CHAPTER 12
DARUN
The ground’s been trying to kill us since dawn.
Every step’s a gamble. Every breath tastes like ash, and every stone underfoot could be the trigger plate of a buried mine, or worse—an Ataxian nest camouflaged by the canyon's broken skin. This isn’t terrain. This is a graveyard waiting for bodies.
I take point. Of course I do. She’s behind me, boots crunching just slightly off-beat, like she’s trying to mimic my stride and doesn’t quite get the rhythm yet. But she’s trying. I’ll give her that.
“Don’t step where I don’t,” I grunt over my shoulder. “Seriously. I lose a leg, I get a prosthetic. You lose a leg, and I have to carry you.”
“No offense,” Amy pants back, “but I don’t think you’re my type.”
I bite back the growl that wants to rise. Not because I’m angry. Because I almost—almost—choke on a laugh.
We move in silence for a stretch. The kind of silence that buzzes under your skin. The sun’s long gone behind the canyon rim, and every shadow’s too deep, too wide. The wind hissesthrough broken metal and singed rock like it’s whispering names. Names I don’t want to remember.
My HUD pings faintly—motion, northeast. Drone sweep. I throw up a hand and we freeze. I crouch low, motion her to follow. She does, no argument. Good. We tuck beneath a slab of hull half buried in the dirt, just wide enough for both of us if we press close. Her breath is fast, but controlled. No panic. Just awareness.
I catch the glint of her recorder still strapped tight to her chest.
“You really gonna keep that thing running?” I murmur.
“Someone has to remember this,” she says.
“People die remembering shit.”
She looks at me, blue eyes catching just enough light to spark. “People die being silent, too.”
I can’t argue with that. So I don’t. I wait until the drone hum fades into the distance, then nod. We move.
By nightfall, my legs are screaming. There’s a burn under my right pauldron that’s gone hot and wet—didn’t notice when I caught it in the firefight, but it’s definitely bleeding now. Can’t smell it yet over the stench of burnt fuel and sweat, but I feel it pulling at the joint with every swing of my arm.
Amy doesn’t mention it. Not even when I stagger a little cresting the next ridge.
She just says, “There,” and points to a half-collapsed depot barely visible in the low light. The metal’s twisted, roof torn off, one wall caved in. But it’s covered. Maybe even supplies if the gods are kind—which they aren’t.
We crawl inside and settle near the back wall. A pile of old ration crates makes a decent barricade. I slump against it, finally letting out the growl that’s been riding my ribs since midday.
“Shit.”
Amy crouches in front of me. Her hair’s tangled, dust-streaked, matted with sweat. She looks like hell. She also looks more alive than anyone I’ve seen in weeks.
“You’re hit,” she says. Not a question.
“It’s not bad,” I mutter.
“You’re lying.”
“I’ve had worse.”
She rolls her eyes, already yanking open her medkit. “Yeah, and next time you’ll have none.”
I don’t argue. Not because I agree, but because I’m too damn tired to fight her and the pain at once.
She kneels beside me, popping a sterile pack with a flick of her wrist. The scent of antiseptic hits me sharp. Her fingers work fast—stripping back armor plating, slicing through the tear in my undersuit. I hiss when the cold hits the wound.
“Don’t talk,” she says, voice sharp. “You’ll mess up my stitches.”
