Page 36 of Fated in A Time of War
I settle my stance, scales bristling, claws tight on the trigger.
Even with the echoes of Lakka’s scream tearing the sky, I don’t feel alone.
That terrifies me more than what’s coming through that door.
The breach blows wide with a crash of boots and shouts, but it isn’t Alliance blue or Ataxian white. It’s chaos. Gang paint sprayed across mismatched armor, faces half-hidden by rags, helmets scavenged from ten different wars. Not soldiers. Scavengers. Hyenas smelling blood and scrap.
Good.
Bad soldiers are predictable. These bastards aren’t.
The first one charges, firing wild. I drop him with a two-round burst, his chest bursting open against the wall in a spray of meat and rusted plating. Alice doesn’t even flinch.
Another rushes with a jagged pipe. I pivot, let the swing glance my armor, and snap my claws into his throat. Thecartilage crunches under my grip, hot breath hissing against my cheek as his eyes bulge. One twist. Neck broken. He falls like a sack of bricks.
Behind me, Alice moves—not stumbling, not flailing, but flowing, like water with teeth. She ducks under a swing, snatches the pistol from a scavenger’s hand, spins the grip, and drives her knife across his throat in one sharp pull. Blood sprays across the soot-blackened tiles, steaming in the cold air.
Her movements aren’t clumsy. They’re precise. Calculated. Efficient.
For a half second, I almost lose focus watching her.
Then another bastard barrels in, howling, gun spitting sparks. I lunge, firing a sharp burst, rounds tearing through his gut. He folds over, screaming, then goes quiet when I put one in his head.
The last one tries to run. Alice catches him—just a flick of her wrist, blade sinking between his ribs as he bolts past. He crumples at her feet, gasping, blood foaming from his mouth. She watches him die with a healer’s eyes—measured, solemn, no triumph in it. Just necessity.
Then the world goes quiet.
The hallway drips with blood. The stench of copper and oil fills my nose, hot and thick. My claws ache. My rifle barrel smokes.
I turn.
Alice stands a few feet away, chest rising, blade slick and red in her hand. Her braid’s come loose, strands sticking to her sweat-damp cheeks. Her lips part as she catches her breath, but her eyes—blue, steady, burning—lock on mine without wavering.
For the first time, I don’t see an acolyte’s insignia. I don’t see a prisoner, or an enemy, or a liability.
I see a fighter.
One who didn’t hesitate. One who killed with precision. One who stood shoulder to shoulder with me when the knives came out.
The realization hits harder than recoil. It unsettles me. Grounds me. Burns me.
She’s not just a healer. Not just a faith-bound Ataxian relic.
She’s a warrior.
I swallow hard, the taste of smoke and blood thick in my throat. My pulse hammers, not from the fight but from the way she still looks at me, steady, unflinching, like she’s measuring me in return.
I want to snarl, to bark something sharp, to put her back in that neat little box markedenemy.But the words don’t come. My chest tightens instead.
Because I know the truth now.
This isn’t going away.
I lower my rifle, but my eyes stay locked on hers.
This feeling in my chest…I don’t know what it is. But I never want to let it go.
CHAPTER 12
