Page 29 of Fated in A Time of War
My voice breaks. My jaw locks.
Her eyes stay on me, unwavering. Calm. Patient.
And I hate it.
Because for the first time, I don’t know if I hate her.
I swallow hard, fists trembling at my sides, and growl.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
The flame crackles softly, and in the silence that follows, I almost wish she’d shout.
I retreat.
My boots scrape against the stone as I cross to the far side of the sanctuary, putting distance between myself and her damned little flame, that calm face, those steady eyes. My side throbs, every step dragging fire through my ribs, but I welcome the pain. Pain makes sense. Pain is honest.
Her silence isn’t. Her words aren’t.
I drop down against a slab of broken marble that might’ve been part of a pillar once, back when this place stood tall. The cold seeps through my armor. I pull my cloak tighter, rough fabric scratching against scales, the smell of smoke and blood still clinging to it. My hand presses instinctively to my side. The wound’s stiff, tacky with half-clotted blood, the nanites not enough to do more than keep me breathing.
Across the chamber, Alice kneels near that guttering votive lamp, hands folded loosely in her lap. The glow paints her pale, makes her necklace catch firelight like a blade. She looks small in this ruin, fragile even—but she doesn’t shrink. She doesn’t hide.
And that rattles me more than anything.
I’ve faced mechs the size of towers, mercs who laugh while they gut you, whole regiments charging with nothing but blood in their eyes. But this woman? She just sits there. Steady. Calm. Like she’s not bound here with me, like she’s not supposed to be my prisoner, like she hasn’t seen me rage and crack open and bleed all over the ground.
And she hasn’t walked away.
She could’ve tried. Could’ve bolted the second I left her hands free. Could’ve screamed when I turned my back. But she didn’t. She’s just… there. Watching me unravel, watching me fall apart, and not leaving me alone in it.
I hate it. And I crave it.
My eyes flick up to the ceiling, or what’s left of it. Cracks run through the stone like veins, bits of rebar sticking out at awkward angles. Ash drifts in the air, glowing faintly in the lamplight. I imagine it’s stars. A broken sky above a broken temple, and me lying here like some ruined god’s last disciple.
My chest feels tight. Not from the wound. From something deeper.
Because here’s the truth I can’t shake: she’s not a monster. Not a shadow slipping knives into my brother’s back or some zealot hiding bombs under prayer mats. She’s not even afraid of me.
She’s just… a woman. Flesh and blood. Bruised. Breathing. Staring at me like I’m more than just the beast that dragged her through hell.
And that terrifies me.
I drag the cloak tighter, burying my face for a moment, trying to smother it all—the sight of her, the sound of her calm voice still echoing in my skull, the way my rage slid off her like rain against stone.
Because if she’s real—if what she said about fighting for people, not gods, is true—then maybe not everything I was taught holds weight.
Maybe not everyone I’ve killed deserved it.
My gut twists. I shove the thought down, hard. The Alliance is right. It has to be right. The Ataxians brought this war, lit the fires, poisoned worlds. That’s what I was told. That’s what Lakka believed, with every fiber of his soul. And I swore to follow him, swore to fight beside him, swore to believe with him.
And now he’s gone.
And all I have is her.
I close my eyes. Try to sleep. The cloak scratches. The stone bites at my back. My wound pulses with every heartbeat, thick and heavy. My fingers curl tight around the grip of my rifle, even in rest.
But it’s not the pain keeping me awake. Not the ache in my chest or even the sound of distant tremors rattling the earth.
