I’d said it like it meant nothing. Like it was something you tossed off before a meal, not before a battle. But it had slipped out anyway, past all my defenses, and now it sat in my chest like a stone I couldn’t swallow.
The comm unit in my ear crackled. His voice, low and steady. “Movement on the north ridge. Four contacts.”
I adjusted my grip. Breathed out slowly, the way Torek had taught me. Let everything narrow to the scope, the field, the eastern tree line where shapes were separating from shadows.
“I see movement east. Three, maybe four.”
“They’re splitting their approach. Flanking.”
“Smart.”
“Expected.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by my own heartbeat thudding against my ribs. Somewhere below, Turnip shifted in the darkness of the back entrance. I’d stationed him at the one path that wasn’t mined. If anyone made it past the traps, they’d meet him first.
He’d been restless all evening. Eager. Like he could smell what was coming.
“Kallum.”
“Yes?”
I wanted to say something. Something real. Something that matched the weight sitting behind my ribs. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled and useless, and then the first trap exploded.
Light and soundripped through the northern field.
A pressure plate. Someone had stepped exactly where we’d wanted them to step, and fire bloomed orange against the dark, and the screaming started.
I forced myself to breathe. Forced my hands to stay steady on the rifle.
From the ridge, his rifle cracked. Once. The sound carried across the farm, precise and unhurried.
I counted. One.
Another crack. Two.
Then a third. Three.
He was taking his time. Making each shot matter. I pictured him up there in the dark, eye to the scope, finger squeezing slow. Patient. Methodical.
Don’t die.
The eastern approach erupted with movement.
Men in dark armor broke from the tree line, running low through the tall grass. Four of them fanned out, heading for the fence where they thought they’d find cover.
I tracked the one in front through my scope. Watched him run. Watched his boots churn through the grass Torek had planted five seasons ago.
My finger found the trigger. Cold metal. Familiar weight.
He reached the fence. Started to vault over.
I squeezed.
The rifle kicked against my shoulder. The man’s head snapped back, and he crumpled over the fence rail, one leg still hooked on the wood.
The one behind him stumbled, tried to change direction. I adjusted. Breathed out. Fired again.
He dropped into the grass and didn’t move.
