Page 92 of Fated in A Time of War

I hit the floor hard, rolling behind what’s left of a half-melted support pillar. Shrapnel sings overhead, clattering against the walls like rain made of knives. My ears ring. My throat tastes like copper. For a breathless moment, all I hear is the distant whine of pressure alarms and the slow drip of coolant from a ruptured pipe above.

Then hands—strong, familiar—haul me upright.

Krall.

His arms wrap around me without hesitation, pulling me tight against his chest, my face pressed against warm, soot-caked scales. His heartbeat pounds against my ear like a war drum. I clutch his side, fingers digging into torn fabric and hot flesh, afraid to let go. Neither of us speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

The tower groans around us like it’s dying. Flames crawl up the far wall, casting flickering shadows that stretch and twitch with every breath the building takes. One of the corridors behind us caves in with a crash, sending sparks geysering upward.

The Wrecking Kru is no more.

Bonesnapper’s voice—so smug, so sure—has gone silent.

The mercs who haven’t fled are either dead or buried. The corridors are empty now, except for the fire and the ghosts we made.

I pull back just enough to look at Krall. His face is a mess of bruises and ash, blood streaking from a gash above his left eye, but his expression is the same it’s always been in moments like this: calm, solid, there. My breath hitches.

“We did it,” I say. It comes out in a whisper.

His eyes scan the ruins, his jaw tight. “You did it. That turret shot saved us both.”

I shake my head. “We don’t keep score. Not anymore.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Instead, he slips his arm around my shoulders again and we stagger out into what’s left of the base.

The fire has gutted half the tower’s support columns. It won’t last much longer. Pipes burst in the distance, and warning klaxons howl somewhere deep in the infrastructure, all fury and futility. Every step we take echoes like footsteps in a tomb.

By the time we reach the loading dock, the sky outside is visible through the blasted open roof. It’s gray and jagged, stained with smoke, but there—high above the clouds—is something I haven’t seen in days.

Open air.

No dropships, bombers, and mech silhouettes prowling the clouds like vultures. Just a heavy wind and the faint glint of starlight trying to break through the ash layer. The last of the enemy fire has gone silent. No more mortar shrieks. No more gunfire stutters. Just the crackle of distant flames and the wind whining through broken steel.

Krall exhales slow, his breath clouding faintly in the cooler air, and his hand tightens on mine. I lean into him.

We stand there in the middle of what used to be the most dangerous outpost on Tanuki, both of us filthy and battered and bleeding. The scent of burned wiring sticks to the back of my throat. The wind stings the cuts on my face, and my legs ache like they’re filled with concrete. But I’ve never felt lighter.

I tilt my head to look up at him. His eyes are fixed on the sky, unreadable.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze drops to meet mine, and something flickers behind his eyes—something soft and pained and unsure. He nods once.

But we both know the truth.

Neither of us is really sure wherehomeis anymore.

CHAPTER 27

KRALL

The walk back feels longer than it should.

Not because of the distance. Because of the silence.