“Protective.”
“Possessive.” She turned toward the exit. “Come on. We have traps to lay.”
I followed her out of the processing station, into the night air, under stars that didn’t care about Conclaves or Regalia or whatever was building between us.
We worked through the night.
Anhara showed me her hidden caches of weapons and explosives, stockpiled over years of quiet paranoia. I contributed my own supplies: mines, tripwires, sensor drones, everything I’d brought for a mission I’d expected to be quick and clean.
We laid traps across every approach. Pressure plates in the tall grass. Fragmentation charges hidden in the tree line. Soundgrenades set to trigger in sequence, herding any assault toward our prepared positions.
By dawn, the peaceful farm had become a killing ground.
I stood on the ridge above the compound, looking down at what we’d built. The fields looked innocent in the gray morning light. The farmhouse, the barn, the garden. All of it unchanged.
But I knew where the death was hidden now. Knew the paths that were safe and the paths that would kill.
Anhara appeared beside me, moving quiet.
“I need to contact my team,” I said. “Let them know the situation. But they’re days away, even at full burn. We’ll have to hold until they arrive.”
“Just us,” she said. “And Turnip.”
“And Turnip.”
She almost smiled. “He’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t get to gore anyone.”
“Then let’s make sure he gets the opportunity.”
She did smile then. A real smile, small but warm. It changed her whole face, made her look younger, lighter. Made something catch in my chest.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I didn’t think I would be. But I am.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t have words for what I was feeling, the strange mix of purpose and fear and something else, something I hadn’t felt in so long I’d forgotten what to call it.
“Get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll take first watch.”
She nodded. Turned toward the house. Paused.
“Kallum.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t die.”
“I don’t plan to.”
She held my eyes for a moment longer. Then she walked away. Turnip trotted after her without looking back.
I watched her go. Watched until she disappeared into the farmhouse, until the door closed behind her, until I was alone on the ridge with the rising sun and the weight of what was coming.
ANHARA
The waiting was the worst part.
I’d positioned myself in the barn loft, rifle braced against the window frame, cheek pressed to the cold stock. The moon hung low and heavy, casting shadows that moved with the wind. Every rustle of grass could be footsteps. Every creak of timber could be someone testing the boards below.
Don’t die.
