Nugget squawks. Keer Jr. screeches in answer.
"If you walk forward, you do not walk back. Not into Blomstradal. Not into Sarveil, Volmaris, or Rynkova. Not into any holding that signs to the coordination after today. You will not be buried in your home soil. Your names will be struck from the rolls."
His eyes move across his men. Slow. Letting it land.
"Choose."
Nobody moves.
Then his eyes find the woman who broke ranks first.
"You've earned the front of the list, soldier."
Her face hardens.
"I figured I would, sir."
She doesn't move backward.
Movement to her left. The patchy-beard kid takes one step forward to stand beside her. Not back. Forward.
The others follow. Slower this time. But they come.
Then movement the other direction.
One soldier in the back ranks shouldering his weapon harder. Stepping back into the line. Then another. Then a small cluster, four or five together, retreating into formation. Not looking at anyone. Eyes on the ground.
Theron watches both. Counts. I can see him counting.
The ones who came forward outnumber the ones who fell back. Not by much. But by enough.
The forward soldiers don't move. They're not waiting for anything. Not negotiating. Not asking. They've already chosen.
His eyes find me. Across the clearing. Across all of it.
Hate. Pure hate.
"Form up soldiers. We're going home."
They form a loose column behind him, weaponsgathered, eyes on the ground.
The torches start moving back through the trees. Smaller. Smaller.
Then gone.
The sound of boots fades.
The clearing exhales.
The whole pack, breathing out at once. The forward soldiers too—a different sound from them, lower, more cracked, people who just gave up everything they ever knew and don't know yet what they did.
My knife clatters to the ground.
We're still standing. Still alive.
The middle-aged woman is the one who turns first.
Not toward me. Toward her own group. The soldiers who chose forward.
