Page 30 of Fated in A Time of War

KRALL

E very breath hurts, but I don’t stop moving.

My body is a battlefield map of pain: ribs chipped, calf still screaming from the grenade blast yesterday, vision nicked by glass.

But nothing stops the hunt. Not the injuries, not the smoke, not the weight of regret sliding through my gut.

My senses are sharper than they’ve ever been, carved into blades honed for one purpose: to get to her.

I’m on the fringe of the fortress now. The once-grand ore processing tower twisted into Kru fortress, lights flickering like morse code against the sky.

Machinery hums deep in its guts; hydraulic groans ripple through the ground beneath my boots.

The whole thing is jagged steel and shadow. Imperfection built for war.

I move through the night like death incarnate.

Slipping through the shadows, body low, breath quieted to a whisper.

I avoid patrolling troopers, their helmets reflecting the floodlights.

One steps too close—I snatch a wire, twist, and he’s down before he hits the ground.

No noise, no alarm, just the cold hush of victory.

Shadows swallow me as I climb. Grimy ducts overhead offer a highway to the core. Rust and oil slicks coat the metal; my claws slip once. The smell of stale grease, old metal, and something hotter—spent plasma rounds—makes my sinuses braid in anger. Keep going. She’s close. I can taste it.

The corridor opens onto a control room. Flickering screens, pipelines built like arteries, the low thrum of the intercom. That’s my marker.

Misha’s voice crackles through.

“—increase the depth measurement. If that core isn’t there, we keep going deeper. We will find it.”

The word core hangs like slag in the air.

Not buried tech. Not files.

My hands tighten on the rifle. Teeth grit.

They still search for that buried superweapon or pre-war tech. But that isn’t my prize.

My heart pumps a feral beat in my ears.

It's her.

Every sensate twitch drives me forward.

I slither from duct to duct, dropping silently onto a grated catwalk. Footsteps echo below—guards on shift, walking their circuit. I slide into the shadows, pulse steady, hand tight around the butt of a plasma knife.

I throw one. It slices a throat clean, fire blooming red, body keels. Another two fall before the guards in the distance even blink. Efficiency. Not cruelty. Precision, born of desperation.

The intercom crackles again; Misha’s voice closer now. She’s giving orders.

“She’s on transport. If she wasn’t moved yet, she will be soon.”

That’s when I taste the panic beneath the words. I close my eyes, drop to one knee, silent thanks bleeding past cracked lips.

So they’re preparing to relocate her. Soon. I’ve got to be faster.

I spring from the catwalk, steel underfoot rattling.

Two guards step into full view. No time to hesitate.

One foot to the throat. Thumb to windpipe.

He gasps and goes slack. I roll, knee into the back of the second.

He crumples before he knows I’m there. I skulk forward, past overturned crates and dangling cables.

Every step counts. Every second tightens the noose on Misha’s fortress.

They keep talking about digging. About breaking rock. But I’m already digging through steel and shadow.

I reach the central transport bay—the massive hangar where troops pivot between ships and shuttles. And there she is. Framed in cargo lights, chained to the floor of a supply drop rig—bruised, but alive. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat that tears through the hum of the machine.

Blue. Wide. Burning.

I want to say her name. I will say her name. After this.

I have no allies here. Just one woman betrayed by an empire of greed.

I raise my rifle and let the storm in my bones do the talking.

The stink of unwashed metal and stale piss thickens the deeper I push through this tomb of a tower. Somewhere above me, she breathes. Somewhere above me, they think they’ve won.

I tighten my grip on the plasma rifle, knuckles grinding against the worn rubber grip. My claws itch. Every instinct howls for speed, but I make each step count. No wasted movement. No noise.

Footsteps echo off the bulkhead ahead. Laughter follows, low and stupid—the sound of men who think they’re safe. Think no one’s coming.

Three of them.

Their shadows stretch before their bodies do. Helmets loose. Weapons slung casual across their backs. One’s chewing a stim stick, teeth clacking.

“You hear what Funzil said?” the tall one mutters, elbowing the shortest. “Soon as they’re done diggin’, she’s free game. Said it’s ‘company morale.’”

The third snorts. “Yeah, but Misha’ll gut us if we touch her before?—”

I don’t let him finish.

The rifle kicks once in my hands. The tall one’s head snaps back, helmet clattering across the floor. The sound doesn’t echo—it slams against the walls like a warning bell.

The short one reaches for his belt, slow. Too slow. I drop him with a blade to the throat.

The third runs.

I don’t shoot.

I want him alive.

I sprint after him, boots hammering against the steel grating. My vision narrows, the world funneled into a blur of red and movement. He slips down a side corridor, panting loud. I follow the sound—his breath, his fear, the slap of panic in his steps.

He tries to slam a door shut behind him.

I shoulder through it.

His back hits the wall. He raises his rifle.

I’m faster.

One hand on the muzzle, twist, crack. The other on his throat, claws digging just deep enough to draw blood.

“Where is she?” I growl.

He chokes, squirming, legs kicking against mine. “Top floor,” he gasps. “Observation cage. Same level as the dig console—northwest quadrant.”

I lean in until my breath sears his ear. “Thanks.”

Then I drop him. Hard. Not to the ground—to the edge of the stairwell. His scream cuts off sharp as his spine hits metal.

I don’t look back.

The rage doesn’t burn. It doesn’t howl.

It freezes .

Sharp and surgical, curling around my bones like frostbite.

They spoke about her like she was cargo. Like she was property. Like she wasn’t Alice .

I move fast now, climbing internal access ladders, bypassing main lifts. They’ve rerouted security power to the lower excavation lifts—stupid move. That leaves the upper decks stretched thin.

I reach a substation junction halfway up. The smell of ozone and sparking coolant burns in my nose. Perfect.

I pull open the panel. Wires spill out, still warm. I jam one of my charges into the center bundle, twist two live lines together, and slap the casing shut.

Timer: twelve seconds.

I move.

Next junction—same pattern. Third one, I rig to short out everything north of the structural supports. When these go off, the whole level will choke in darkness.

The alarm klaxons won’t even get a chance to warm up.

By the time I’m four stories from the top, the lights above me stutter. The hum of overhead systems dies a slow death, like a beast bleeding out.

Perfect.

The stairwell glows orange from emergency strips now, casting shadows thick enough to swim through.

I press a hand to the wall. It’s warmer here. Too much activity above—consoles, engines, excavation equipment. The floor vibrates, slight and rhythmic. Power tools. Maybe tunneling rigs.

But the vibrations don’t mask the sound of her.

Her heartbeat.

It’s faint. Fragile.

But it’s hers .

I close my eyes and follow it.

I’m coming.

I don’t see her first.

I hear her.

Her voice leaks through the vent above like a whisper stitched into the steel—soft, frayed around the edges, but steady.

“I’m still alive. Come find me.”

My knees damn near give out.

I press myself against the wall, forehead resting against cool metal, eyes clenched tight. That voice cuts through every layer of blood and fire I’ve crawled through to get here. It's not a scream. It's not a plea. It's a beacon. Unbreakable.

I murmur her name, low and ragged. “Alice.”

There’s a sharp inhale. I hear it. Feel it. That breath catches like a spark between us.

“Krall?” Her voice cracks. “Is it—oh gods, is it really you?”

I don’t answer with words.

I drive my claws into the vent seam, peel metal back like it’s wet cardboard. Sparks rain down around me, biting into my forearms, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Screws twist, rivets scream, steel groans—and then the panel gives.

She’s there.

Standing behind the cell bars, wrists scraped raw, eyes wide and wet in the dim emergency light. Her hair’s a mess. There’s a cut over her lip. And she’s perfect.

She moves before I do, slamming into the bars, fingers curling through them, face pressing close.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispers, and it wrecks me.

I let the rage carry me the rest of the way.

One hand grips the door. The other wrenches the central bar. It bends, then snaps free. I rip another out, the cage protesting, squealing under my fury. One final pull and the whole door shrieks open.

She doesn’t wait.

Alice hurls herself forward, and I catch her, arms locking around her body like it’s the last thing I’ll ever hold. She’s trembling. I can feel it. But her grip on me is iron.

No words. No speeches. Just breath against neck, arms wound tight, and her body against mine like a question I already know the answer to.

We stand like that for what feels like years.

Then the alarms start.

First a single tone—sharp and cold.

Then the klaxons follow, howling red into the corridor, bathing everything in pulses of emergency light. The floor shakes under our feet. Somewhere below, engines grind to life. Doors slam shut. Security systems arm.

I catch Funzil’s voice screeching through the overheads.

“Target in upper quadrant! Lock down sectors four through six! Engage intercept protocols! Do not let him reach the dig site! ”

So he’s still alive. Unfortunate.

Alice pulls back, face flushed, pupils wide with adrenaline. “What now?”

I meet her eyes, and my voice comes out low and calm. “We’re not running.”

She nods once, no hesitation.

“Good,” she says. “I’m done running too.”

We move.

She’s limping slightly, favoring her left side. I give her my shoulder. Her hand finds my back, warm against the plates there, grounding me.

We descend fast, back through the upper catwalks, sirens screaming around us. Guards flood corridors below, but I’ve already cut the main power—half the security doors are frozen mid-lock, flickering open and shut like mechanical spasms. We slip past them, shadows between strobes of light.

Alice grabs a dropped pistol off a corpse. Checks the mag. “Still warm,” she mutters, and pockets it.

“She hurt you?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. Not really. Misha… she hesitated.”

“Not enough,” I growl.

We hit the first stairwell, and she stops me.

“Krall.”

I turn, breath short, heart still burning.

She touches my face, fingers tracing a streak of blood across my jaw.

“You came for me,” she whispers.

“Always.”

That word hangs there, suspended between heartbeats.

Then we run.

Down into fire. Into steel. Into the war waiting at the bottom.