Chapter 4
HRASK
The problem with people who think they’re hiding something is that they never stop moving like they are, no matter how hard they try to convince themselves otherwise.
The tells are never obvious unless someone has already broken under pressure, and that rarely happens in a place like this where everyone has learned to survive by keeping their mouths shut.
Instead, the truth leaks out through smaller things, through the way someone hesitates before answering, or how their eyes shift just slightly away from yours before they force them back again.
It shows in posture, in breath, in the rhythm of a conversation that doesn’t quite land where it should.
I notice those things without trying.
I always have.
The Coalition side of the border feels different once I step away from the open patrol line and into the corridors beneath it, where the air loses its bite of dust and picks up the weight of machinery.
The scent of oil clings to everything down here, layered with recycled air and trapped heat that has nowhere to go.
Overhead vents hum steadily, pushing stale warmth through the passage in slow waves that settle into my skin.
My boots strike metal instead of dirt, each step echoing forward and returning just enough to remind me I am not alone, even when it looks like I am.
Two Grolgath soldiers stand at a junction where the corridor splits, their silhouettes outlined by dim lighting that catches along the edges of their scales.
They do not snap to attention when they see me, but their posture adjusts all the same, tightening just enough to acknowledge that I am not someone they can ignore.
“Vardo,” one of them says, his voice neutral in a way that feels practiced.
I incline my head in return and let my pace slow as I approach, angling my body so I can lean one shoulder against the wall. My posture stays loose, deliberately unthreatening, even as my attention sharpens.
“Rotation’s been messy,” I say, letting my claws tap lightly against my gauntlet as I glance between them. “People getting moved around without much warning.”
“Command does what it wants,” the other one replies, folding his arms across his chest.
There is nothing wrong with the answer, and that is exactly why it tells me nothing.
“Yeah,” I say, allowing a faint grin to settle across my face. “Still feels off.”
Neither of them responds to that. Their silence stretches just long enough to confirm that they understand the direction of the conversation and have already decided how much they are willing to give.
I tilt my head slightly, letting the casual edge of my posture sharpen just enough to make it clear that I am no longer asking out of idle curiosity.
“You know the one I replaced?” I ask, watching their faces closely. “Tury.”
The reaction is small, but it is there. One of them glances at the other, a quick flick of the eyes that would be easy to miss if I were not looking for it. The second soldier alters his stance, a subtle adjustment that tightens his stance without making it obvious.
“Never heard of him,” the first one says.
The lie is not clean.
“That’s interesting,” I reply, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. My height fills the space more fully now, narrowing the corridor around us. “Because I took his post.”
“Then he’s not your problem anymore,” the second one says, his tone edging tighter.
“That’s not what I asked,” I say, my voice lowering just enough to pull their focus inward.
The air between us thickens, the ease gone from the exchange. They hold their ground, but their breathing has shifted, just enough to tell me I am getting close to something they would rather leave alone.
“Orders came down,” the second one adds after a moment. “Reassignment.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Didn’t say.”
I let that answer sit in the space between us, turning it over in my head while I watch them. Neither one elaborates, and neither one meets my eyes for more than a second at a time.
“Didn’t say,” I repeat slowly, letting the weight of the words settle.
Of course it was not written down. Of course it was not passed through channels that could be tracked. That is not how things disappear.
“You’re both terrible liars,” I say finally, not bothering to soften it.
The first soldier stiffens as his gaze snaps back to mine.
“We’re not lying,” he says.
“No,” I reply, stepping closer until I am just inside their personal space. My voice drops, forcing them to focus on me and nothing else. “You’re just not telling me anything useful.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” the second one insists, though the conviction in his voice does not quite match the words.
I study them for another moment, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. They know something, or at least they know enough to know they should not speak on it. Pushing harder here will only shut them down completely, and that would leave me with even less than I already have.
“Relax,” I say, easing back a step and lifting one hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m not writing a report.”
Neither of them relaxes, and that tells me more than anything they could have said.
I turn and continue down the corridor, my footsteps echoing behind me while my thoughts stay anchored to that hesitation, that glance, that uneven rhythm in their responses. Something has shifted, and it is not subtle enough to ignore.
Further down, the corridor opens into another junction, and the shift becomes impossible to miss.
A different unit stands guard here, heavier armor, tighter formation, their attention fixed inward toward a sealed access point behind them.
The door itself is newer than the surrounding structure, the plating reinforced, the seams cleaner, the locking mechanism upgraded in a way that does not match anything else in the corridor.
I slow as I approach, letting my gaze sweep over them before settling briefly on the door.
“What’s this?” I ask, nodding toward it.
“Restricted,” one of them answers immediately, his stance adjusting just enough to block a clearer line of sight.
“Everything’s restricted,” I reply, stopping a few feet away. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“Orders are orders.”
I step closer, not aggressively, but with enough presence that they cannot ignore me.
“New orders?” I ask.
The soldier’s posture shifts, his gaze holding mine a fraction longer than it should.
“Standard rotation.”
The answer comes too quickly, too smoothly.
“Doesn’t look standard,” I say, letting my eyes drift deliberately over the door again, taking in the fresh plating and the lack of wear.
“It is.”
The buzzing of the corridor fills the silence that follows, low and constant, pressing in around us.
“Since when do we lock down maintenance access like it’s a command vault?” I ask, my tone still even but edged now.
“No access,” he repeats.
I smile slightly, though there is nothing friendly in it.
“I didn’t ask for access,” I say. “I asked a question.”
“And I answered.”
Not really.
But I let it go, for now.
“Sure you did,” I reply, stepping back.
I leave them there, but I carry the image with me as I make my way back toward the surface, letting the pieces settle into place even if they do not form a complete picture yet.
By the time I step back into the open air, the heat settles over me again, dry and relentless.
The wind drags dust along the ground in thin sheets that catch against my boots and swirl around my legs before moving on.
The fence hums steady, unchanged, a constant in the middle of everything else shifting just out of alignment.
She is already there, exactly where she always is, posture locked, eyes scanning with that same precise control she wears like armor. The moment she sees me, something in her expression sharpens, not surprise, not irritation, but focus.
I walk toward my position across from her, letting my pace stay easy, unhurried.
“You find him yet?” I call out, my tone light enough to sound casual even as I watch her closely.
Her gaze snaps to mine immediately, her attention locking in with the same intensity I have come to expect.
“No,” she says, her voice flat and controlled. Her hand hovers near her weapon, not gripping it, but close enough to remind me it is there. “Did you?”
I shrug one shoulder, letting the motion roll through my frame.
“I asked around,” I say.
“And?” she presses, stepping closer to the fence.
“And people don’t like talking,” I reply.
“That’s not an answer,” she says, her eyes narrowing.
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
She studies me, searching for something behind my words, something that will confirm what she already believes.
“You’re holding back,” she says.
I tilt my head slightly.
“From you?” I ask. “Always.”
“Don’t,” she snaps, her tone sharpening. “If you found something, you tell me.”
“Or what?” I ask, watching her closely.
She bristles, her shoulders squaring.
“Or I assume you’re part of whatever this is,” she says.
That draws a quiet, rough chuckle from me.
“Careful,” I say, stepping a fraction closer. “You’re starting to accuse without evidence.”
“You think I need evidence?” she fires back. “You show up, he disappears, and suddenly nobody knows anything. That’s not coincidence.”
“Could be,” I say.
“It’s not.”
Her certainty lands harder than her anger.
“You always jump this fast?” I ask.
“I don’t jump,” she says. “I assess.”
“Feels like jumping.”
“Feels like you’re stalling.”
I let that sit, watching her, really watching her now. She is not unraveling, not losing control. Every move she makes is deliberate, every word measured.
That changes things.
“You want something real?” I ask finally.
“Yes.”
“I got inconsistent answers,” I say. “People dodging, acting like they don’t want to be involved. And there’s new security in places that didn’t need it before, restricted access where there wasn’t any.”
“Where?” she asks immediately.
“Coalition maintenance corridors near the border,” I say.
“That lines up,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
“With what?” I ask.
She hesitates, just long enough to confirm she has something she is not sharing.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she says.
I grin.
“Now who’s holding back?”
She ignores that.
“Did you get names?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “But I got reactions.”
“Reactions don’t mean anything.”
“They do when they’re wrong.”
She watches me for a long moment, weighing something.
“You’re not taking this seriously enough,” she says.
“I’m taking it exactly as seriously as it deserves.”
“Someone is missing,” she snaps. “That matters.”
“People go missing,” I reply.
“Not like this.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice.
“Or because you want it to be.”
Her eyes flash, but instead of snapping back, she steps closer, matching the distance, matching the pressure.
“Don’t twist this,” she says, her voice steady. “You saw it too.”
I hold her gaze, then nod once.
“Yeah.”
The word settles between us, heavier than anything else we have said.
She exhales slowly, something shifting behind her eyes.
“Then stop playing games,” she says.
“Who says I’m playing?”
“You are.”
“Maybe I just like pushing you.”
“Why?”
A faint smile pulls at my mouth.
“Because you push back.”
Her lips press together, not in anger, but restraint.
“You’re wasting time,” she says.
“Or I’m figuring out how far you’ll go,” I reply.
“That’s not your job.”
“It is now.”
“Stay out of it.”
“Not happening.”
The tension between us tightens again, but it feels different now, less like opposition and more like something neither of us wants to acknowledge.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” I say.
“So are you,” she shoots back.
“Probably.”
“Then stop.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I shrug slightly, letting the motion stay loose.
“Because something’s off,” I say. “And I don’t like not knowing why.”
She studies me, really studies me, like she is trying to decide if I am worth the risk.
“Then don’t slow me down,” she says.
I grin.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“That wasn’t a joke.”
“Neither was that.”
Her gaze lingers for a moment longer before she steps back, breaking the proximity but not the tension.
“Stay on your side of the fence,” she says.
“Always do,” I reply.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
A flicker of frustration crosses her face before she turns and moves down the line, her posture snapping back into that same perfect discipline.
I watch her go, noting the way she does not look back even though I know she is aware of exactly where I am.
She is disciplined.
More than I expected.
And that makes her useful in ways I had not planned for.
I shift my stance, claws tapping once against my gauntlet as I look back toward the restricted sectors, then toward the fence where she has already resumed her patrol.
Inconsistent answers, new security, and a missing soldier nobody wants to talk about all point in the same direction, even if the full shape of it has not come into focus yet.
I do not have all the pieces, but I have enough to know this is not routine, and I have someone on the other side of the fence who is just as unwilling to let it go as I am.
That is going to matter.