“You came here to destroy us,” he pants, advancing again. “To drag our women back to those hellholes you call facilities.”
“I came here because I had to,” I snap back, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Something in my tone makes him pause. His eyes narrow, studying the little he can glimpse of my face.
His observation terrifies me more than his physical attacks. But I let him look—will him to understand that I don’t want to hurt him. For a moment I’m certain he does, but his expression hardens again before he tackles me around the waist, sending us both crashing to the forest floor.
We roll across the ground, fighting for advantage. His elbow catches my ribs, driving the air from my lungs, and I retaliate with a knee to his stomach, earning a grunt of pain. Dirt and leaves stick to our clothes as we struggle.
He gains the upper hand, pinning me beneath his weight. His hands close around my throat, and panic floods mysystem. Not because I’m afraid of dying—though I am—but because if he removes my mask, anyone could appear and learn what I really am.
My vision blurs at the edges. Through the growing darkness, I see his face above mine, set with grim determination. He’s not enjoying this. He’s doing what he believes necessary to protect his people.
Just like I’m supposed to be doing for mine.
The thought rouses me. A drill from training plays through my mind—the Commander demonstrated turning under an opponent’s weight, angling your hip so their force becomes your opening. The motions flip in my head, and I reach for the knife on my belt, my fingers closing around the handle. The blade slides free with a tone so quiet the blood funneling through my ears drowns it out.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, twisting my hip and driving it upward.
The point finds the gap between his ribs, sliding into his chest with sickening ease. His eyes widen, more in surprise than pain, before his grip loosens, hands shifting to the fresh wound.
Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and warm. The metallic smell mingles with the forest, creating a stomach-churning scent of life and death.
“Why?” he gasps, his weight settling heavier on my chest.
I have no answer that would satisfy either of us. Instead, I ease him to the side, watching as the light fades from his eyes. His last breath escapes in a small sigh, barely audible over the shouts in the distance.
I sit back on my heels, staring at what I’ve done.
Don’t cry, don’t cry.
I just killed a man. I just took a life without a second thought, as if I have any right to do so.
My hands shake as I wipe them along my pant legs, the motion automatic despite the horror coursing through me. This man died protecting his community and family. His freedom. And I killed him for it.
A heavy weight settles across my shoulders, and I don’t think I’ll be rid of it anytime soon. I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross, become something I swore I’d never be. The fact I had no choice doesn’t lessen the burden—it only makes it more bitter.
Gunfire draws closer, snapping me back to the present. I need to move; rejoin the others before my absence is noted. Stars forbid my team find me here bawling over someone I was supposed to enjoy killing. I push to my feet, legs unsteady beneath me.
The battle has shifted deeper into the forest. I follow the sounds, my steps careful through the maze of trees. Shuffling drifts between the trunks, and the sour smell of more death strengthens with each step.
I emerge into a wider clearing where the main engagement is. Our forces have the escapees pinned against a rocky outcropping, but they’re fighting with the desperation of people defending their homes. They know this terrain. We’re just intruders.
The other recruits are spread through the terrain while Arayik crouches behind a fallen log, barking orders into his watch. Kellen has taken position on higher ground, his rifle eliminating targets with methodical precision. And Elias?—
Elias moves through the chaos like a force of nature—an expert in a field of war. But his attention keeps drifting to something beyond the immediate battle, something that makes his jaw tighten.
I follow his gaze, and my blood turns to ice.
Civilians.
A group of maybe a dozen women and two children huddle behind a cluster of trees at the far edge of the clearing. They’re trying to escape, to slip away while the fighters hold our attention. One of the women clutches an infant to her chest, her face pale with terror. The children can’t be more than five or six years old.
Orders echo in my mind: capture the women and children. They’re resources to be collected, processed, assigned to facilities or families as the Syndicate sees fit. The children will be separated by gender—boys trained as future Enforcers, girls prepared for breeding.
I raise my weapon, sighting on the group. My finger finds the trigger, applies the slightest pressure.
And freezes.
