Page 26 of Fated in A Time of War

KRALL

I walk the edge of the camp as dawn drags itself up over the horizon like something wounded.

The light here’s always sickly—sulfur-yellow where it cuts through the haze, painting the broken skyline with the color of old bruises. The barricades creak in the wind, thin sheets of metal groaning like they already know they won’t hold.

This place isn’t defensible. Not really.

We’ve got no artillery. No air cover. No drones, no mechs, no automated turrets.

The long-range comms are fried, and the short-range units sputter half the time.

Most of the rifles have seen more decades than their owners, and half the ammunition’s so corroded I wouldn’t trust it to fire in the right direction.

The perimeter wall’s just scavenged scraps hammered together by people who’ve never seen a real battlefield.

There’s maybe forty able-bodied adults. Ten with any experience. Three with steady hands.

And we’ve got me.

I move slow, calculated. My steps stir up acrid dust that burns in my sinuses and coats my tongue with the taste of rust and old smoke.

A kid runs by with a coil of barbed wire twice his height.

He can’t be older than twelve. His face is hollowed out by hunger and sleeplessness, but his grip on that wire’s tight. Like it matters.

It does. Now it does.

The Kru are coming. And I’ve seen what they leave behind.

Alice walks beside me, matching my pace.

Her eyes scan everything—skyline, shadows, people.

She doesn’t talk much, not while we’re working.

She just… moves. Efficient. Calm. Always a half step behind or ahead, like she knows where I’m going before I do.

Her presence cuts through the sharp edges in my mind.

Soft where I’m sharp.

Calm where I’m storm.

“Too thin here,” I grunt, tapping a section of the western wall with a claw. The panel wobbles like paper. “If they hit from this side, it folds in seconds.”

“We’ve got spare plating from the old vehicle yard,” she says. “Reinforce the weak points, brace with rebar.”

I nod. “Make sure they anchor it deep. No point in steel if the supports crack.”

Alice waves over a couple of the bigger civilians—Anders and Rami, both strong enough to lift a truck axle between them—and starts issuing orders. I move on.

We’ve dug three trenches so far. They’re shallow, crude. But they’ll slow the first wave. Maybe. If the Kru send scouts ahead instead of just flattening us from orbit.

I stop at the north corner and crouch, inspecting one of the spike traps we set last night. Crude welded nails, metal shards, glass embedded in mud. Ugly. Brutal. Effective.

I can work with that.

Everything in my bones aches. The wound in my side pulls with every twist. I don’t let it slow me. Pain is a tool. Pain tells you where the limits are. Then dares you to break them.

Alice is back at my side before I stand. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. That’s why I like her.

“You think this will hold?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

She doesn’t flinch. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

She sighs. “But you’re still here.”

“So are you.”

We keep moving.

I pull a few of the older survivors into makeshift training—show them how to hold a weapon like they mean it, how to brace for recoil, how to breathe through the fear. One man can’t stop shaking. Another girl keeps crying. I don’t yell. I’ve been there.

Alice crouches beside a young woman tying tripwire around a beam, correcting her knot with a gentleness I’ll never have. She smiles at the girl. The girl nods, blinking fast. I catch that smile and feel something shift in my chest.

I don’t know what I am to her. Not really.

But I know what she is to me.

She’s the reason I’m still here. Still standing. Still giving a damn.

We dig more trenches. We set charges with salvaged power cells—unstable, sure, but explosive enough to matter. Alice patches together a network of signaling flares in case we lose voice comms. She doesn’t stop moving. Neither do I.

When the sun sinks again, painting the horizon in blood-orange smog, the camp is still standing. Still fragile. But ready. As ready as we’re going to be.

And I’m still walking the perimeter, jaw clenched tight, waiting for the sky to fall.

The sun slips behind the wreckage like it’s ashamed of what’s coming.

Orange light dies slow across the skyline, bleeding through gaps in the buildings like fire behind broken teeth.

I climb the old scaffolding tower just outside the watch perimeter.

It’s rusted to hell, bones of some pre-war construction site that never finished whatever it started.

My claws dig into the rungs as I haul myself up, careful to avoid the sharp edges crusted in dried blood and birdshit.

Each breath pulls fire through my ribs, the knife wound flaring like it wants to remind me it’s still there.

The air up here’s worse—thicker, hotter. Tension clings to the atmosphere like static before a storm.

And then I see them.

The Wrecking Kru.

They come like smoke through the streets—masses of red and black that don’t move like men.

More like a machine with too many limbs.

Their armor catches the last of the sunlight, metal plates glowing like embers.

Not polished. Just scorched. Heat-rippled.

Scarred from battles they probably didn’t bother to survive cleanly.

I count them.

Three scout lines. Two heavy squads. Four mechs.

No—five. The last one’s bigger than the rest, lurching behind the others like some hell-born juggernaut.

Its servo limbs crunch pavement as it walks.

A massive, bristling silhouette against the burning skyline.

Behind it slinks a twisted shape—something tank-sized with a turret mounted like a scorpion tail and something humming at its base.

Modified. Maybe alien tech. Maybe worse.

And all of them headed straight for us.

I grip the railing tight. It groans under my weight, metal screeching against metal. I don’t care. Let it snap. Let it scream.

They’re not here to take prisoners. Not here for conquest. This isn’t about ground. It’s about destruction.

Whatever tech they’re after—whatever’s buried under this godforsaken camp—it’s worth turning the whole damn place into ash. And every living thing inside it.

My mouth tastes like copper. My claws flex and curl.

This isn’t a battle.

It’s a purge.

I stay up there longer than I should, burning the image into my memory.

Numbers. Weapons. Unit types. Firing patterns.

Movement speed. Estimated arrival. I calculate while rage pounds against my temples like a war drum.

I think in grids and terrain overlays, even though we’ve got none of that tech left. I do it anyway. Old habits. Old war.

Then I climb down.

The metal ladder whines as I descend. It’s darker now, the kind of dark that doesn’t just steal light—it eats it. The camp’s quiet. No fires yet. No alarms. Just the shuffle of boots, the clink of makeshift armor, the low mutter of people pretending they aren’t terrified.

Alice finds me as I hit the ground. Her shadow stretches long in the dust, and her face is already asking the question before her mouth moves.

“Well?” she says.

I pause, just long enough to choose my words.

“They’re coming,” I say.

She narrows her eyes. “How many?”

“Too many.”

She waits for more. I give her less.

“Four squads. Mechs. Ground sweepers. Standard loadout.”

“And?”

I shake my head. “It’s worse than last time.”

She swears under her breath, rubs at the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting off a headache. “We’re not ready.”

“We’re never ready.”

Her eyes flick to mine. Searching. Digging. Trying to see past the mask.

But I don’t let her see what I saw. Don’t tell her about the size of the fifth mech. Don’t mention the tank-thing with the pulsing energy coil. Don’t speak the truth I felt in my spine when I watched them march.

They’re not just coming to win.

They’re coming to erase.

She puts a hand on my arm.

“Then we hold,” she says, voice low.

And I nod. Even though we won’t.

The fire’s small. Not enough to warm everyone, not really. Just enough to flicker shadows across tired faces and make the night feel like something ancient and watchful.

They’ve gathered around it—what’s left of them. Not a party. Not a funeral. Just something in between. A breath before the plunge. A moment in the eye of the storm, too quiet to feel real.

I stay at the edge, arms crossed, back against a rusted-out transport that probably hasn’t moved in twenty years.

The metal is cold through my shirt, but I don’t shift.

I let the night soak into me. The smells—burned meat, stale bread, something sweet and overripe.

Sweat and oil and ash. All of it clings to the air, thick as grief.

Someone passes a bottle of something homebrewed and sharp enough to sterilize wounds. It goes from hand to hand like communion. There’s laughter—soft, wary. Like the sound forgot how to breathe.

Then the child sings.

A little voice, high and imperfect, cracking on the high notes but carrying something in it that hits harder than any weapon I’ve ever held.

She’s missing an arm. Wrapped in bandages so fresh they still gleam.

But she sings like she remembers what joy is supposed to feel like, and for a moment, everyone listens.

Even me.

Alice is dancing with the little girl.

She’s got one hand on the kid’s shoulder, and the other twirls her carefully, gently, like they’re on some fancy ballroom floor and not a cratered piece of ruin clinging to hope. The child laughs. Spinning on bare feet that kick up little puffs of dust.

Alice laughs too. Head thrown back, hair catching the firelight like copper threads. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her mouth curves with something real.

And I feel something shift in my chest again. Not pain. Not rage.

Something dangerous.

She sees me watching.

The dance slows. The girl curtsies—crooked but proud—and Alice bows low in return, making a game of it. Then she walks toward me, each step deliberate, the crowd parting for her like they know something I don’t.

Her fingers brush mine.

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither do I.

There’s no need.

I step away from the firelight, and she follows.

We walk past the edge of the gathering, into the shadows where the air cools and the dust settles. The sounds of the camp grow muffled behind us—like we’re stepping through some invisible curtain into a place where the war can’t reach.

I stop.

Turn.

Look at her.

She doesn’t ask what I’m doing.

She already knows.

I kiss her.

Not like before. Not like the graveyard. This isn’t desperation or fury or the need to drown in something other than blood.

This is fire.

Mine.

She tastes like breath stolen from the edge of the world. Her hands are on my chest, my neck, my jaw. Grounding me. Pulling me in. I’m not careful. Not gentle. But I’m not cruel. I don’t know how to be soft, but she never asked me to be.

Her back hits the wall of the prefab shelter, and I brace myself around her like the world might fall and she’s the only thing I can save. She makes a sound—low and real—and I feel it in my bones.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both panting.

Her forehead rests against mine.

We don’t say anything.

We don’t have to.

Later, back in the bunk, it’s not loud. Not rushed.

Just… real.

Tangled limbs. Shared breath. Warmth.

No armor and weapons. Just skin and scars and the kind of silence that feels like safety.

For one night, war waits outside the door.