Page 85 of Fated in A Time of War
They can’t take the way his voice sounded when he called my name in the middle of the chaos. Low. Rough. Almost broken. Like saying it out loud was the only way to keep me tethered to the world.
They can’t take the memory of the way his fingers curled around mine behind the barricade, like a vow without words.
And they sure as hell can’t touch the way he looked at me that night after the fire—like I was more than just a medic, more than just a soldier, more than just a means to an end.
Like I was home.
I close my eyes tighter and pull those images forward—memories turned armor, thick and hot around my chest.
Red scales, worn smooth over thick muscle.
Clawed hands that moved like they were made to kill, but held me like I was something sacred.
The scent of his skin—smoke, iron, the faint tang of ozone from plasma residue that never quite washes out.
And his voice.
Vakutan, when he thought I was asleep. Words I didn’t understand but felt in my bones. Low and slow and rhythmic, like thunder being lulled into a song.
He doesn’t say much, not unless it matters. But when he does, it’s like fire and gravity all at once. You can't ignore it. Youfeelit.
And I do.
Even now, alone and aching, chained to a wall in the belly of a war machine, Ifeelhim.
Somewhere out there, he’s moving.
His jaw set, eyes like burnished coal, fury in every line of his body.
He’s coming for me.
I don’t know how I know.
But I do.
And it’s the only reason I make it through the night.
CHAPTER 25
KRALL
Every breath hurts, but I don’t stop moving. My body is a battlefield map of pain: ribs chipped, calf still screaming from the grenade blast yesterday, vision nicked by glass. But nothing stops the hunt. Not the injuries, not the smoke, not the weight of regret sliding through my gut. My senses are sharper than they’ve ever been, carved into blades honed for one purpose: to get to her.
I’m on the fringe of the fortress now. The once-grand ore processing tower twisted into Kru fortress, lights flickering like morse code against the sky. Machinery hums deep in its guts; hydraulic groans ripple through the ground beneath my boots. The whole thing is jagged steel and shadow. Imperfection built for war.
I move through the night like death incarnate. Slipping through the shadows, body low, breath quieted to a whisper. I avoid patrolling troopers, their helmets reflecting the floodlights. One steps too close—I snatch a wire, twist, and he’s down before he hits the ground. No noise, no alarm, just the cold hush of victory.
Shadows swallow me as I climb. Grimy ducts overhead offer a highway to the core. Rust and oil slicks coat the metal;my claws slip once. The smell of stale grease, old metal, and something hotter—spent plasma rounds—makes my sinuses braid in anger. Keep going. She’s close. I can taste it.
The corridor opens onto a control room. Flickering screens, pipelines built like arteries, the low thrum of the intercom. That’s my marker.
Misha’s voice crackles through.
“—increase the depth measurement. If that core isn’t there, we keep going deeper. Wewillfind it.”
The wordcorehangs like slag in the air.
Not buried tech. Not files.
