SEIZE
Zayne grunted, eyes narrowing.
YOUR
Kira's smoldering green stare blurred with the Phaedra's dark eyes.
LIFE
Not everyone in the Ciondian Empire was born to live. Most were born to die, like the fast-track soldiers. Some to kill. And a select few, like Zayne and all the Rivens before him, were born for the worst. Born to shatter those who refused to surrender to the Phaedra.
Kira proved to be rarer than any of them. Born not just to live but to breathe life into a soulless empire.
If he knew how to hope, he might feel it for her.
“Why didn’t the United set up base here?” Edwards peered at him.
His corporal's voice jerked him from his thoughts.
Shit. Focus.
“They have a fortified base south of the bridge,” Zayne said.
“How convenient.” She pursed her lips. “They left us such a nice zone.”
He searched the rooftops and windows. She was right, as usual. They all grew up in the military academy, preparing from childhood for the steep competition of promotion to officer. But of all people, Edwards deserved a higher rank sooner. When she spoke, he listened. No questions asked.
She surveyed the perimeter. “I know they swept the buildings, but it doesn’t seem right.”
Zayne caught the dim reflection of the sun burning beneath dark clouds on a window three stories up to his right. He blinked and continued to watch until he walked far enough to lose the glare.
Another window nearby caught his eye. He held his breath, squinted at the glass pane.
Nothing.
Zayne’s muscles had just relaxed when static interrupted thethunk, thunk, thunkof boots.
“Houses!” The cry echoed from each radio. “The houses—”
Gunfire exploded up the road.
In an instant, the past and future ceased to exist, and his world narrowed to movement, threat, his squad. To their survival. Alarm followed on its heels. Maybe some form of fear he no longer knew how to feel.
Zayne motioned to the left and right, aiming his weapon by instinct. His squad broke into two teams, each rushing for cover. Private Graves dove into an alleyway, Brock at his heels. Good.
The first splash of red seared Zayne's vision ten feet ahead of him. Blood spurted from a private’s neck, and his body crumpled over his rifle. Just like that, a matter of seconds ignited an inferno of war and gunfire. Of screaming and bullets filling the silence left by abandoned homes, ripping into the remnants—the facade—of normalcy.
Windows all down the street were shattered. Doors swung open.
Pop.
Beside him, a corporal’s shoulder jerked. The wind caught the red spray of flesh and uniform, peppering Zayne. He hardly registered it.
Only one thought found its way through the chaos. Who reported the town as secure when it was a minefield of enemy soldiers? And where could he find them to bash their face in?
Holding his breath, Zayne swung his gun towards a two-story window and pulled the trigger on a sniper. He kept his feet moving and his weapon trained while swarms of United soldiers tore for the town square or held their ground from the buildings.
The troops closing in on them squeezed his chest. They were surrounded. No time for that. No time for feeling or thinking.
