Page 71 of Fated in A Time of War

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.