“What does that mean?”I asked, though the dread pooling in my stomach suggested I already knew.
Mercer reached into his uniform pocket and withdrew a folded telegraph, its edges crisp with the precision that characterized everything about him.He placed it on the refectory’s central table—a massive oak slab that had survived whatever artillery had claimed the roof above it.
“New orders,” he said, tapping the paper with one pale finger.“Direct from General Gantry himself.We are to assault a fortified German ammunition depot two nights from now.”
Thomas stepped closer to read the telegraph, his eyes widening.“But this is—“
“A suicide mission,” Vincent finished for him.“The depot is surrounded by three concentric rings of defense.”
I shook my head.“Even with our abilities, penetrating that deeply into enemy territory would be nearly impossible.”
“And extracting ourselves afterward would be entirely impossible,” Desiderius added.“This is not a mission.It is a sacrifice.”
I reached for the telegraph, my fingers closing around the thin paper.The language was terse, but precise: NIGHT BATTALION TO NEUTRALIZE AMMUNITION DEPOT AT COORDINATES 50.837, 2.924.NO SURVIVORS EXPECTED AMONG ENEMY COMBATANTS.MISSION CRITICAL TO UPCOMING OFFENSIVE.
“No survivors expected,” I repeated, the words bitter on my tongue.“Among enemy combatants or among us?”
Mercer’s expression remained impassive.“That distinction wasn’t specified.”
I met his gaze, searching for some hint of resistance, some indication that he found these orders as unconscionable as I did.I found nothing but the cool assessment of a soldier prepared to follow orders without question.
“You know this is madness,” I said quietly.“They’re sending us to be destroyed.”
“They’re sending us to destroy a target essential to the Allied war effort,” he corrected.“One that conventional forces cannot approach without sustaining unacceptable casualties.”
“And what of our casualties?”I demanded, my voice rising despite my efforts to maintain calm.“What of these souls placed in my care?”
“Avoid any wood to the heart and you’ll be fine.”His tone was matter-of-fact.
I rolled my eyes.“Unless we’re bombed.Torn apart.”
Mercer smirked.“Then you’d better hope all the king’s horses and men can do a better job putting you together again than they did for Humpty Dumpty.”
I huffed.“This isn’t funny, Mercer!Fire will still destroy us, even if we aren’t staked in the heart.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened.“We made an agreement, Alice.You promised to follow whatever orders came next without debate.”His voice dropped lower, meant for my ears alone.“Remember Bishop Harkins.Remember what happens if you fail to comply.”
The threat hung in the air between us, sharp as the scent of blood.
“Two nights,” I said finally.“That gives us little time to prepare.”
“It gives us exactly the time we need,” Mercer replied.“No more, no less.”
The heavy oak door to the refectory swung open with a groan.Lieutenant Maurice Dupont stepped through, his uniform pristine despite the late hour.
“Ah, the heroes return,” he said, his French accent lending the words a musical quality at odds with their sardonic delivery.His eyes found mine immediately.
“Lieutenant,” Mercer acknowledged with a curt nod.“We were just discussing our next operation.”
“So I gathered,” Dupont replied, moving further into the room.“The ammunition depot at Messines.A formidable target.”
I watched him carefully, noting the way his eyes never left mine even as he addressed Mercer.He already knew about the mission.There was something in his gaze—not fear, not curiosity, but a knowing assessment that sent a chill down my spine.Did he know what we were?
Mercer must have sensed my discomfort, for he abruptly stepped back, retreating into the deeper shadows at the edge of the refectory where the moonlight filtering through the damaged ceiling could not reach.“I’ll leave you to coordinate with our liaison,” he said, his voice already fading as he moved toward the door.“I have preparations to make.”
Idraggedthelastof the wooden benches across the chapel floor, wincing as its legs scraped against worn flagstones.Three days of careful work had transformed this shattered sanctuary from a shell-pocked ruin to something approximating its original purpose.Shattered stained glass had been replaced with canvas, bullet holes in the carved saints remained as kind of modern stigmata, and the altar remained miraculously intact despite the destruction all around it.It wasn’t perfect, but neither were we—the broken serving the broken in a war that had no respect for anything sacred.
Evening shadows lengthened across the nave as my flock gathered for prayer.This ritual had become more essential than ever since our arrival at the front—a fragile tether to our humanity amid the constant pull of predatory instinct.Ruth arrived first, her movements betraying an unusual restlessness.Rebecca followed, her eyes downcast as though avoiding my gaze.One by one, they took their places on the rough wooden benches, Brother Vincent maintaining a straight-backed posture even in prayer, Maria’s face composed in its usual mask of serene devotion.Desiderius entered last, positioning himself at the rear.
