Page 27 of Fated in A Time of War
KRALL
The tunnel spills us out into a cavern that doesn’t belong here. For a second I think it’s just another chamber of collapsed ferrocrete and steel, but then I see the carvings—spiraled etchings cut into stone older than this city, older than the war.
A shrine.
Ataxian.
I almost turn us around right then. Every instinct in me screams to stay out. This place is poison, carved by hands that prayed while mine bled. But the roof overhead is intact, the angles warped just enough to break sensor sweeps. We need cover. And I can’t keep moving like this—my side burns every time I take a breath, my blood sticky under the plates.
So I drag her inside.
The place reeks of smoke and wet stone, of ash settled into grooves of long-dead prayers. Broken altars lie crushed under girders, a fresco of saints cracked through the middle so their faces twist and double. Rusted incense burners dangle from chains, one swaying slightly as if stirred by ghosts.
Alice pauses near a slab of stone—half an altar, half rubble. She crouches, touches the edge with her fingertips, and bows her head. Just for a heartbeat.
It makes bile rise in my throat.
I lean against a shattered column, teeth clenched. My hand shakes when I press it to my wound, and that only pisses me off more. This is what I’ve been reduced to—bleeding out in the belly of the enemy’s temple while she whispers to her gods.
“Of course,” I snarl, the words spilling forth. “Figures. Rat runs straight back to the nest.”
She glances up, calm as ever, her hand still resting on the altar. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even bother to argue. Just watches me like she’s measuring how much venom I’ll spit before I choke on it.
I push off the column, stagger closer. I walk over powdered stone, over broken offerings littering the floor. “You people,” I growl, my voice echoing sharp off the hollow walls. “Always hiding behind your prayers. Pretend it’s peace, pretend it’s holy—but every time we torch one of your halls we find bombs in the basement. Caches of rifles under the pews. Your faith’s just another mask for war.”
Still no answer. Her blue eyes just stay locked on me, too damn calm, too damn steady.
It makes me furious. My words get louder, rougher, spilling hot through clenched teeth.
“You know how many of ours went down because of your ‘sanctuaries’? Because some idiot Vakutan thought mercy was noble, let a convoy pass a hall flying your symbols, and the next day we’re scraping bodies out of the dirt? That’s what your gods give us. That’s what your prayers buy. You make war out of worship and then act like we’re the monsters for burning it down.”
The chamber swallows the echoes, throws them back jagged. My chest heaves, every breath slicing fire through my ribs.
She finally speaks, soft. Not defensive. Not shaken. Just soft.
“You’re wrong.”
Two words. That’s all.
And somehow, they feel heavier than all my shouting.
My fists clench. My vision blurs with rage and exhaustion. I want her to break, to cry, to beg—anything but stand there looking at me like I’m the one on trial in her ruin of a temple.
But she doesn’t.
She just stands, the altar at her back, and meets my fury with silence, like she’s got the patience of a stone saint.
And saints are just statues. Easy to break.
I turn away, pacing, cursing under my breath, the stink of blood and incense clawing at my nose. I hate this place. I hate her calm. I hate that a part of me knows my anger isn’t just at her—it’s at me, at Lakka, at the Alliance that left us in this graveyard.
But I can’t admit that.
So I spit it all at her instead, voice ragged as I jab a finger in her direction:
“Pray all you want, healer. Your gods won’t save you when this war finishes what it started.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even bother to spit back.
