase, the slam of my body hitting hers, dragging her back down into the dirt. Something physical to match the storm that’s been building inside since Lakka’s blood hit my hands.
But she doesn’t run. She just keeps that measured pace, every step a little defiance, and it makes me want to shake her until she breaks.
We pass a collapsed storefront, the warped sign still clinging to one hinge. The painted letters are burned to ghosts, but the shape of the place is familiar enough—bars like this one dotted every block of the city before it fell. Inside, I can still smell the rot of spilled liquor, the sour tang of mold.
I keep her moving. The sooner we’re out of this sector, the better our odds of making it through the night. But every second, I feel the pull—the urge to make her understand exactly what she’s walking with. Exactly why she should be afraid.
The city stretches out around us like a carcass picked clean. Tower frames rise like the ribs of some long-dead beast, their glass skin blasted away. Streets sag inward where shells have punched through the ground, leaving blackened craters wide enough to swallow a troop carrier. Every step kicks up grit that sticks to my tongue, dry as bone dust.
The sound carries weird here. I can hear fighting miles away—low, echoing thumps of artillery, the sharp spit of pulse fire. Once, a scream rides the wind, torn thin by the distance but still enough to raise the spines along my neck.
My rifle’s always in my hands. Safety off. Muzzle sweeping every shadow, every alley too dark for daylight to touch. I check the upper levels too—snipers love the perches the ruins give them.
But my eyes keep sliding back to her.
Alice moves like she’s counting steps in her head, not hurrying, not dragging. Her shoulders are straight despite the bindings, her chin high enough to be defiance. Most prisoners—you can smell the fear on them. Sweat, shallow breathing, twitchy eyes. She’s not afraid. Not the way she should be. And I can’t decide if that makes her stupid or dangerous.
It gets under my scales. Makes me feel like I’m the one off-balance.
We push through a block of gutted apartments, then into the yawning belly of what used to be a transport hub. The ceiling’s half gone, daylight bleeding in through the jagged hole where a gunship must’ve punched through. Rows of benches sit twisted, bolted to a floor cracked like a dry riverbed.
