Page 79 of Fated in A Time of War
I drop to one knee and drag it free, fingers trembling. The strap’s frayed. The flap hangs open. It’s empty. The med case she carried’s gone. That bag never left her side unless someone ripped it from her.
My claws dig into the earth beneath me, carving trenches through blood-muddied dirt. I bow my head, breath ragged, rage boiling in my gut so hot it almost chokes me. Everything inside me wants to scream, wants to tear through whatever’s left of the Kru and rip answers from their throats. But I can’t afford that. Not now.
She’s not here.
But she’s not dead.
Not yet.
“Commander!”
The voice cuts through the fog. A boy—barely more than a teenager—scrambling over debris, eyes wide and wild. His face is soot-streaked, his chest heaving. “Commander, they’re regrouping on the west side—we’ve got maybe twenty minutes before they sweep again!”
I blink at him, the title barely registering. Then I glance past him and see the others gathering—those who made it out alive. Dozens, maybe. Not more. They’re huddled in cover, bleeding, limping, clutching weapons that barely function. Some are kids. Some are too old to run, too stubborn to die.
They’re looking at me.
Waiting.
I shove the satchel under my arm and stand fully. Pain lances down my spine, but I don’t let it show. The part of me that wants to rage has to shut the hell up. There’s no time for fury now. Just action.
“We’re pulling out,” I say, voice sharp, cutting through the rising panic. “Anderson?—”
“I’m here,” he calls back, emerging from behind a half-crushed turret, face streaked with grime and blood. He’s got one arm in a sling, his other hand gripping a rifle like he actually plans to use it.
“You remember the old sewer system?”
He nods grimly. “Runs all the way to the canal. South exit’s behind the collapsed grain silo.”
“Take everyone who can move and get them there. Now. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not going with you.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t argue. Just gives a stiff nod and starts barking orders of his own.
I stalk back toward the edge of the field, past fallen friends, shattered barricades, and craters deep enough to bury a mech. The war engine’s long gone, its trail marked by flattened debris and deep tread marks like scars across the ground. Wherever it took her, they didn’t kill her. They wanted her alive.
And I know why.
Alice is leverage. A bargaining chip. A weakness they think they can exploit.
They’re wrong.
She’s not my weakness.
She’s the only thing keeping me from giving in to the part of me that wants to burn this whole planet to glass.
I shoulder a scavenged rifle, tighten the strap on the satchel, and set my eyes to the trail ahead.
I’m going to find her.
And gods help the bastard that tries to stand in my way.
The armory’s a half-collapsed lean-to, half-swallowed by ash and rubble, but what’s still intact is just enough. I rip throughshattered crates and overturned lockers, fingers raw and bleeding, vision tunneling on one goal—get armed, get moving.
I sling a heavy rifle across my back. The grip’s worn smooth, the magazine half-loaded, but it fires true. Good enough. I grab a plasma blade next, test its hum—clean, steady, lethal. Straps of frags go across my chest, the weight comforting in its promise of destruction. Every clip, every charge, every inch of sharpened metal I load onto myself feels like a vow written in blood.
