Page 86 of Fated in A Time of War
My hands tighten on the rifle. Teeth grit.
They still search for that buried superweapon or pre-war tech. But that isn’t my prize.
My heart pumps a feral beat in my ears.
It's her.
Every sensate twitch drives me forward.
I slither from duct to duct, dropping silently onto a grated catwalk. Footsteps echo below—guards on shift, walking their circuit. I slide into the shadows, pulse steady, hand tight around the butt of a plasma knife.
I throw one. It slices a throat clean, fire blooming red, body keels. Another two fall before the guards in the distance even blink. Efficiency. Not cruelty. Precision, born of desperation.
The intercom crackles again; Misha’s voice closer now. She’s giving orders.
“She’s on transport. If she wasn’t moved yet, she will be soon.”
That’s when I taste the panic beneath the words. I close my eyes, drop to one knee, silent thanks bleeding past cracked lips.
So they’re preparing to relocate her. Soon. I’ve got to be faster.
I spring from the catwalk, steel underfoot rattling. Two guards step into full view. No time to hesitate. One foot to the throat. Thumb to windpipe. He gasps and goes slack. I roll, knee into the back of the second. He crumples before he knows I’m there. I skulk forward, past overturned crates and dangling cables.
Every step counts. Every second tightens the noose on Misha’s fortress.
They keep talking about digging. About breaking rock. But I’m already digging through steel and shadow.
I reach the central transport bay—the massive hangar where troops pivot between ships and shuttles. And there she is. Framed in cargo lights, chained to the floor of a supply drop rig—bruised, but alive. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat that tears through the hum of the machine.
Blue. Wide. Burning.
I want to say her name. Iwillsay her name. After this.
I have no allies here. Just one woman betrayed by an empire of greed.
I raise my rifle and let the storm in my bones do the talking.
The stink of unwashed metal and stale piss thickens the deeper I push through this tomb of a tower. Somewhere above me, she breathes. Somewhere above me, they think they’ve won.
I tighten my grip on the plasma rifle, knuckles grinding against the worn rubber grip. My claws itch. Every instinct howls for speed, but I make each step count. No wasted movement. No noise.
Footsteps echo off the bulkhead ahead. Laughter follows, low and stupid—the sound of men who think they’re safe. Think no one’s coming.
Three of them.
Their shadows stretch before their bodies do. Helmets loose. Weapons slung casual across their backs. One’s chewing a stim stick, teeth clacking.
“You hear what Funzil said?” the tall one mutters, elbowing the shortest. “Soon as they’re done diggin’, she’s free game. Said it’s ‘company morale.’”
The third snorts. “Yeah, but Misha’ll gut us if we touch her before?—”
I don’t let him finish.
The rifle kicks once in my hands. The tall one’s head snaps back, helmet clattering across the floor. The sound doesn’t echo—itslamsagainst the walls like a warning bell.
The short one reaches for his belt, slow. Too slow. I drop him with a blade to the throat.
The third runs.
