Page 18 of Fated in A Time of War
CHAPTER 6
ALICE
The moment his eyes lock on mine, the floor tilts under my feet.
It isn’t lust. Not even anger. It’s… disorientation. A gut-deep vertigo that drags me somewhere else—somewhen else.
Flashes. Searing and swift.
Fire, not from a warzone but from a hearth, shadows dancing along scaled hands. Laughter—low, warm, and mine though I’ve never heard it before. A flash of teeth in joy, not threat. Then grief, vast and crushing, like a tide I can’t swim against.
Some are mine. Most aren’t. But they all feel like they belong to me.
I gasp, sharp and unguarded, and the sound is swallowed by the damp air of the subway.
He sees something—his eyes narrow, the scales along his jaw shifting—but he says nothing. Just shoves me forward, harder than before. My shoulder smacks the wall, stone dust coating my lips with a dry, bitter taste.
Good. The more predictable he is, the easier this will be.
I stumble, catch myself, and keep moving. The tape around my wrists bites deeper, the adhesive tugging at my skin. I don’t fight it. Not yet. Not until I know what’s playing out here.
Because I know now.
Jalshagar.
The word drops into my mind like a stone into still water, ripples spreading outward. The old stories whispered in the acolyte halls weren’t lies. They weren’t propaganda to keep us clinging to fairytales. The bond is real.
And worse—it’s him.
The weapon of the enemy. The soldier who tied my hands and dragged me from the ruins like war spoils.
The horror cuts deep, almost clean. My vows, my life’s work, every prayer and choice—this bond laughs at them, as if fate itself enjoys cruelty.
But beneath the horror… clarity.
Fate doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for you to be ready, or for the sides of a war to agree on the terms. It just is.
I don’t speak. Not now. Not here. He wouldn’t hear me—not with that much rage still boiling under his scales.
Instead, I walk where he herds me, letting him think he’s in control. The truth is, every step forward now is just as much mine as his.
The train car groans with every shift of metal, like it resents holding us.
We’re buried deep—layers of concrete, brick, and steel piled above, muting the distant war into a low, constant thrum. Krall chose this place well. Hidden. Defensible. Cold.
He doesn’t say a word. Just crouches near the far end of the car, rifle across his knees, eyes flicking between the shadows and me. Every glance is sharp enough to slice. Every grunt is a sentence he’s not bothering to speak.
I make a show of settling in against the wall, the fusion tape biting at my wrists. My breathing stays steady, my face calm. It’s an act—inside, my mind’s a flicker of maps and routes, counting exits, tallying hazards. I can’t run yet, but knowing how will matter later.
The air tastes of rust and damp stone. Somewhere close, water drips in a slow, uneven rhythm. My stomach growls. His doesn’t.
I could tell him now. Could lean forward and drop the wordjalshagarbetween us like a grenade.
But the way his eyes burned back in the subway tells me the blast would tear us both apart. Not yet.
Instead, I test the waters.
“Lakka,” I say quietly, tasting the name. “That was your brother.”
