1. CHAPTER 1
Zayne
The Territories
Bluehaven, Antor
The days grew colder, the nights longer.
Still, the Ciondian War waged on, impartial to troops whose stiff feet bled in the cold, or families burning the last of their coal, praying for one more night before the frontlines engulfed their homes.
If war had any decency, it'd at least offer them warmth in death.
Of course, it had none. And those who waged it, somehow, even less.
Including Zayne Riven. He'd never stop hating himself for that.
Dust clouded the air in tiny grains that pattered against the windshield with each gust of wind, dulling the world outside.
Zayne craned his neck to check on the rest of his squad trailing them in the convoy, most laughing and chatting as if without a care in the world.
Yet a few stared out in silence past brown-tinted windows.
Young faces with jumpy eyes and pale skin.
Now Zayne understood why his mother lamented that war was fought by children.
He'd first set foot on the battlefield at seventeen, not realizing then how young he'd been.
After seven years of war, he felt much older, but one day he'd look back on this time in the same way.
And things kept getting worse. Ever since his father authorized fast-tracking soldiers two years ago, kids as young as fifteen left home to fight in the territories.
As the Phaedra's second in command, his old man possessed the power to push back against the emperor. So, why not?
Zayne squeezed the letter he held. He knew why, didn't he?
This message said it all. The Phaedra and his father acted in desperation to crush the uprising, no matter the inevitable escalation in bloodshed.
No matter that they'd use the young as fodder for their war.
And damn them for sending this to Zayne right before a mission.
The first line turned through his mind again and again.
It’s time.
The brutal plan to crush the uprising once and for all had begun.
Their emperor, the Phaedra, spent years planning this operation, obsessed with uniting the empire in time for the historic summit coming in three years.
For the first time since the Collapse, when the wealthy escaped Earth, the alliance of oceanic colonies planned to open diplomatic relations with the rest of the world.
The Old Ones left more advanced medical technology down below, and the Phaedra didn't care how many he needed to sacrifice to lay claim to it.
No one wanted war criminals at the summit, but if he ended the war and twisted the narrative to look like the hero, then he may get all he wanted.
The rebellion against the Phaedra never stood a chance of success, but the territories showed no signs of relenting. Their coalition—the United Armed Forces—gained little ground, and yet they held their own in the war against Ciondo. The empire remained trapped in deadly stasis.
Zayne wanted nothing to do with the cruelty of this war, nor any escalation prior to the summit. Even so, this letter told him that when he returned home, his father expected him to take charge of a branch of this abhorrent operation.
Too bad for them, Zayne had plans of his own. Plans to destroy the Phaedra from within and crush him like he crushed their people. Not that he could let anyone know.
It's time.
“No one's slept.” Zayne’s breath fogged the window.
He batted away the sound of his father's voice. He needed to focus on today, no matter the importance of the letter and the upcoming operation. If he lost sight of his squad, he’d fail them, and these people were his responsibility.
His war. “I don't like a change in mission under these circumstances.”
“We’re taking the injured into town.” Their medic, Brock, sat back, scratching his dark whiskers. The ends of his curly hair crept out from beneath his helmet. “Our division won’t be called for reinforcements at the bridge unless things go wrong. We should be fine.”
“Keep an eye on Graves.” Zayne looked at their newest private in the rearview mirror. The black band tattooed on his bicep, marking him a soldier of Ciondo, had hardly dried before they’d shipped him to the territories. At least Graves was of age, not one of the fast-tracked boys.
“Starting off in your squad is hard,” Corporal Edwards said with one hand on the wheel, her golden hair hidden beneath her cap in a bun. She sighed. “He knows your father might notice him.”
“We'll get Graves killed if we coddle him.”
Edwards shrugged in a sign that Zayne shouldn't be so hard on the younger soldiers for fearing his family. For centuries, the Rivens served at the side of the Phaedras, viewed as vessels of their divinity. But that was all bullshit. Graves should learn to focus on survival, not status.
A groan rolled from his lips, and Brock glanced at him with searching light brown eyes. His friend never missed when something deeper bothered him, so he turned away to face the window.
The city materialized down the road like a wildflower growing in the nothingness of the fields, its homes and buildings swarming the river that cut through the countryside. If Zayne blocked out the smoke rising from the east, it looked like a normal day for the people who lived here.
His earpiece buzzed with his captain’s voice. “The city is clear.”
His body felt heavy as his squad followed after most others through the town, keeping formation in the residential neighborhood.
Apartments lined the gravel road in evenly spaced rows of identical buildings, save for a variation of brown, red, or yellow paint.
Shingles hung from a roof to his right, while a doll covered in mud lay abandoned outside a door.
Did a child lose their favorite toy while rushing to evacuate the city?
His nieces loved their dolls so much. If one of the girls lost one, they'd cry too hard to sleep.
Zayne tightened his hold on his gun.
Scattered patches of grass crawled up from beneath the gravel in the only evidence of life in the city besides their division.
War painted over all the normal.
SEIZE YOUR LIFE
How?
Sights like this conjured those fiery words written in the sky, and how her emerald eyes burned with its glow.
He never rid his mind of her. His contacts reported on her, so he knew she survived, but that didn't tell him what he really wanted to know.
Whether she was safe. Whether she stayed alive—felt alive—in the midst of a regime bent on breaking every last soul in the empire.
He averted his eyes from the mud-covered doll and the reminder of innocence. What would she say if she knew what was coming? That the end was upon them?
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 the thunk, thunk, thunk of 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.
A lead blanket settled over his insides, one that blocked out the world, the people, and himself, so he only processed the necessities to keep his people alive. He didn't register the wails of the injured, or the fear blazing in young eyes—only the threats against his division.
Explosions, weapons, movement in the formation of soldiers.
Nothing else.
A bullet whizzed past Zayne’s ear; he fired on a target hunched by a window and opened a small hole between his eyes. Small. Neat. Effective.
A cry ripped through his intense focus, and beside him, Edwards crashed to one knee. Fumbling for her weapon, her hand staved off the dark blood pooling at her abdomen.
Shit. Fucking shit.
Zayne pivoted for his friend, skidding across the gravel, and yanked her to him. She struggled to grab the clotters that would swell inside her and pack the wound. So, Zayne snatched them, shoveled away the blood, and forced the applicator in. Edwards bucked against him, shrieking.
He wrapped his arms around his friend and held on with all his strength. “I've got you.”
Edwards couldn’t die here. She couldn't.
The thoughts felt distant, like someone yelled them from across the city.
Zayne dragged her to an alley, a prick of hope hitting him at the sight of the blood-soaked clotters bulging from her wound. A good sign that it might save her from catastrophic blood loss.
And then she vomited blood and bile all over her wound.
The pain stabbing into his heart felt as real as if he'd been shot, too. He raked his sleeve across her stomach to clear the mess away. How did he let this happen to her?
Edwards lifted four trembling fingers—always vigilant.
Four o’clock.
Zayne twisted. Caught the glint of the rocket-propelled grenade launcher aimed at a group of his privates hiding behind a dumpster.
On reflex, he trained his weapon on the enemy who stood exposed on the roof, and sheltered Edwards when he shot.
Fire.
A wall of hot air slammed into them, and he understood that he'd been too late.
That he'd shot at the same time as the other man.
The force of the blast threw Zayne back, and he bounced hard against the pavement, landing with his arms above his head and his fingertips brushing the cold of his weapon.
Pain splintered across his back and leg.
Edwards lay at an awkward angle on top of him.
Smoke rolled up from the dumpster.
No mercy.
He stared, smothered by pain and the weight of Edward's limp body. Stared and watched for movement from the dumpster that wasn't coming because he'd failed them all.
Dragging himself toward his squad, fire tore through his leg and hip. He slid his hand through blood to feel the mingling of torn flesh and the piping-hot projectile embedded in his own thigh. A hunk of twisted metal protruded from Edward's side, piercing them both.
No, no, she couldn't take more.
Dizziness dragged his head down beneath an endless gray sky.
Soldiers rushed past him with weapons raised. Zayne strained for his own as his eyes slid closed. As he slid, not into silence, but into screaming.
Screaming and fiery words that burned defiantly above the Phaedra's tower.
SEIZE YOUR LIFE