The air in Aroa still reeked of smoke and gunpowder. The battle for the airfield had been brutal, but the war was far from over.
Marcus, Tamara, and I stood over a rough map spread across a crate. Frederick's voice was hard as steel. —Sector 3 is collapsing. If we lose it, the entire city falls.
No one needed convincing. We geared up.
The streets grew narrower as we moved out, the silence broken only by the distant crackle of gunfire. Rubble choked the roads, and the black silhouettes of burned-out buildings loomed over us. We kept low, weaving through the ruins.
Marcus raised a fist, stopping us short. —Enemy patrol ahead.
Tamara slid into cover and signaled me to flank left. I crept forward, my boots crunching on broken glass, heart hammering. On Marcus's mark, we struck—three soldiers dropped before they even knew we were there.
We advanced deeper into Sector 3, past collapsed rooftops and shattered street signs. The stench of decay clung to the air.
—The main defensive line is ahead —Marcus whispered—. That's where we plant the charges.
Tamara and I moved through the shadows, placing explosives along a fortified barricade. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I worked—every second felt like a lifetime.
Then a child's cry cut through the night.
I froze. Just beyond the barricade, through a jagged hole in the wall, I saw a small girl clutching a stuffed animal. She couldn't have been more than six.
—Civilians —I breathed.
Tamara's voice was flat, but I could hear the weight behind it. —If we don't blow it, our people die.
The choice pressed down like a physical weight. My fingers tightened on the detonator.
Marcus's voice came through the radio: —Do it.
The charges went off, the shockwave tearing the barricade apart. The enemy line crumbled—but when the dust settled, only one civilian remained standing. The little girl.
Tamara turned away. Marcus didn't say a word. We pushed forward.
The next minutes were chaos—gunfire ricocheting through narrow alleys, grenades rattling the windows. I moved on instinct, clearing room after room until we reached the central square.
With the barricades gone, Frederick's men surged into the sector. The remaining enemy fighters broke, some surrendering, others fleeing into the smoke.
Sector 3 was ours. But the silence that followed wasn't victory—it was the kind that comes after too much has been lost.
At the checkpoint, Marcus reported to Frederick. —It's done. The sector's secured.
Frederick nodded. —Good. Gather the civilians we can save. The wounded go to the church. We'll hold here until reinforcements arrive.
Tamara stepped up beside me, watching the medics carry the little girl away. Her voice was low. —I'm going to the capital.
—Now? —I asked.
She didn't look at me. —Marcus can handle things here. I need to see what's left… and maybe help there.
Marcus came over, gave her a long look, and then clasped her shoulder. No words—just a silent farewell.
When she walked away, the night seemed even darker.
I stayed behind, sitting on a cracked piece of concrete, staring at the smoke curling into the sky.
War doesn't care about right or wrong. It only cares about who's left standing.