Page 24 of Fated in A Time of War

ALICE

T he camp feels different now.

It’s quieter, for one. That’s the first thing I notice as I move through the infirmary, boots muffled by warped vinyl flooring and years of grime.

The low murmurs of conversation carry softer now, voices laced with something that almost sounds like hope.

But it’s the kind that comes with conditions.

The kind that flinches when you reach for it too fast.

There’s a weird sort of tension in the air, like the stillness after a storm when you’re waiting to see if the damage is done or if the sky’s got more punishment left.

The survivors—these tired, scraped-down people—have something to lose again.

That medicine Krall carried across gods-know-how-many kilometers of fire and ruin?

It bought them time.

Time is dangerous.

I move from cot to cot, checking vitals, adjusting bandages, murmuring reassurances I don’t fully believe. My body does the work. My mind’s somewhere else.

On him.

On the Vakutan who should’ve left me to die more times than I can count. Who bled for strangers. Who didn’t flinch when children glared at him like he’d set the stars on fire. Who carried that case like it was the last meaningful thing he had left.

I remember the way he looked in the graveyard of machines—raw, bleeding, teeth bared against pain, but steady. Steady in a way that made me feel like I could collapse and everything wouldn’t fall apart around me.

He hasn’t smiled since we got here. Not once.

He’s not the same Krall I met.

I don’t know if that scares me or not.

I adjust a monitor, fingers trembling just enough to make me curse under my breath.

The kid in the bed—nine, maybe ten, with skin pulled tight over bone and eyes too big for her face—doesn’t notice.

She’s asleep, finally, lips parted just slightly, a little wheeze in her chest that means her lungs are still fighting.

I brush her hair back and try not to think too hard about what happens if the next batch of supplies doesn’t show.

When I stand, Anderson is watching me.

He’s leaning against the far doorway, arms crossed, a smudge of grease across one cheek like a battle scar. He doesn’t move when I meet his gaze. Just holds it. Measuring.

I nod once. He doesn’t nod back.

Fine.

Later, I’m hauling ration crates from the stack near the old supply tent when he corners me.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t threaten. Just steps into my path and blocks the way like a mountain that thinks you’re not worth going around.

“You got a second?” he says.

I shift the crate to one hip and arch an eyebrow. “Kind of mid-haul.”

He doesn’t budge.

I sigh and set the crate down.

Anderson crosses his arms again. He always looks like he’s one bad word away from punching a hole through something. “I’m not here to talk about your alien.”

“His name is Krall,” I snap.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Yeah. I got that.”

I fold my arms, squaring off. “Then what do you want?”

“You,” he says.

That throws me. “Excuse me?”

“I want to know what the hell’s going on with you,” he says.

“Because the Alice I remember? She didn’t follow Vakutan war machines through firestorms. She didn’t make excuses for things that used to be classified as apex threats.

She didn’t bring them into my camp and vouch for them like they were part of the godsdamn family. ”

I stare at him. “You done?”

“No,” he says. “I’m just getting started.”

He takes a step closer. I don’t back up.

“Do you know what it’s like?” he says, voice low now. “Seeing your people look at you like you’re the risk? Like you brought the snake into the den? I’m responsible for these lives, Alice. If he turns, if he was ever faking —it’s on me. You get that?”

“Yes,” I say.

He blinks.

I nod. “I get it. And if he turns, I’ll take responsibility. I’ll shoot him myself.”

Anderson doesn’t respond. Not right away.

“He won’t,” I add. “He could’ve killed me a dozen times by now. He didn’t.”

“He’s a soldier.”

“Not anymore.”

He studies me. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes, trying to connect dots that don’t line up the way he wants them to.

“You trust him?” he asks.

I shrug. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

I nod.

“Why?”

I meet his gaze. “Because he saved my life.”

“That it?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not.”

I run a hand through my hair, sweaty and sticking to my neck. The sun’s baking this side of camp, and I suddenly feel like I’m being grilled.

“He didn’t just save my life, Anderson. He gave up everything to get that medicine here. You saw the wound. You saw what he walked through. He’s not doing this for glory. There’s no Alliance camera feed, no promotion waiting. He could’ve run. He didn’t.”

Anderson’s jaw tightens.

“If he were the monster we were told Vakutans are,” I say, “I’d be dead.”

Silence hangs between us. Heavy. Real.

Anderson exhales through his nose.

“Just… be careful,” he mutters. “You care too much. That’s always been your weakness.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe it’s what keeps people alive.”

Anderson doesn’t say anything for a long time.

His eyes shift off me, fixed somewhere just past my shoulder like he's chewing on words too big to swallow. I watch his jaw work, the tendons standing out like wires under skin. Then, finally, he nods. Not quick. Not confident. Just… slow. Like it costs him something.

And then he says it.

“They’re coming.”

My stomach knots before the rest of my body catches up. “Who?”

“The Kru.”

The name alone scrapes across my nerves like a rusted blade. My mouth goes dry. “How close?”

Anderson doesn’t blink. “Close enough our scouts didn’t come back. Only one did. Barely. Said he saw movement. Tracers. No insignia. But it was them.”

My heartbeat isn’t pounding. It’s silent. Cold. The kind of fear that settles in the gut like a dead weight.

“How long?”

“A day. Maybe less.”

I swallow, my throat working around the ice forming there. “And the camp?”

He lifts one shoulder, that same slow, terrible gesture. “We’re not ready. Not for them.”

I nod. There’s nothing else to say. We both know what that means. We both know what kind of monsters the Kru are. We’ve seen the aftermath of what they leave behind—bones still smoking, cots twisted into slag, survivors who can’t speak anymore because their minds shut down from what they saw.

I find Krall near the perimeter wall, sitting alone on the rusted staircase that leads to a watch platform barely still standing. His armor’s been stripped down, parts of it stacked beside him in organized, surgical rows. He’s cleaning one of his knives, slow and methodical, like it’s a ritual.

He doesn’t look up when I approach. Doesn’t need to.

“They’re coming,” I say.

“I know.”

I blink. “You know ?”

He finishes sliding a whetstone along the blade and sets it down with a soft clink. Only then does he look at me. His eyes are calm. Focused. Like he’s already there, already in the blood and fire and chaos of it.

“How long?” he asks.

“A day. Maybe less.”

He nods. That’s it. Just nods. Like I said we were out of clean water. Like it’s just another fact to slot into the equation of his mind.

“They’ll hit hard. No negotiation. No theatrics. They’ll burn through the south wall first—too thin, too exposed.”

I sit beside him without asking.

“The barricades?” I say.

“Reinforce them with the steel sheeting near the med tent,” he answers immediately. “Shift all non-combatants to the east structure. More solid there. Easier to defend. And they’ll expect resistance from the high ground, so we post decoys. Dummy shapes. Make ‘em waste fire.”

His voice is low, steady. It’s like flipping a switch in him. There’s no fear. Just motion. Just logic.

Just… purpose.

I realize it slowly—watching the way his claws flex against his thighs, the way his tail taps against the stair like a metronome.

He’s already accepted it. The role. Not just the fighter. The protector. Of them. Of me .

“You’re doing it again,” I say softly.

He turns his head, just a little. “Doing what?”

“Carrying too much.”

He huffs. “Someone has to.”

I shake my head. “Not alone.”

We sit in silence for a long stretch. The night’s starting to fall, stars barely visible through the dirty haze above. Somewhere in the camp, a baby cries. Somewhere else, metal clangs as someone reinforces a door with scrap.

I reach out, my fingers brushing his. It’s instinct. It’s deliberate. It’s everything I don’t say out loud.

He takes my hand without hesitation.

The rusted stairs groan beneath our weight, metal whining every time one of us shifts.

Krall hasn’t moved since I took his hand.

I haven’t either. The cold steel presses into my back, the edge of the step cutting just enough through my jacket to remind me I’m still here.

Still alive. Sitting beside a creature who once tore through Alliance lines like a goddamn wrecking ball—and now holds my hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

His palm is rough, heat radiating through the pads of his fingers where they curve around mine. We don’t say anything for a while. Just sit. Listen to the murmur of a camp trying not to panic.

I break the silence. “What happens after?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just draws in a long breath that sounds like gravel in his chest. “After what?”

“After Horus IV,” I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “After the Kru. After all this.”

He makes a sound. It’s not quite a laugh. More like a scoff that forgot how to be bitter.

“I don’t know,” he says.

I tilt my head toward him, but his gaze is somewhere far beyond the walls. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I never planned past survival,” he mutters. “There was no point.”

There’s an edge in his voice. Not anger. Weariness. Like the words themselves have weight and he’s tired of carrying them.

“You’re not going back to the Alliance, are you?” I ask.

Krall shakes his head, slow and final.

“I can’t,” he says. “Not after what I’ve seen. Not after what I’ve done.”