Page 55 of Fated in A Time of War
My whole body goes taut. Rifle up, I move fast, boots crunching glass as I clear the corridor. My chest’s still tight from that damned mural, but the sound of her call burns it away, sharp focus drowning out everything else.
I find her in the gutted husk of the pharmacy wing, crouched low in a spill of broken plaster. She’s half-buried under collapsed shelving, dust streaking her hair and cheeks. But she’s not hurt. No—she’s clutching something, both hands wrapped around a sealed case.
Medical injectors. Dozens of them.
The sight damn near knocks the wind out of me.
Her hands tremble so bad the case rattles against the floor, but it’s not weakness. It’s relief. Pure, unfiltered relief, like the air just came back into her lungs after drowning.
I drop to one knee beside her, one clawed hand steadying the weight off her shoulder. My armor creaks, my joints ache, but I don’t care. Not right now.
She looks up at me, eyes glassy in the dim light. For once, she doesn’t hide it—doesn’t force that iron composure she always wears like armor. Her voice is raw when it comes.
“We found it,” she whispers, like saying it too loud might shatter it.
I don’t speak. Words would cheapen it. I just nod once, solid, and tighten my hand on her shoulder.
For a heartbeat, it’s just us. The ash. The ruin. And the impossible thing we’ve clawed out of this graveyard.
Then movement flickers above.
The hairs along my neck spike, instincts screaming. My rifle swings before thought catches up.
Second level, half-hidden behind jagged beams. Not the Kru—armor’s too patchwork, helmets scavenged from three different wars. Not Alliance either. Too ragged, too desperate.
Scavs.
At least five of them.
One’s got a nailgun welded into a stock. Another carries an old slugthrower so rusted I wonder if it’ll fire at all. But the look in their eyes is enough. Starved. Cornered. Wolves sniffing blood.
And they’re between us and the only exit.
I bare my teeth, low and quiet. “Scavengers. Five. Maybe more.”
Alice freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She clamps the case tight to her chest, knuckles white, and flicks her gaze to the shadows above. She sees them too.
For a long, sharp moment, neither of us moves.
I angle closer, my voice a growl only she can hear. “Stay behind me.”
Her jaw tightens. The fire in her eyes says what her lips don’t:like hell.
But she doesn’t argue. Not outright.
The scavs haven’t moved yet. They’re watching, weighing, measuring if the kill’s worth the blood it’ll cost. I know that look. I’ve worn it before.
The silence stretches thin, tight as wire. My claws drum against the rifle’s grip, slow, deliberate.
One wrong twitch and this whole place will go red.
CHAPTER 18
ALICE
The air tastes like rust and smoke. My hands ache from how hard I’m gripping the case, knuckles white, fingertips burning. Every instinct in me screams to hold on tighter. This box isn’t just medicine—it’s life. A chance for the child back at camp. Maybe for more than just one. Dropping it feels like betrayal. Keeping it feels like suicide.
I glance at Krall. He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved, but I can read him now, the way I’d read a chart, a wound, a pulse. His body is coiled, tail still, claws flexing in that slow, deliberate rhythm that means his brain is already breaking down vectors, weak points, killing lines. If it comes to blood, he’ll carve them like meat. But there are too many. Even for him.
