Page 98 of Fated in A Time of War
I cut him off with a quiet laugh. “We face it together.”
He smiles, honest and soft. His eyes—those bruised coal eyes—glisten in the shifting starlight.
We’re not soldiers anymore. We’re not bound by duty, orders, or religion. Sheathed by scars, sure, but unbroken.
He’s not my warrior.
And I’m not his captive.
We’re something new.
Something forged in the fire of Horus IV.
CHAPTER 29
KRALL
The planet under us has no name I recognize—just a quiet green world, stretching out in gentle hills and sunlit plains. As the ship’s landing gear touches the soil, I’m caught off guard by the hush hovering in the air. No thrumming generators, no surveillance drones blipping in the sky. Just peaceful, open space.
The structures are simple, functional—rows of prefab housing with rounded roofs, low and clean, built for living not war. Solar arrays gleam at odd angles in the fields, tucked between spiral gardens that wind like DNA helixes. I catch the scent of fresh soil and blooming vines that curve around those gardens. It makes me feel like I’ve landed inside a dream.
Alice is already stepping off the ship, every sense alive. I follow, clothes stiff and boots still gritty from Tanuki. The ground beneath me tastes like a promise.
We walk among the spiraling gardens. People glance our way—not suspicious, just curious. No orders called. No guards raised. Just neighbors watching newcomers from a world so different. One kid trails behind two gardeners, water can in hand, offering me a shy smile. I respond awkwardly, mind roiling.
Here, I don’t fit.
I’m too large. These folks are lean and small, not armored battlescarred soldiers. My voice bounces through the town square like a bad guest, too loud. The way they slow when I pass, eyes flicking to each scar, questions buried behind polite smiles—reminds me of my old reflection as a weapon first.
But Alice, she moves like she belongs.
She’s already at the clinic building, dishing out trays of meds. She hands a soothing jar to a woman with worry-lines young for age, and the woman relaxes, breathing easier. Her voice—just her words, "You’re safe now,"—makes people smile a little easier.
I catch her afterward. She brushes her hair back from her face, eyes radiant and calm.
“How long until contact?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not needed. Not unless we ask.”
That’s League space for you.
No patrols. No ranks. No bullet orders. Just people. Living. Healing.
She wears no robes. No symbols. Just plain, clean earth-toned clothes. But she carries her faith in the steadiness of her gaze, the gentle curve of her shoulders, the way she kneels for a wounded child. I feel like I’m still the savage creature from the fields—not the man who saved someone by ripping apart a war machine’s spine.
She tugs me into the clinic.
Inside, it’s bright. Smooth floors, earthy colors, soft chatter. A child with burn-stippled skin lies on a cot, breathing steady. Alice talks to him like he's already whole.
I lean against a doorframe. She catches my eye. No fear. No question. Just quiet pride.
I step forward, lower voice. “Teach me.”
She smiles and hands me a bandage. Clasping it, I feel warmth fill where my coldness has been. But this place—it’s bigger than me. I’m not sure yet who I am in it.
I’m still warrior.
Still scarred.
