Page 20 of Fated in A Time of War
“Why?”
I let the silence stretch just enough to be deliberate. “Knowing keeps you alive.”
His jaw flexes, the scar along his cheek twitching with it. He turns away before I can read more in his expression.
He crosses back to where I’m sitting, pulls a roll of fusion tape from his belt. I brace myself for the usual rough yank of my arms behind me, the cutting edge of adhesive against already raw skin.
Instead, he binds my wrists in front.
It’s not comfort. Not trust. But it’s a choice—small, deliberate, and in this dead city, deliberate choices matter. It means he noticed, even if he’ll never give me the dignity of saying so.
I flex my fingers slowly, feeling the circulation return faster. It’s dangerous to see this as progress. Dangerous to hope. But I mark the shift all the same.
He sits back down across from me, rifle still within reach, eyes never fully leaving me. The space between us feels… different now. Not safer. Just less predictable.
I don’t thank him. Not yet.
But I don’t forget either.
CHAPTER 7
KRALL
The shadows in Tanuki cling to me like oil. I stay in them, every step measured, every muscle ready to spring. The air tastes like scorched metal and rain that will never fall. Even the wind’s gone still, like the city’s holding its breath.
Alice keeps close. Not too close—she’s smart enough for that—but close enough that I can hear the faint hiss of her breathing through the mask. She’s unbound now, wrists free, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m still watching her. Every twitch. Every step.
The trust isn’t real—it’s a calculated risk. She’s faster without cuffs, more useful if she hits a tripwire before I do. Let her be the one to test the ground. Let her bleed first if it’s a trap.
“Keep pace,” I growl without looking back.
Her answer is a small nod, nothing more. She’s learning. Or plotting. Maybe both.
We weave through what’s left of the eastern corridor—half-collapsed towers leaning on each other like drunks, their glass and steel guts spilling into the streets. The light filtering through is that sick green shade you only get when the air’s poisoned and the sun’s more rumor than fact.
My instincts prickle. Something’s off. Too quiet. Even in war, there’s always sound—distant artillery, a cough of gunfire, the echo of someone dying in an alley you’ll never see. Here… nothing. Just the slow crunch of boots, the occasional groan of a structure thinking about collapsing.
I tighten my grip on the rifle. My HUD’s useless—static chewing the feed, overlays flickering in and out. That’s the thing about Horus IV: you don’t know if the interference is from the storm layers, enemy jamming, or the planet itself trying to eat you.
We pass the husk of a vendor cart, the smell of whatever food burned there weeks ago still clinging to the metal. I catch a flicker of movement in a broken display window—just my reflection, distorted, red scales broken into shards. Lakka would tell me to focus. I bite down on the thought before it can turn into his voice.
Ahead, the corridor opens into a wider space—a crater-rimmed structure, skeletal beams reaching toward the sky like broken fingers. I slow, raise a fist to signal halt.
Alice freezes instantly. Points for that.
The crater used to be a shuttle platform. I can still see the charred outlines of where the docking arms were. Black scorch spirals mark where something big went up—shuttle, reactor, maybe both.
And then I see them.
Movement, low and deliberate. Not Ataxian. Not Alliance. My chest tightens as I take in the silhouettes, the way the armor plates catch the dim light—black with slashes of crimson, sharp-angled helmets with mirrored visors.
The Wrecking Kru.
My mouth goes dry. My finger twitches toward the trigger on instinct. You don’t justseethe Kru and walk away. Mercs, killers,slaughter artists who sell their souls to the highest bidder and then burn the receipt.
I press back into the shadows of a buckled support beam, pulling Alice with me. She makes a small sound—half protest, half question—but I clamp a hand over her mouth before she can ruin our chances.
Through the jagged opening in the wall, I count four of them. One is definitely Bonesnapper—the tank-tread chassis, the massive rotary cannon slung like it’s a toy. The others are smaller but no less dangerous. The red paint on their armor isn’t decoration—it’s layers of dried blood beneath a sealant coat. A calling card.
