Page 20 of Fated in A Time of War

KRALL

T he complex rises out of the Graveworks like a corpse that forgot how to lie down.

A husk of glass and steel, bones jutting out of the ash.

The windows are long gone, the air thick with rot and dust, and the walls are choked with graffiti—some crude, some strange and ritualistic, others still painted with the smiling faces of propaganda posters.

BUY NOW. TRUST THE ALLIANCE. TOGETHER FOREVER.

Forever didn’t last.

I push through the yawning entrance with rifle up, barrel sweeping every angle.

The place is too big, too open, too damn loud.

Every step crunches glass shards underfoot, and the sound ricochets through the hollow like a gunshot.

The ceiling groans in protest. This whole place feels like it’s just waiting for an excuse to come down on us.

I flick two fingers back at Alice. Stay behind me.

She doesn’t.

She slips past my shoulder, boots whispering in the ash, moving like she’s always known how to breathe ruins instead of air. “North entrance,” she murmurs, barely louder than a thought. “Pharmacy wing’s that way.”

I almost growl. The instinct’s still there—to order her back, to shove her behind cover, to remind her whose shadow she’s walking in. But I don’t. Not anymore.

Because she knows these kinds of places. Knows how to read the skeletons of dead cities like I read the language of rifles and troop lines.

So I let her lead.

And gods help me, I watch her.

The dust clings to her hair, streaks it silver.

Her steps are careful, deliberate, no wasted movement.

Her eyes sweep every corner, same as mine.

But where I look for threats, she looks for patterns—doors not fully caved in, paths worn fresher than others, small signs of where the living still scavenge.

She looks like she belongs here, in the marrow of a world that’s forgotten itself.

And I hate that I feel it—this pull. This dragging weight in my chest that has nothing to do with duty.

We pass through the atrium, what’s left of it. Collapsed floors gape above, dangling rebar like the ribs of some enormous beast. The escalators are frozen mid-climb, rusted teeth bared in silence. I catch a faded banner sagging from the ceiling: WELCOME TO METROHALL. TODAY IS YOURS.

“Yours,” I mutter under my breath. “Not anymore.”

Alice glances back, catches the bitterness in my voice. She doesn’t answer, just keeps moving, head tilted like she’s listening for echoes only she can hear.

I scan the upper balconies. Holes gape where sniper nests could hide. Every shadow feels alive, watching. My claws itch against the rifle grip. I want to sweep every corridor, clear every stairwell, do this by the book. But the book burned a long time ago.

Alice slows at a junction where two corridors split, one choked with rubble, the other half-flooded with stagnant water. She kneels, tracing her fingers across the grime on the wall until she finds the faded symbol: a caduceus stenciled in flaking paint.

“The pharmacy’s this way.” She nods toward the flooded corridor.

I grimace. “Convenient.”

“Survival never is.”

She says it without bite, without smugness. Just fact. Like everything she’s told me since the day we crawled into hell together.

I study her face for a moment longer than I should, then nod once. “Lead on.”

We wade into the corridor. The water’s foul, reeking of mold and rust and gods-know-what else. My boots sink into the muck with wet, sucking noises that echo far too loud. Alice keeps her balance with a hand against the wall, movements steady. I stay close, rifle sweeping arcs ahead.

Every sound in this place is a scream. The drip of water. The moan of bent steel. Our own breathing. Time stretches to the point of almost imperceptibility.

Dust sticks to the back of my throat like ash, bitter and dry. I shove the bundle of rations deep into my pack, rougher than I need to, like violence can bury the way those painted faces claw at me.

But they don’t go away.

Even with my back turned, I feel ’em. All those eyes—children laughing, parents holding hands, faces caught in the middle of a life they thought would last. They look like the people I leveled when the orders came down.

The ones I told myself didn’t matter. Collateral. Dead weight. Just fuel for the fire.

Now they’re ghosts on a wall, carved into me like scars that’ll never heal.

I grit my teeth and force my hands steady. Don’t let it show. Alice can’t see this. She doesn’t get to see me shake.

“Krall?” her voice carries again, low but close this time. She’s moving through shadow, not raising it above a whisper. Smart. Always smart.

“I’m here.” My reply comes out clipped, more of a growl than words.

I hear her boots crunch on glass, faint steps drawing nearer. I sling the pack over my shoulder, rifle tight against my claws. Focus. Keep it simple. Supplies, escape, survival. The mantra beats in rhythm with my pulse.

But when I step back through the busted archway of the store, I catch her in the corner of my eye. She’s got her med bag slung crosswise, light steps, head bent as she studies the shelves of the pharmacy wing.

She doesn’t look at me. Not yet.

And for some damned reason, that’s worse.

I force my gaze away from her and keep it on the ruin around us. Twisted beams and shattered glass, light streaming in broken shafts through holes in the ceiling. The whole place smells like rust and rot, the metallic tang mixing with stale antiseptic that must’ve leaked from long-burst bottles.

But underneath it all, I swear I can still smell the mural. Old paint, baked into plaster. It lingers, just like the faces.

I want to spit. I want to tear the wall down and bury the proof. But my claws twitch instead, restless, useless.

I hear Alice mutter something under her breath—an Ataxian word, soft, reverent. Probably some prayer for the wreckage. She does that sometimes, like she’s trying to stitch dignity back onto the bones of the world.

I hate it.

I hate that it makes me feel something.

My chest’s still tight when I step closer, forcing the weight of my boots against the floor to drown out the sound of my pulse.

“Find anything?” I rasp. My voice feels raw, scraped up from a pit I don’t want to name.

She glances back, a strand of hair falling loose across her cheek. Her eyes catch mine for half a second—searching, steady. Then she nods at a half-crushed crate. “Painkillers. Not much, but enough to matter.”

I grunt, throat thick, and drop the rations onto the counter beside her. The packs thud like they weigh ten times more than they should.

She picks one up, turning it in her hands, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Alliance issue. Expired, but edible.”

“Food’s food,” I mutter.

Her lips twitch like she might say more, maybe even smile, but she doesn’t. She just sets the pack down, quiet as the grave.

And I’m grateful.

Because if she says the wrong thing right now—if she asks why my claws won’t unclench, why my breath keeps stuttering like I’ve run a mile—I might break.

I glance over my shoulder, back toward the sporting goods store. My vision skates toward the mural again even though I fight it. Just a glimpse.

Those faces.

Damn them.

They don’t let go.

I drag in a breath that tastes like mold and metal, then force the words out, sharp and flat. “We should move. This place is too open.”

Alice studies me, quiet, those healer’s eyes too damned knowing. But she doesn’t press. She just nods, repacking the crate into her satchel.

Still, I feel her gaze linger as I turn away, and it burns worse than the mural ever did.

Because she sees.

Maybe not everything—but enough.

Enough to know the ghosts I carry aren’t just painted on a wall. They’re carved in me.

Alice’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet—three short taps against metal, the code we agreed on. Not panic. Not fear. Just urgency.

My whole body goes taut. Rifle up, I move fast, boots crunching glass as I clear the corridor. My chest’s still tight from that damned mural, but the sound of her call burns it away, sharp focus drowning out everything else.

I find her in the gutted husk of the pharmacy wing, crouched low in a spill of broken plaster. She’s half-buried under collapsed shelving, dust streaking her hair and cheeks. But she’s not hurt. No—she’s clutching something, both hands wrapped around a sealed case.

Medical injectors. Dozens of them.

The sight damn near knocks the wind out of me.

Her hands tremble so bad the case rattles against the floor, but it’s not weakness. It’s relief. Pure, unfiltered relief, like the air just came back into her lungs after drowning.

I drop to one knee beside her, one clawed hand steadying the weight off her shoulder. My armor creaks, my joints ache, but I don’t care. Not right now.

She looks up at me, eyes glassy in the dim light. For once, she doesn’t hide it—doesn’t force that iron composure she always wears like armor. Her voice is raw when it comes.

“We found it,” she whispers, like saying it too loud might shatter it.

I don’t speak. Words would cheapen it. I just nod once, solid, and tighten my hand on her shoulder.

For a heartbeat, it’s just us. The ash. The ruin. And the impossible thing we’ve clawed out of this graveyard.

Then movement flickers above.

The hairs along my neck spike, instincts screaming. My rifle swings before thought catches up.

Second level, half-hidden behind jagged beams. Not the Kru—armor’s too patchwork, helmets scavenged from three different wars. Not Alliance either. Too ragged, too desperate.

Scavs.

At least five of them.

One’s got a nailgun welded into a stock. Another carries an old slugthrower so rusted I wonder if it’ll fire at all. But the look in their eyes is enough. Starved. Cornered. Wolves sniffing blood.

And they’re between us and the only exit.

I bare my teeth, low and quiet. “Scavengers. Five. Maybe more.”

Alice freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She clamps the case tight to her chest, knuckles white, and flicks her gaze to the shadows above. She sees them too.

For a long, sharp moment, neither of us moves.

I angle closer, my voice a growl only she can hear. “Stay behind me.”

Her jaw tightens. The fire in her eyes says what her lips don’t: like hell.

But she doesn’t argue. Not outright.

The scavs haven’t moved yet. They’re watching, weighing, measuring if the kill’s worth the blood it’ll cost. I know that look. I’ve worn it before.

The silence stretches thin, tight as wire. My claws drum against the rifle’s grip, slow, deliberate.

One wrong twitch and this whole place will go red.