For a heartbeat, the air between us crackles—hot, electric, dangerous. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. He says nothing.
The soldier escorting me clears his throat nervously. “This is Sergeant Darun. He’ll be… keeping an eye on you.”
“Oh,” I say brightly. “How comforting.”
Darun’s eyes flick down to my recorder, then back up to my face. “Don’t slow us down,” he rumbles. His voice is a low, vibrating growl I feel in my chest more than my ears.
I lift the recorder and click it off. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply.
As the escort leaves, the wind picks up, whipping dust around us. I smell ozone, sweat, and something metallic beneath his armor. He smells like blood and hot iron and something I can’t name. He stands his ground. So do I.
Behind him, Kanapa’s banner snaps in the wind—a black trident on red. Around me, soldiers glance at us and quickly look away. The sun drops lower, casting long shadows like claws across the camp.
I take a step closer, chin high. “Guess we’re stuck together, Sergeant.”
His golden eyes don’t blink. “Guess we are,” he says.
And just like that, the war has a new front line.
CHAPTER 2
DARUN
She smells like city soap and synthetic perfume—too clean for war. Too soft for this place. She’s a brittle little thing wrapped in arrogance and press credentials, standing in the dust like she owns the godsdamned ground.
Amy Matthews.Ataxian Amy.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye while I check the crawler’s undercarriage. She’s not talking. That’s the only thing she has going for her right now. The wind tugs at her jacket, blonde hair catching in the straps of her recorder rig. She looks like a half-lost comm intern on her first day. She’s going to get someone killed.
“New meat,” Varr mutters beside me, his breath wet with morning rations. He jerks his chin at her. “Think she’ll cry during the drills?”
“Think she’ll slow us down,” I grunt, tightening the coupler with a sharp twist. “That’s worse.”
The thing is, she doesn’t look scared. She looks curious. I hate that. This isn’t some tech expo or a peace summit—it’s a warzone. The minute you start asking questions out here, someone starts bleeding.
Kanapa’s voice slices through the static of the camp intercom. “Bravo Squad. Formation drill. Now.”
We fall in. I lace my fingers behind my back, stance straight, boots heavy on the tarmac. Amy follows, of course. Her boots crunch unevenly on the gravel.
“You’re not squad,” I snap without looking at her.
“I’m embedded,” she snaps back. “Get used to it.”
Her voice is low, tight. She’s trying not to sound winded. She keeps up surprisingly well for someone who’s clearly never worn armor heavier than a fashion vest.
Kanapa marches toward us with that brutal stride—left leg clicking slightly, the servo in his cybernetic hip whining just under hearing range. It always puts my teeth on edge. He stops in front of us, scans the line, and his gaze lands on Amy like a dagger.
“This,” he says, gesturing at her with his metal hand, “is a liability. And liabilities get soldiers killed. But command wants a damn documentary, so treat her like a piece of equipment. Not like one of us.”
I nod, jaw clenched. Amy doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink.
After the briefing, we start the run. The desert’s a merciless bastard this time of day—sun high, heat rising off the ground like the whole planet’s trying to breathe through cracked lips.
Amy insists on running with us.
I watch her stumble over a rock the size of a ration tin and nearly eat dirt before righting herself with a mumbled curse.
“She’s gonna collapse before checkpoint,” Varr says behind me.
