Page 54 of Fated in A Time of War
I hear her boots crunch on glass, faint steps drawing nearer. I sling the pack over my shoulder, rifle tight against my claws. Focus. Keep it simple. Supplies, escape, survival. The mantra beats in rhythm with my pulse.
But when I step back through the busted archway of the store, I catch her in the corner of my eye. She’s got her med bag slung crosswise, light steps, head bent as she studies the shelves of the pharmacy wing.
She doesn’t look at me. Not yet.
And for some damned reason, that’s worse.
I force my gaze away from her and keep it on the ruin around us. Twisted beams and shattered glass, light streaming in broken shafts through holes in the ceiling. The whole place smells like rust and rot, the metallic tang mixing with stale antiseptic that must’ve leaked from long-burst bottles.
But underneath it all, I swear I can still smell the mural. Old paint, baked into plaster. It lingers, just like the faces.
I want to spit. I want to tear the wall down and bury the proof. But my claws twitch instead, restless, useless.
I hear Alice mutter something under her breath—an Ataxian word, soft, reverent. Probably some prayer for the wreckage. She does that sometimes, like she’s trying to stitch dignity back onto the bones of the world.
I hate it.
I hate that it makes me feel something.
My chest’s still tight when I step closer, forcing the weight of my boots against the floor to drown out the sound of my pulse.
“Find anything?” I rasp. My voice feels raw, scraped up from a pit I don’t want to name.
She glances back, a strand of hair falling loose across her cheek. Her eyes catch mine for half a second—searching, steady. Then she nods at a half-crushed crate. “Painkillers. Not much, but enough to matter.”
I grunt, throat thick, and drop the rations onto the counter beside her. The packs thud like they weigh ten times more than they should.
She picks one up, turning it in her hands, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Alliance issue. Expired, but edible.”
“Food’s food,” I mutter.
Her lips twitch like she might say more, maybe even smile, but she doesn’t. She just sets the pack down, quiet as the grave.
And I’m grateful.
Because if she says the wrong thing right now—if she asks why my claws won’t unclench, why my breath keeps stuttering like I’ve run a mile—I might break.
I glance over my shoulder, back toward the sporting goods store. My vision skates toward the mural again even though I fight it. Just a glimpse.
Those faces.
Damn them.
They don’t let go.
I drag in a breath that tastes like mold and metal, then force the words out, sharp and flat. “We should move. This place is too open.”
Alice studies me, quiet, those healer’s eyes too damned knowing. But she doesn’t press. She just nods, repacking the crate into her satchel.
Still, I feel her gaze linger as I turn away, and it burns worse than the mural ever did.
Because she sees.
Maybe not everything—but enough.
Enough to know the ghosts I carry aren’t just painted on a wall. They’re carved in me.
Alice’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet—three short taps against metal, the code we agreed on. Not panic. Not fear. Just urgency.
