Chapter 16 Darun
DARUN
The camp smells wrong.
Not blood. But the promise of it. That dry, static buzz in the back of my throat, the kind that says something’s about to break.
There’s dust in the wind and silence in the eyes of the soldiers lining the perimeter.
They look thinner than before. Hungrier.
The kind of hungry that eats at reason first.
Amy walks beside me, her fingers brushing my armor now and then, grounding herself. Me, too, if I’m honest. We should be glad to see familiar faces, to return to base intact. But there’s no relief here.
Only stares. Cold. Appraising.
The kind you give corpses before they hit the ground.
We follow the perimeter toward the command tent. What’s left of it. Canvas frayed. One side scorched from a fire someone clearly didn’t bother putting out fast enough. No guards posted. No salutes. Just eyes tracking us, shifting behind cracked visors.
When Kanapa steps out, he doesn’t greet us.
His armor’s been cleaned, but not well—ridges still dark with soot and something darker. His pauldrons are freshly polished, but his face is haggard. Eyes too wide. Too bright. Like someone lit a match behind his skull and forgot to blow it out.
“Took your time,” he says, voice like dry metal scraping concrete.
Amy doesn’t answer. I nod once, slow. “We got caught in the canyon ambush. Flanked, then cut off.”
Kanapa’s lip twitches. “And yet… here you are.”
That’s not a welcome. That’s a warning.
I glance behind him. The rest of the squad is scattered—hunched near fires, weapons in laps, not cleaning them, just holding. Waiting. Like they know something’s coming and they don’t want to be surprised again.
Amy shifts closer to me. Her fingers hook around the edge of my vambrace. I feel her heartbeat through the touch—fast and steady, like a war drum under skin.
Kanapa follows her gaze toward the far end of the camp.
There, beneath a stretched tarp, penned in with makeshift barriers—are the civilians.
Ataxians. Families. Elders. Two kids clinging to the legs of someone who might be their father. Hard to tell under the bruises. They’re quiet. Too quiet. Even the children don’t cry.
I smell them before I see them. Sweat, fear, and copper.
Kanapa exhales, eyes narrowed. “Vermin.”
Amy stiffens.
He doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. “We cleared a nest ten klicks west. Thought we got them all. These stragglers crawled out after the fire.”
I grit my teeth. “They’re not combatants.”
“Neither are rats until they bite.” His eyes flick to me. “You look like shit, Darun.”
“Been busy.”
“You’ve gone soft.”
Amy tenses at my side. I can feel the tension coiling in her spine, like a spring waiting for a snap.
Kanapa smiles. It’s all teeth. “Maybe I should remind you what war is.”
I step forward. Just one step.
He doesn’t move.
“You want to talk, we do it in private,” I growl. “Not in front of her.”
He snorts, dismissive. “So now she gets your leash, is that it?”
“Now,” I say, voice dropping, “I don’t feel like making a scene.”
But I will. And he knows it.
Kanapa waves a hand. “Fine. But make it fast.”
I follow him toward what’s left of the command tent, every step tightening the coil in my gut. Amy stays behind, her eyes never leaving the civilians. One hand still on her recorder.
Inside, it’s hotter. Stifling. Smells like burnt synthfiber and melted plastic. The lamp flickers overhead, casting Kanapa’s face in harsh shadows.
He doesn’t sit. Just turns, arms crossed.
“You think I don’t see it?” he says. “The way you look at her. The way she talks like she belongs here. She’s not one of us. She’s a mouthpiece with a goddamn death wish.”
“She’s watching. That’s more than you’re doing.”
Kanapa’s jaw ticks.
“You’ve changed,” he says. “Used to be, I could trust you to hold the line. Now you flinch every time a civvy breathes too loud.”
“I see them,” I growl. “I see what this war’s turned into.”
“Then you’re blind.”
He steps closer, voice low. “They’ve been carving us apart for years. You think they won’t slit your throat the second you look away? They’re animals, Darun. And you’re getting too close.”
I clench my fists. “That’s not leadership. That’s genocide.”
He laughs. A sharp, barking thing. “Big word for someone who bleeds on command.”
I take a step toward him. “You want a fight?”
“I want order.” His eyes blaze. “And if I have to burn a few more villages to get it, so be it.”
That’s it.
The line’s gone. Crossed. Shattered.
There’s no coming back from this.
Not for him.
Not for me.
I step back. My voice is ice. “Stay away from her.”
He smirks. “Or what?”
I turn to leave. “Try me.”
Outside, the wind kicks up again, swirling ash into the sky. The civilians haven’t moved. Neither has Amy.
When I reach her, she doesn’t ask what happened.
She sees it.
She threads her fingers into mine without a word.
And together, we watch the camp settle into uneasy silence—like a battlefield waiting for permission to explode.