"How long you think until one of us drops?" Asher didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Ryvak snorted from behind. "You volunteering?" He almost smiled. Almost. But the heat took that, too. Boots sank into dust. The wind spat grit into their faces. Ryvak stumbled once, catching himself on a bent knee. He let out a quiet curse, shook his head, and kept going. Thorne's steps were rigid now, like even his bones had dried out. Beth didn't flinch—but even she moved slower, her shoulders stiff from strain. Asher wiped crusted sweat from his eyebrow and nearly tripped over his own boots. His legs were beginning to feel like wood. Numb and splintering. Behind him, Ryvak coughed dry and raw, like he was hacking up sand. No one asked if he was okay. No one had the strength left to pretend. Their shadows stretched longer with every step. No one's canteen had sloshed in the last hour. Asher felt his tongue thicken in his mouth. His vision blurred for half a second too long every time he blinked. Beth walked like she was immune. Rifle slung, eyes forward, posture perfect. She wasn't sweating like them. Not really. And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
His thighs ached. Shoulders burned. Sand had wormed into his boots. Something inside his chest felt hollow—not from hunger, but from emptiness. A kind of quiet surrender clawing its way up from somewhere deep. Asher fell back a step. Then another. The sun blurred the edges of the world. The Stone in his back throbbed—not painful. Just... there. Watching. Reminding. Still breathing. Still cursed. Still alone. He sped up again, closing in on Beth. Her skin caught the light. Sharp angles, clean jawline. Even sweat looked like it had a place to be on her. He muttered, half under his breath, "Pretty people shouldn't be trusted." She turned. Not startled—but aware. "What did you say?" "Beth, my good friend," he said, voice too light. She raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you call me that?" "Since now." "You look like death." "Flattered. You think I broke the comms?" Beth's eyes narrowed. She didn't answer. "Does it matter what I think?" she asked. "Could." She looked away first. Walked faster. That stuck with him.
They reached a jagged rock outcrop by midday. A spit of shade split the heat like a mercy. Thorne lifted his hand. "Water. Ten minutes." Nobody argued. Ryvak dropped to his knees. Beth slid into shade like she'd rehearsed it. Asher stayed standing. Something reflected in the ridge above them. Like glass catching sun. He'd seen it before. Twice. Maybe three times. He didn't speak. He climbed. The ridge looked closer than it was. Every step made it stretch. The sun hit harder with every breath, like the desert had noticed him and wanted to press him flat. He remembered Thorne's voice days ago, low around a fire, saying: "The heat doesn't kill you fast. It convinces you to stop moving." His calves screamed. His boots felt like iron weights. Sweat stung his eyes. He tried not to think about Beth. About the way she flinched. About what she hadn't said. One step. Then another. Asher let his mind drift to that first day—waking in the sand, coughing up blood and sand, the Stone grinding against his spine like it belonged there more than he did.
The higher he climbed, the more the memories bled in. Thorne, standing over him with that look. Beth's face when she pointed her weapon at him. The Stone pulsed again. Rhythmic. Like a second heart. Or a ticking clock. He gritted his teeth and kept going. Boots scraped over gravel. Heat pushed back. His hands burned against stone. The ridge didn't want him. The world didn't want any of them. Once he stumbled, catching himself hard on an elbow. Blood pooled in a scrape down his forearm, slow and tacky. Halfway up, he paused. His breath came in ragged gasps. Every inhale scraped. His vision warped—the heat twisting distance and depth. The Stone pulsed again. Not painful. Not helpful either. "If I die from a mirage, I'm gonna haunt someone," he muttered. "Most likely Ryvak. Yeah I'll haunt him every day. He won't be able to eat anything in peace for the rest of his life, that is if he ever makes it outta here." At the top of the ledge, the light died. And something worse waited.
A body lay splayed across the rocks. Burnt through. Armor cracked. Skin fused to metal. Ribs were charred and warped, the armor melted into the flesh. Deep burns laced the torso, as if something had seared the corpse from the inside out and left only a twisted black husk. No dog tags. No insignia. But a glyph still burned on the chestplate. Not etched. Branded. Asher stepped closer. Drew his blade halfway. The Stone behind his spine pulsed once. Footsteps. He didn't turn. "You killed him." Thorne's voice came quiet. "He was sent for me." Asher stood. His mouth dry. Not from thirst. "Why?" "The Unseen tried to recruit me." "And?" "Technically I said no." "Now they send snipers?" "Now, I'm worried about my family." They stood over the corpse. The glyph smoked. No wind touched them.
"Who are they really?" Thorne exhaled slowly. "Rebels. The Unseen is what they call themselves. They want to dismantle the Empire. Tear it down. Say it's all corrupt." "You agree with them?" Thorne's mouth twitched. "I don't disagree entirely. But I had a family. My mom and sister… my dad was alive when they came. If I joined them, they'd be targets. If I didn't, well they would be targets either way. So I never gave them a proper answer." Asher didn't reply. He watched the glyph fade from orange to black. "Why tell me?" "Because I trust you," Thorne said. "My gut says I can." "That your reason for everything?" "I'm usually right." He sat under the rocks. Asher followed. Thorne passed him the canteen. What was left tasted like rust.
"You ever go to the Academy?" Asher asked. Thorne nodded slowly. "Yeah. For a while." "What happened?" "Family had a forge. Lower Vireon. Small shop behind the house. My dad taught me metal. My mom... she scrounged everything to hire a tutor at sixteen. Not a noble's tutor—just a failed engineer with old books. But it got me exempt from the squire draft." "Academy let you in?" "Barely. I was in by eighteen. Two months later, a Rift beast broke through the southern wall. Crushed our house. Killed my dad." Thorne paused. "My mom got badly injured. Sister couldn't walk." He looked out at the heat shimmer. "So I dropped out. No shard. No rank. Just another soldier with regret." He tapped his chest. "Now I can go back. Earn a stipend at Vireon Academy, enough to keep my family afloat. Finish what I started. Maybe earn a trade under Inverion. Become a blacksmith like my father." Asher passed the canteen back.
"Thanks," Thorne said. "For the water." "No problem." "You want revenge?" Asher didn't answer. "You want power?" Still nothing. "You want to matter." That landed. Asher nodded once. "Yeah." Thorne leaned in. "Then lie. When you get to the Academy. Say it's a shard. Don't mention the Stone." "Why?" "Void Stones don't make people scared. They make them curious. And curiosity's worse. You'll stop being a person. You will become a guinea pig." They climbed down. Slower this time. Neither spoke much.
Beth sat up. Calm. "Where'd you go?" "Ridge." "Find something?" "Burnt body. Sniper." Beth's face went pale. Ryvak turned pale too. Asher looked between them. What if they were working together? Why hadn't he thought of that before? He didn't say it out loud. "It happened last night," said Thorne. "We were being followed. The assassin told me everything. Before he died." Neither Beth nor Ryvak showed any visible reaction aside from pale faces. "Damn," thought Asher. "That little plan didn't work."
A few hours later the group set camp at the base of a ridge overlooking their extraction point. They were so close to salvation. A day at most. Silence hung in the air. Beth's blade was too clean. Ryvak's sleep too still. Asher stared at both of them a second too long. His vision flickered—just for a blink—but in that blink, Beth's eyes snapped open and locked onto him. Except when he blinked again, she was still turned away, unmoving. Paranoia itched beneath his skin like ants under the bone. The Stone pulsed again, faint and cold. He rubbed his eyes. Looked again. Nothing. But he couldn't shake it—like the Stone had shown him something and then taken it back. He kept staring, quiet, watching the slight rise of Ryvak's chest. It looked... timed. Too smooth. What if they'd known about the sniper? What if he was the only one who didn't? He flexed his fingers slowly, trying not to reach for his blade. No one else moved. The fire cracked once. Then silence.
Asher sat apart, back aching. Spine tight. The glyph still burned behind his eyes. He whispered, "I'll get stronger. At the Academy. I'll make them notice." Thorne's voice echoed in his skull—quiet, certain. "You're not trying to be brave. You're trying to survive. That makes you dangerous." Asher clenched his jaw. Dangerous. Maybe that's what he needed to be. Not another dead name. Not another face forgotten in a bloodstained file. He would survive. And they'd remember. The Stone didn't speak. Beth turned in her sleep. Or maybe she hadn't been asleep at all. The wind changed. The wind had gone still. Asher woke fast. Not from a sound—but the lack of it. No crackling fire. No shifting sleep. Just silence. The scent hit next. Copper. Thick. He sat up hard, hand going to his blade—
Thorne lay face-down, not twenty feet away. Throat opened clean. Blood soaking the sand beneath him. A shadow shifted near the body. Too fast to name. Gone before his eyes adjusted. Beth screamed. Ryvak jolted upright, scrambling for his rifle. Asher stayed frozen. The scream sounded… late. The blood wasn't fresh. And someone had been awake. He stared at the body. Then at Beth. Then at Ryvak. "Who was supposed to be on watch?" No one answered.