CHAPTER THREE: Bone Pyres and Bad Omens

The dead lands exhaled behind them—a slow, toxic breath that clung to their armor and weapons. Kael walked at the rear of the column, his machetes strapped across his back where everyone could see them. No one looked directly at him, but he caught the glances: sideways, over shoulders, fingers twitching near rifle triggers.

The thought wasn't his own, but it might as well have been. It slithered through the air between the soldiers, unspoken but louder than the crunch of boots on brittle earth. *If Madam wasn't here, who'd stop him when the Contract took over?*

Their vehicles waited at the rally point, two armored hulks rusting under the sickly orange sky. Madam's team piled into the lead transport without a word. Kael took the rear, alone. The engine coughed to life, and the dead lands blurred past the reinforced glass as silence stretched between them.

Kael studied his machete in the dim light. The Nsibidi etchings along the blade had gone dormant, their usual pulse absent. The mission was complete—technically. The hive was dead. So why did it feel like the Contract had lagged, like a system struggling to process input? He ran a thumb over the edge. A bead of black welled up, swallowed by the steel as if the blade was thirsty.

The outpost gates groaned shut behind them with a finality that never quite stuck. Gamma-7 was a patchwork of scavenged UWN tech and desperation—leaning walls, jury-rigged turrets, and the ever-present stench of boiled lichen from the algae vats that passed for food.

Madam vaulted down from the lead vehicle, her boots kicking up dust. "Reyes! Get the wounded to medbay. Vargas—inventory. Now." Her ocular implant whirred as it landed on the hunched figure by the rear axle. "You. Name."

"Jabari." His voice was rough but carried an unexpected clarity. "And I'm not a scavenger."

A beat passed. Kael watched from the shadows as Madam's implant flickered with analysis. "Medic's that way," she said finally, jerking her chin toward a low-slung building with a cracked red cross. "It's not pretty, but it works."

As Jabari followed a trooper across the compound, his eyes tracked the sagging barbed wire, the patched ballistic fabric flapping in the acrid wind. "This place looks like the UWN forgot it existed."

The soldier barked a laugh. "They did. We're what stands between Sector 7 and whatever crawls out of the dead lands." He kicked a loose panel back into place with practiced ease. "Still home, though."

Madam strode toward the command unit, her second-in-command falling into step beside her. "Status report," she demanded.

Lieutenant Vex hesitated just a fraction too long. When he spoke, his voice was tight. "Four injured. Three dead. The east wall won't hold against another assault—not from Abyssals, and certainly not from warlords." He glanced toward the perimeter. "We should request reinforcements from the UWN."

Madam snorted. "And what? Wait for the paperwork to clear?" She clapped him on the shoulder, her grin sharp. "We'll have better luck praying to the old gods."

Vex's jaw worked. "The burial ceremony—"

"I know the regulations," Madam cut in. "Not enough rations for the feast afterward. But we do it anyway. It's tradition."

"The men are tired—"

"Which is exactly why we need it." Madam's voice softened just enough to take the edge off her words. "Prepare the rites. Afterward, we'll hunt forest beasts to replenish supplies."

Kael's unit was little more than a converted storage container—a cot, a weapons rack, and nothing that spoke of permanence. He was cleaning his machete when Madam entered without knocking.

"That blade won't get any sharper," she observed.

Kael didn't look up. "It's not the edge I'm worried about."

Madam leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You lost control out there."

"I got the job done."

"Barely." She pushed off the wall. "Your father—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than he intended. The machete's grip cracked under his fingers. "I don't need his ghost watching over me."

Madam sighed. "You couldn't even take a medium-class Abyssal alone."

Kael's head snapped up. She was grinning.

"Ceremony at sundown," she said as she left. "Be there."

The burial was Gamma-7's oldest tradition. They laid the dead in shallow graves—too rocky to dig deep—then stacked a pyre of irradiated bones above them. The fire burned blue-green, etching shadows across the gathered faces.

Jabari hovered at the edge, his bandaged arm cradled to his chest. "Why the feast after?" he asked a nearby trooper.

"Celebration of the send-off," came the reply. "The dead get peace. We get one night to remember what that might feel like."

Kael stood apart, arms crossed. The flames reflected in his eyes like distant stars.

Madam opened her mouth to speak—

A scout crashed through the gate, his breath ragged. "Contact in the dead lands! Impossible movement—"

The mess hall fell silent.

Scouts only ran for one reason.

Something was coming.