Under Fire #3
They’d covered only a few brutal miles. Collin didn’t want to stop—not with Chroma still several miles ahead—but his body ached with relief when they finally did.
They collapsed near the creek they’d been following, its steady trickle the only sound besides their ragged breathing.
He told himself they couldn’t afford to rest, but part of him was grateful for the chance to sit still, even just for a moment.
Collin plunged his hands into the creek, and for a few seconds, the ache in his body blurred into nothing. Cold numbed his skin, cleared the fog in his head. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
He splashed his face and peeled off his shirt, scrubbing away sweat and dust in slow, deliberate strokes. He dunked the fabric in the stream, watching the dirt swirl off like smoke. “This takes me back. Remember when you broke your leg, Lekyi?”
“Oh yeah,” Aries said, crouching at the edge to splash water over his face. “Collin and I had to drag you all the way to the hospital.”
Lekyi propped himself up just enough to dip his fingers into the water. “I remember. Except back then, I fell out of a tree. Nothing blew up around me.”
Collin let out a low chuckle. “Right. You were a noble knight storming a haystack fortress. Got as far as the first branch before gravity betrayed you.”
Lekyi managed a weak smile.
“I think we used a wagon door as a stretcher that day,” Collin added. “Aries kept tripping. I was accused of dramatizing your injuries for attention.”
Aries snorted. “Well, you did ask three passing girls if they wanted to help ‘save a fallen hero.’”
Collin shrugged. “I was twelve. And they did help. Sort of. Emotionally.”
The water pulled tension from his limbs and softened the knot in his stomach. His shoulders dropped for the first time in hours. Even Lekyi stirred beside him, grimacing through another mouthful of water, but still alert, and that was enough for now.
They settled into a brief silence, drinking and washing up.
Collin gazed up at the canopy above. The tangle of branches carved the blue sky into a thousand shapes, like shards of glass spread across a table. It was strangely beautiful.
His stomach growled loudly.
Aries pulled a slightly squashed packet from his pocket. “Here.” He tossed it into the air.
Collin tore it open eagerly and divided the tough brown bread between them. Aries devoured his in seconds. Lekyi only nibbled at his.
As they ate, Lekyi nudged a rock with his good foot, startling a small newt that scurried into the muddy water.
“What were you two even doing out here?” Lekyi snapped, a flash of frustration cutting through his hoarseness. “Did you not see the yellow markers?”
Aries pulled the crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and flipped it idly between two fingers. “You mean this thing?”
Lekyi’s glare could’ve scorched the creek dry.
Collin raised his hands. “It’s not like we thought, ‘You know what sounds fun today? Wandering through a hidden minefield.’"
“I have to say,” Aries added, “the hospitality could use work.”
Lekyi groaned faintly and let his head drop back. “I wasn’t trying to blow up the forest. The chief steward asked me to improve the black powder—find more uses. Make it safer to handle.”
Collin turned the handkerchief over in his hands. Except for Montigo’s seal embroidered in gold thread, it looked like any old rag. “More uses? Like what? Creative tree removal?”
Lekyi didn’t rise to the jab. His gaze had drifted, following a few dry leaves as they coasted along the surface of the stream. “I haven’t made it safe enough yet.”
“You will,” Aries said. “You always do.”
Collin nodded quietly. No one questioned Lekyi’s genius—it had been evident since they were children.
While the rest of them were still figuring out how to hold a compass, Lekyi was sketching new navigation tools from memory and correcting the teacher.
He’d won the Scholar’s Prize while most of them were still memorizing multiplication tables.
But Collin had seen what that brilliance cost him—the sleepless nights, the crushing expectations, the way success never bought him peace.
Lekyi let out a bitter laugh. “Captain Sol will be furious if I die now. He made it very clear—this has to work. If something happens, tell them I was already dead when you found me. That you tried, but it was too late.” He winced and drew a shaky breath.
“And whatever happens—don’t say anything about the tests.
It’s classified. Only the top stewards know.
I thought I’d come far enough out to stay unnoticed. .. guess not.”
“You’re not dying today,” Collin said, steady and certain. “You’re just mildly scorched.”
Aries offered a wry grin. “And don’t worry—your secret’s safe with us. I’m already in enough trouble just trying to court Montigo’s exiled daughter, but at least my doomed relationships don’t explode on impact.”
Lekyi almost smiled.
For a brief, beautiful moment, the weight lifted from Collin’s chest.
Lekyi’s color had improved, and it was time to push on. They carefully laid him back on the stretcher, and Collin and Aries took turns teasing him about his new life of leisure.
The miles stretched long and endless. Trees thinned and soon gave.
The moment they stepped into a clearing, the sun hit them like a hammer.
Collin squinted against the glare as the dampness in his shirt vanished in seconds, replaced by the raw sting of heat on his skin.
His neck and forearms prickled under the blaze, already close to burning.
Whatever jokes had kept them moving earlier had long since dried up.
Now, all that remained was the steady crunch of boots and the rhythmic thud of his own heartbeat in his ears.
There was no room left for chatter—just the uphill drag of one foot after the other, each step wrestled from sheer will.
By the time they finally stumbled into Chroma’s square, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows—and Collin was ready to collapse. Every part of him ached, heavy and overheated, like his body was one wrong breath away from breaking.
Doctor Fol reassured them again and again that Lekyi would be in good hands. River, pale with worry, promised not to leave his side—not even for a moment.
Collin and Aries were dismissed quickly—their own scrapes and bruises declared too minor to fuss over.
But they weren’t off the hook. They still had to report to the village steward.
After a tense, breathless explanation, the steward only scowled and muttered, then waved them off without punishment.
When their crooked garden gate came into view, Aries let out a yelp and Collin broke into a run as though he’d been away for years. The weed-choked yard and sagging eaves had never looked so sweet.
Collin hauled up a heavy bucket of fresh water from the well and set it by his feet. He tugged his grimy shirt over his head, eager to wash off the salt and grit clinging to his skin. The relief of cold water splashing over his body danced through his thoughts.
Before he could untangle his arms from the sleeves, a crash and a sharp yell rang out from inside the house.
He yanked his shirt off, bolted for the front door—and tripped over the full bucket in his haste. He sprawled to the ground, skinning his elbows and knees. His shirt still tangled around his arms. He thrashed free and sprinted inside, panic driving him, expecting to find Aries gravely injured.
Instead, he found Aries sitting on the dining room floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of a large flour jar. His head was bowed, his thick, freshly washed hair falling over his hands.
Collin’s heart hammered wildly as he swept aside the dangerous glass shards with a broom. “For heaven’s sake, Aries! Breaking an old jar is hardly a reason to scream like you’ve been decapitated!”
Aries shoved a crumpled stack of paper toward him across the flour-dusted floor.
It was Mother’s journal.
Collin quickly gathered the loose pages, shaking off the flour. The journal was open to the entry written after Aries’s birth. “Did you read this?”
Aries’s shoulders trembled. “Did you know?”
Exhaustion and frustration prickled at Collin’s skin. “Did I know what?”
Aries’s stormy gray eyes glistened with tears as he glared at Collin, as if somehow this was his fault. “My mother died. She died the night I was born.”
Collin’s breath caught. “No—Grandfather told us she died when you were a baby, from mountain fever during the epidemic.”
Aries’s voice cracked. He wrenched the journal from Collin’s fingers, shaking the fragile pages. “No! My mother died the night I was born. Grandfather lied to us. She never even held me. She died because of me.”
Aries’s grief broke loose, raw and unstoppable.
He buried his face in his hands, and the sound of his sobs shook through the small house.
Collin could only sit there, helpless, each shuddered breath carving the silence.
There were no words for this kind of devastation.
No comfort that wouldn’t be insultingly small.
Collin reached slowly for the journal, his hands tentative, reverent. His thoughts reeled. How could he begin to understand a betrayal like this? In one breath, Aries had lost both his mother and the story he thought he knew of her.
Without warning, Aries shoved to his feet and brushed past him toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Collin asked, startled.
“I promised to have dinner with Hadria. I’m already late.” Aries’s voice was low and distant, hollowed by grief. “Don’t wait up. I’ll be fine.”
And then he was gone—out the door before Collin could think of what to say.
He stood frozen for a long time, broom still in hand, the silence collapsing around him.
Eventually, he swept up the last of the broken glass and put the room back in order, but nothing about it was orderly.
The grief still clung to the corners like dust that couldn’t be reached.
When the house was quiet again, he knelt by the wash bucket, splashed water over his arms and neck, scrubbed until his skin turned pink.
The shock of cold water did nothing to lift the weight pressing down on his chest.
With his hair still damp, he took the journal from the table and stepped outside. Beneath the old gnarled oak, the evening breeze rustled the leaves overhead. He sat cross-legged, the journal open in his lap, flipping through the delicate pages with care.
He hesitated when he reached the entry—the one written the day after Aries was born. His fingers hovered.
He wanted to believe Grandfather’s version. Wanted this all to be some mistake, some misread line or missing page. But if there was truth here, he had to find it.
He exhaled and began to read.
January 4, 483
Finally, at long last—and after so many years of heartbreak—Izin and Zinnia have their baby.
They’ve named him Aries, and he is perfect.
Though he came several weeks early, the midwife says he’s strong.
I will never forget the light on Izin’s face as he cradled his son.
Zinnia was too weak to hold him after the long, grueling birth, but her eyes were full of joy just seeing him.
A wet nurse has already been found until she is strong enough to feed him herself.
Jiah and I walk home through the snow, wrapped in joy.
We lie in bed together. Jiah places his hand on my belly, wondering aloud when we’ll feel our second child move.
He coos to my stomach, asking what its name is, what it looks like, when we’ll get to meet it.
He rattles off names—some sweet, some awful.
Finally, I laugh and hush him. “When our baby comes,” I say, “and looks at us for the first time, he’ll tell us who he is. ”
Jiah wakes me after only a few hours of sleep. “Ismene, we must go,” he says, his voice tight with fear.
I blink awake, confused and still half-dreaming. Jiah is already dragging me out the door, leaving Connor asleep in his bed.
When we arrive, Izin is standing in the doorway, clutching Aries in his arms.
“Izin,” Jiah calls, breathless, “why has Doctor Fol been summoned?”
The look on Izin’s face turns my blood cold. “Is Aries alright?” I ask quickly, staring at the baby in his arms.
“It’s Zinnia,” Izin says, barely a whisper. “She’s still bleeding. The midwife sent for the doctor.”
Inside, we’re not allowed into the bedroom. Doctor Fol’s apprentice blocks the door.
We wait. And wait. And worry.
I pray in silence while the clock ticks in rhythm with my heart. Jiah’s hand never leaves my belly. I feel him trembling. Brave, fearless Jiah—trembling. Izin clutches Aries and paces without rest. No one speaks. The silence is unbearable.
“You should have listened to me,” the midwife snaps suddenly.
Izin stops mid-step, blinking at her in confusion.
“Her body told her years ago she shouldn’t carry a child,” she says bitterly. “If she dies, that’s on your head.”
Izin goes white. His hands begin to shake. Aries whimpers in his arms.
I gently take the baby from him and hold him close to my chest. Izin slumps into a chair, hollow-eyed.
“That’s enough,” Jiah growls. His fury is low and controlled, but it simmers in his voice.
“No,” Izin sobs. “This is my fault. I wanted a child so badly.”
“She wanted one too,” Jiah says, kneeling in front of him. “You didn’t force her into this. She dreamed of being a mother.”
“She’s going to die,” Izin whispers, rocking forward. “It’s my fault.”
Jiah grabs him by the shoulders. “It’s not. Izin, it’s not. Don’t you dare carry that.”
I turn away. I hold Aries tightly. My tears fall onto his tiny cheeks.
Finally, the bedroom door opens.
Doctor Fol says nothing. He doesn’t have to.
Izin screams. The sound—raw and ragged—will follow me all my days.
I clutch Aries to my chest and run. I don’t stop, not until I can no longer hear the wailing.
At the base of a snow-dusted tree, I sink to the ground.
The baby is warm against me, his tiny hand pressing softly into my belly.
My unborn child stirs, as if sensing the grief.
Zinnia is gone. She will never hold her son.
Never watch him grow. Never sing him to sleep.
What kind of gods would answer her prayers only to steal everything?
Aries makes a soft sound, unaware his mother is gone. And still—his touch is tender, like he understands.
—Ismene