“Focus on your own sector.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender.
“Hey, just making conversation.”
“Try doing your job instead.”
He snorts but peels off, leaving me alone again with the fence, the wind, and the quiet tinge of tension that never really goes away.
I make another pass.
Then another.
Each time, my eyes flick back to that same spot.
Still empty.
By the time the shift rotation signal echoes faintly across the sector, a low chime carried through the dry air, I’ve already decided it doesn’t mean anything.
Soldiers get reassigned.
They get rotated.
They get pulled for duties you don’t see.
That’s how this works.
That’s how it’s worked thus far anyway.
I roll my shoulders again, feeling the tightness in my skin, the faint irritation along my jawline where the dryness is starting to bite.
Later, I’ll use the cream.
Later, I’ll forget about it.
I take one last look across the fence.
The new soldiers are in position, their movements already settling into a rhythm I don’t recognize yet.
And the space where Tury should be remains empty.
CHAPTER 2
HRASK
The first thing I notice about Myrza’s border is how small it feels.
Not physically. The fence stretches farther than my eyes care to track, a long, ugly scar of metal and current humming through the dust. The city presses in on both sides, stacked structures and worn-out infrastructure leaning like they’re tired of pretending this line matters.
But the air feels tight.
Like everything here is coiled up, waiting for someone to twitch wrong.
I roll my shoulders as I approach my assigned post, claws tapping idly against the plating on my gauntlet. The sound is soft but steady, a quiet rhythm that matches the pace of my thoughts. The air tastes like hot metal and scorched grit, dry enough to scrape the back of my throat with every breath.
Ground duty.
I flex my fingers once, feeling the familiar strength coil beneath scales and muscle, and try not to think about what I’m not doing.
