I grabbed my rifle from its place by the door. Checked the chamber. Found the calm place inside me where fear couldn’t reach, the place Torek had built one patient lesson at a time.
The ghost of his thumb on my lip followed me out the door.
The barn loft was cold.
I settled into position, rifle nearby. The same position I’d held last night, through hours of darkness and death. The same view of the fields, the same angle on the approaches.
But everything was different now.
The sun was dropping fast. Late afternoon bleeding into dusk, the light amber and thick. They weren’t supposed to attack until dark. That was what we’d planned for, what we’d built our defenses around.
But wars didn’t wait for plans. And the alarm kept screaming, and through my scope I could see movement in the southern tree line. Shapes separating from shadows. Lots of them.
His voice crackled through the comm. “Multiple contacts. Southern approach. They’re coming in force.”
“How many?”
A pause. I could picture him on the ridge, counting. That patience Torek had taught him, all those years ago.
“All of them.”
I chambered a round. Settled my breathing. Found the rhythm Torek had drilled into me, the economy of movement that had kept me alive this long.
The ghost of Kallum’s touch lingered on my cheek. His thumb against my lip. The question he hadn’t finished asking.
Anhara.
The first wave hit the trap line.
Explosions bloomed across the southern field. Screaming started, distant and thin. His rifle cracked from the ridge, precise and unhurried.
I sighted down the scope. Found a target. Breathed out.
Squeezed.
The man dropped. I found another. Squeezed again.
The rhythm took over. Shoot. Breathe. Shoot. The same dance I’d done last night, the same steps Torek had taught me.
But somewhere underneath the calm, underneath the training and the discipline and the cold place where fear couldn’t reach, I could still feel his hand on my face.
And I held onto that warmth as the killing started again.
KALLUM
I’d expected them to wait until full dark. Amateur tactic. The survivors from last night’s assault had apparently convinced their reinforcements that we were dangerous enough to warrant overwhelming force, but not dangerous enough to warrant patience.
Figures emerged from the southern tree line. Spread in a loose formation, three-meter spacing. Someone had given them basic training. Not enough.
“Contact,” I said into the comm. “Full assault. Southern approach.”
Her voice came back steady. “I see them.”
I settled behind the rocks on the ridge, rifle braced. The position gave me clear sightlines across the southern field, the approaches to the barn, the farmhouse perimeter. She was in the loft, covering the eastern flank and the gaps my angle couldn’t reach.
I’d faced worse odds. Just not with something worth losing.
Don’t think about her hands on the rifle. Focus.
