Page 10 of Fated in A Time of War
I breathe shallow through my nose, jaw aching, wrists burning.
He carries me deeper into the ruins.
Into his grief.
Into whatever he’s planning.
I don’t pray.
But I do hold on to one small, stubborn hope:
That somewhere inside this soldier—the monster, the mourner, the beast with blood in his eyes—there’s a man left.
And maybe he’s still capable of listening.
CHAPTER 3
KRALL
She doesn’t weigh much, but right now it feels like I’m carrying the whole damn planet.
The dust clings to every scale. Sweat slicks beneath my armor, stinging the cracked flesh at my neck and shoulders. Her body hangs limp across my back, bound hands bumping against the small of my spine with every step. My legs burn. My lungs wheeze. But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
I’ve got no comms. My HUD’s useless static. My entire squad’s just ash and meat spread across a half-click of cratered concrete. Lakka... Lakka’s dog tags thump against my chest like a second heartbeat. I don’t look at them. Not yet.
I push deeper into Tanuki’s rotting guts.
What’s left of the city doesn’t even pretend to be alive. Buildings ripped open like carcasses. Roads torn to jagged ribbons. Blackened skeletons frozen mid-run, mouths open in silent screams. There’s ash in the wind and glass underfoot. The sky’s a permanent bruise.
Every few meters, I check our six. Not ‘cause I think friendlies are coming—because I know they’re not. But the Kru might. Or worse. Mechs. Raiders. The kind of monsters thatdon't need a flag or orders to kill. The kind that do it because it's all they know.
I find a building half-collapsed, sagging sideways like a drunk on a broken leg. The sign out front is mostly intact: “The Crooked Tap.” Must’ve been a bar. Perfect. Booze-soaked walls. Reinforced cellar beams. Maybe a hidden backroom or a panic nook.
I duck through the shattered doorway, dragging her in with me. Her shoulder clips the frame, makes her grunt. Still out. Good.
Inside’s dark and stinks like mold, piss, and scorched plastic. Flies buzz somewhere deep in the shadows. A few stools remain bolted to the floor, bent and rusting. The bar mirror’s cracked but still clings to the wall, reflecting me like I’m some other bastard. I ignore it.
I spot a thick beam hanging loose from the ceiling. I grab it, plant my boot, and kick until it gives with a thunderous crack. I drag it across the entrance and wedge it against the frame, barricading us in.
Then I dump her against the back wall.
She lands hard, coughing once before her eyes flicker open.
Blue. Clouded. Scared.
But not shattered.
I crouch in front of her, nose to nose. Close enough to smell the sweat on her skin and the blood that’s not hers caked along her cheek. Lakka’s blood.
“Wake up,” I growl.
She’s already awake. Just playing possum.
“You’re gonna talk,” I tell her. “I don’t give a damn if you’re tired. I’ve carried corpses through worse terrain than this.”
Her mouth stays shut. Her shoulders tense, but not from fear. She’s bracing.
