RAGNAR
When the explosion hits, I’m crouched behind an overturned truck, blood trickling into my left eye. I wipe it away with a shaking hand, trying to focus on the dark outline of the bushes ahead.
I know another charge went off under the second truck, more direct this time.
I mutter a curse, adrenaline flooding my veins. My body itches to shift into imago , my combat form, but I don’t let myself feel too eager. This isn’t just about me. If I run toward the truck now, the enemy will realize we’re alive. I’ll draw their attention straight to the potential survivors.
The decision waits. If I go like this, I might catch a spray of bullets, but if I shift, they won’t be able to kill me.
I hesitate. What should I do?
In my transformed state, crawling gets harder, but that’s exactly what I need to do right now. I can’t leave Lieutenant Nolan behind.
After a quick analysis of my options, I decide to crawl. No transforming. It’s a huge risk, but I can’t just sit here.
This route was supposed to be safe. Our convoys have used it for years. Humanitarian missions are usually left alone by the NFH rebels. Not this time. This is a warning.
I drop to my stomach and scan for the safest path. There’s a shallow ditch running along the road, wet and muddy, but it’s my only cover. I start moving, heart pounding like mad.
In the distance, I hear voices. Then a burst of sharp gunfire.
Shit. This isn’t good.
The second truck is about fifty yards away, out in the open, but I don’t slow down.
In the dim light, I see smoke rising from the vehicle. It’s a miracle it didn’t explode, though that could still happen any second.
I move faster, legs catching on tall grass, tangled roots, and fallen branches. I push through the undergrowth. Two more minutes. One more. I’m close.
A moan pierces the silence: raw, anguished, broken. Then a choked sob.
I know that voice. Lieutenant Hunter Nolan.
Something’s happened. Could it be…?
I don’t let myself guess. I’ve got maybe ten feet left. I crawl with extra caution. This area’s likely under watch. The explosion might’ve drawn militants from farther out.
Finally, I reach the truck. It’s on its side, so I can’t see what’s behind it. I circle around… and freeze.
Lieutenant Nolan is kneeling, cradling his husband’s body in his arms. Field medic, Second Lieutenant Olaf Nolan.
Hunter is hunched over, trembling. I can sense it: he wants to scream, but some scrap of reason holds him back.
"Lieutenant!" I call out, so he knows I’m approaching.
He doesn’t respond.
I rise from the ground and crawl to him on my knees. One look is all I need.
Half of Olaf’s face is gone. His blond hair is soaked in blood. His one remaining eye stares blankly at the sky.
A curse escapes me. I lift a hand and gently close the dead eye, no longer seeing this world… or maybe any world. Hard to say.
I wish I could do something. Anything. Turn back time. Kill them all.
A flashback hits me hard. Six years ago, a tourist bus was attacked.
My beloved granddad was one of the victims. NFH picked his bus at random, just to send a message, a tactic to spread fear.
He died, burned alive. He’s the reason I enlisted: to protect innocent people from militants and escort humanitarian aid convoys.
I look at Hunter. He’s in shock, one I know too well.
This was supposed to be Olaf’s last mission. He was a doctor. He brought aid to war-torn regions. But once he got pregnant, he decided to retire from active duty. Today was supposed to be his final run.
This route was considered safe. Nothing had ever happened here. No attacks. No traps.
I take a deep breath against the weight of this senseless loss. It saps my strength, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what to say. I really don’t. There are no words for this kind of grief.
The same kind of grief ended my childhood. At eighteen, I left my carefree life behind, devastated by my granddad's death. Everything was set aside. My beloved bike. My garden. My friends.
Since that day, I’ve lived in constant depression, stress, and this looming sense that it’s all pointless. NFH is never going to stop. We are just dying here, trying to keep countless villages from being burned and children from being slaughtered.
And my life was disappearing every day. It still is.
I reach out and lay a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to feel it. His eyes… they don’t even look human anymore. They remind me of Olaf’s. Blank, lifeless. Like part of his soul is gone.
Hunter and Olaf were High Mates. Almost perfect compatibility, a step away from being True Mates.
I tighten my grip on his shoulder, almost painfully, trying to snap him out of it.
"Lieutenant, we have to go. The enemy could be here any second…"
Still no response. He doesn’t even seem to hear me.
For a moment, my mind blanks out too. It’s just too close to home.
We both kneel in silence. Hunter rocks Olaf’s body gently, blond hair sticky with blood resting on his arm.
"It was supposed to be his last mission," Hunter whispers, voice shredded and rough. "His last, and then…"
He chokes on a sob, bowing his head, his whole body shaking.
I can’t accept it either. A brutal, meaningless death, for a man who spent his life helping the wounded and sick.
"Fucking bastards," I mutter. "He did everything he could to ease their pain, and now—"
But I stop myself. Hunter’s sobbing worsens. My words aren’t helping.
"We have to get to safety," I say, my voice hardening. "We need to move. This place is too exposed. They could attack any minute."
Nothing. He doesn’t even flinch.
"We need to bring his body back to base," I add, hoping that’ll break through. Give him a reason to act, to move, even just an inch. This stillness is dangerous.
It works. Hunter stirs. Just a little.
"Yes," he whispers, still not lifting his head.
Just then, I hear tires rolling up.
Our convoy had three vehicles. Sergeant Cornel was in the last one, which had radiator issues, so he fell behind.
I hear brakes screech behind the truck. Doors slam open. It’s muffled, my ears are still ringing from the blast, but I know something’s wrong.
Three figures appear behind the truck.
Not Cornel.
His truck must’ve been hijacked by the NFH. Luckily, they probably didn’t expect survivors. Maybe the smoke confused them.
My body moves on instinct.
A split second before their guns line up to fire, I lunge, slamming into the two standing closer and taking them down. I’m unarmed, except for one weapon: my body.
My forearms tense. Spikes shoot out from beneath my skin. The ones on my right arm drive straight up through the first militant’s throat and into the base of his skull. The left set pierce the second man’s shoulder.
He screams. Thrashes. I retract the spikes and shove down harder, pinning him to the ground. Then I extend them again, this time, they punch into the side of his face, bursting through his eye sockets, tearing through bone.
He goes still.
Behind me, Hunter finishes off the third. A knife sticks out of the militant’s eye. Hunter’s breathing hard. There’s a ferocity in his expression, rage, almost madness. He stares down at the bodies, then at me, his gaze dropping to the silver spikes still protruding from my arms.
The guys in the unit know I’m not a typical alpha. But they rarely get to see this part of me. We’re not front-line troops, we escort humanitarian convoys.
"We need to move," I say sharply. "It’s getting more dangerous by the second. There’s no way that squad only had three men. Reinforcements are definitely coming."
Finally, Hunter nods.
"You’re right, Sergeant."
He bends down and lifts his husband’s body into his arms. His face is pale as chalk. We carefully peek around the overturned truck. The other vehicle, the one they arrived in, is empty, doors flung wide open.
We don’t have a choice.
We sprint toward it and jump inside. I help him place Olaf’s body in the middle seat. Then we take off.
This time, my hands don’t shake on the wheel. Every time I extend my spikes, my body becomes a weapon. And my mind follows. It sharpens, focuses.
We drive into the thickening dusk. I know this stretch is clear, we passed through earlier, but there could still be fighters nearby. I stay alert, eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement, all senses are maxed out.
The silence persists between us.
Hunter just stares at his husband’s limp body, completely still. He doesn’t say a word the entire drive back to base. And I get it. If I were him, I wouldn’t be able to speak either.
This kind of grief hits later, when you’re alone, in the darkness of the night. And when it does, it kills you a second time. Then a third. Again and again.
***
Back at base, everyone’s already on edge.
This kind of direct attack from the NFH hasn’t happened in months.
Morale is shot. We lost four people. The air feels heavy with tension.
We have five more convoys to escort and it does not look good.
The militants win, take over, kill more and more.
Death walks with them. The livings lose.
But now, I’ve got something else waiting for me. I’ve barely stepped out of the debriefing with the commander when the comms officer flags me down in the hallway.
"Sergeant Larsen, your parents have been trying to reach you for a few hours. They’re… really anxious to talk."
I blink. My parents? That’s not like them.
"A few hours?"
He nods. His expression’s cautious. This is beyond unusual. They’ve never tried to contact me since I was stationed here. I’m the one who calls, at scheduled times, on a secure line.
I head to my room and open the encrypted military channel. A moment later, my dad’s face fills the screen. Then my father joins him.
Dad’s eyes are red and swollen, his face is pale, drawn tight with tension.
"Raggi… we’ve got bad news. Terrible news."
All my senses go hyper-focused. I already know this isn’t a conversation I’ll walk away from the same.