Page 31 of Fated in A Time of War
I sit back on my heels. It’s a statue—an Ataxian healer, arms outstretched, robes carved in careful detail, though cracked now. The face is serene, eyes closed, lips just curved as if caught in mid-prayer. Dust streaks her cheeks like dried tears.
Something in me breaks a little at the sight.
I press my palm to the stone, brushing away more dirt until her features emerge clean. My throat tightens, and the old words spill out under my breath. A prayer. Not for me. Never for me.
“For the wounded. For the weary. For those lost in war and those still searching for peace. Keep them. Guide them. Light their path.”
I let the silence answer. The stone is cold beneath my hand, but steady. Unlike flesh, unlike hearts that falter and bleed, this figure doesn’t bend. She endures.
I glance back toward the sanctuary’s heart, where Krall lies cloaked in shadow and troubled dreams.
The words of the prayer linger on my lips, but they’re not meant for me this time.
They’re for him.
Because beneath his rage, beneath the venom he spits at my people, I’ve seen what he’s hiding. The boy who once believed in peace. The man breaking under the weight of oaths and ghosts. The soldier who still talks to his dead brother in the dark, because silence feels heavier than grief.
I bow my head to the statue, whispering the words again, softer this time. Not for salvation. Not for mercy. Just for strength. For him to carry whatever burden the universe keeps dropping on his back.
When I rise, my fingers are smudged gray with dust, my knees streaked with dirt. I wipe my hands absently against mycloak and make my way back, slow and cautious. The lamp flickers still, stubborn in its survival.
Krall hasn’t moved. His head is tilted toward the ceiling, lips drawn tight even in sleep. I crouch beside him again, close enough to hear the steady beat of his breath.
I whisper, though I know he can’t hear:
“You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
The words vanish into the ruin, swallowed by stone and silence.
But I mean them. More than I want to. More than I should.
When I slip back inside the shrine, brushing the dust of the healer’s statue from my palms, he’s awake.
Krall sits half-upright against the fractured wall, cloak draped over his shoulders, eyes locked on me like twin embers half-buried in ash. No words, no growl, no accusation—just watching. I can’t read him, and that unsettles me more than his fury ever did.
I lower myself to the floor across from him, the rubble hard against my thighs. From my pouch I pull two bars—dense, chalky rations that taste like stale dirt and chemicals, but they’re fuel. I hold one out to him.
He takes it. Doesn’t thank me. Just rips the seal with his teeth and chews in silence, jaw moving with mechanical precision.
I don’t need thanks. I need him to stay alive.
I unwrap my own bar, force a bite down. The taste clings to the roof of my mouth like dust. For a while, we eat with nothing but the crackle of the lamp between us.
“Supplies?” My voice is steady, clipped. Tactical, not personal.
He swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Three fusion blocks. Half mag for the rifle. Medspray’s gone. Water pouch… quarter full.” His voice is gravel, low and cold.
I nod. “I’ve got one full mag, but it’s for a sidearm you don’t use. Some herbal stock, not much. Two more bars after this.”
His eyes flicker briefly, almost like he’s weighing whether I’m telling the truth. Then he grunts. “Enough for maybe a day. Not more.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Then we move at night. Less patrols.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’ve been watching them?”
I tilt my head. “I listen. Their rhythm is sloppy. They circle every hour, give or take. North side’s weaker. Less disciplined.”
His mouth tightens—not a smile, not approval. But not dismissal either.
