Chapter 7 - Attack

Hold the fucking line!"

Nyra's throat tore as she screamed into the chaos, voice cracking under the weight of gunfire and steel. The ground under her boots was wet—blood or mud or maybe both, she didn't care anymore. Kerron was three paces ahead, swinging his rusted axe like he'd already died once. He probably had.

The smoke hadn't cleared from the last grenade. And then the new ones dropped.

Not from them.

No.

From behind them.

The fucking trees screamed. Leaves cracked, birds fled, and out of the brush came six—no, seven—hooded bastards with blades too clean and movements too fast to be farmers. Their clothes weren't rebel gear, nor kingdom armor. Something in-between. Unmarked. Silent. Not one shouted. Not one hesitated.

Nyra spun, blade raised, catching one right in the gut, steel slicing into the leather like butter, but his hand still clawed her shoulder. Bastard didn't even grunt. He just… looked at her. Like she was the target. Like all this noise wasn't shit.

She shoved him off and yelled, "Kerron—BACK!"

Too late.

One of them grabbed his wrist, twisted hard enough to snap the bone. Kerron screamed—Nyra had never heard that man scream. She moved, stabbed again, this time in the neck. The attacker dropped, but two more took his place.

They weren't fighting for territory. They weren't even rebels.

They were hunting someone.

And Nyra knew who.

---

Earlier—maybe ten minutes before hell fell from the trees—Nyra had stood over the body of a boy barely fifteen. Blond hair. Blue cloak. Arrow through the eye.

"Kerron," she muttered. "They're not soldiers."

"No," he said. "But they bleed like 'em."

She glanced around the half-burnt farmstead. Five dead, one breathing. A woman, coughing up black smoke, holding her belly with both hands.

Nyra walked over.

"Who hit you?"

The woman didn't speak. Just pointed. North.

"Why?" Nyra asked. "We weren't even in your fucking way."

The woman spat blood. "You... were supposed to die yesterday."

Nyra's spine stiffened.

"What?"

The woman grinned, mouth red. "They said you're the splinter. You break the plan."

Nyra looked at Kerron, who looked like someone pissed in his mouth.

"What fucking plan?" he asked.

But the woman was dead.

---

Present—blood on Nyra's cheek, her blade shaking.

Kerron was down now, gasping. One of the silent bastards had cracked his jaw sideways, and blood poured from his teeth.

Nyra stood over him.

"He's mine," she snapped. "You want him, come through me."

They did.

The one on the left moved first. Straight jab. She ducked, stabbed low, caught his thigh. He hissed—first sound any of them made—but kept moving. Another came from the side. She turned to block—

Too slow.

A hand caught her wrist, twisted it. She dropped the blade.

Another hand wrapped around her throat.

Her knees buckled. She kicked back, hit something soft, maybe someone's balls. The grip loosened. She broke free, rolled, grabbed Kerron's broken axe.

Her fingers screamed in pain. Her chest felt like glass.

But rage filled the cracks.

She swung wildly, hit someone's arm. Bone snapped.

"YOU WANT ME?" she screamed. "FUCKING TAKE ME!"

And that's when the sound came.

Not steel. Not gunfire.

Whistles.

Three short bursts.

Every hooded fucker froze.

Nyra looked around, breathing like a dog. One of them stepped back. Another knelt.

And then, just like that—they left.

Vanished into the trees. No words. No signs.

Kerron groaned. "What the fuck... was that?"

Nyra dropped the axe and sat down next to him, chest heaving, blood running down her side.

"No fucking clue."

She spat.

Then looked north.

The man holding Nyra dropped. Blood spilled across her chest—hot, fresh. And behind him, through the smoke... came others. Not like the first. Not silent. Not clean.

A new hell had arrived.

Three more bodies dropped in seconds. Metal rang. Blades danced. Nyra didn't see faces—only flashes of fists, boots, fire.

Kerron tried to sit up. His chest didn't rise again.

Nyra didn't even notice at first.

By the time the rebels reached her, she was kneeling in blood, still trying to scream him back to life.

"Take her!" one barked. "Get her out!"

Strong arms pulled her back. She kicked and fought. "No! Kerron! Kerron—!"

"He's gone!" someone growled in her ear. "He's fucking gone!"

Nyra clawed at the air as the soldier—no, a rebel, a real one this time—dragged her through the filth. She saw the general's body slump. His blade was still jammed in someone's gut. Kerron's blood soaked the dirt.

She screamed again.

She screamed until she ran out of breath.

Until her voice cracked like dry wood and all she could taste was smoke and death.

The rebel—he wore no insignia, no crest, no name—shoved her onto a horse. "Ride," he snapped. "Straight east. Don't stop. Don't talk."

"Where the fuck are we even going?" Nyra croaked, eyes blurry.

He swung up beside her, blood streaking his chin. "Back."

"To what?"

"To whatever's left."

They rode. Fire chewed the air behind them. Screams chased their heels.

Elsewhere, far from the burning outpost, a boy stood on the edge of a field.

Riven Alden stared down at a half-buried sign:

 "Bastien: No Entry Without Permit."

He snorted. "Yeah? Fuck your permit."

The outpost was gone. Nothing left but soot and bones. He crouched, fingers brushing the charred edge of a uniform. Empire colors.

Someone had hit this place hard. Recently. Not a casual raid. A slaughter.

He turned, hearing boots behind him.

"General Karnos says this wasn't one of ours," said a soldier. Young. Nervous.

"No shit," Riven muttered. "And the fire?"

"No survivors. Only rumor says a girl escaped."

Riven's jaw tensed.

"A girl?"

The soldier nodded. "Barely. Taken east. Rebels."

Riven looked back at the sign. His voice came out cold. "Tell Karnos to send two squads to the eastern forest. Quietly. No horses."

"Yes, sir."

The soldier vanished back into the brush, boots silent.

Riven stayed a moment longer, staring at the ground where ash blurred into the charred remnants of life. He didn't flinch at the smell—burnt flesh, blood, piss. He'd walked through worse.

But something about this one felt… personal.

He stood, brushing soot from his gloves, and turned toward the dark horizon.

"A girl escaped." That stuck in his skull like a splinter.

And somehow, deep down, he knew.

Not just any girl.

Nyra.

He didn't remember her face—barely remembered the sound of her voice from years ago. But he remembered the night the palace burned. He remembered the girl who looked back through the flames.

And if the rebels had her…

Riven's eyes narrowed.

Then everything just got a whole lot messier.

He mounted his horse, whispering to it as he leaned forward.

"Let's see if ghosts can ride."

And with that, he kicked into motion, the stallion galloping straight east into smoke, into shadow, into the fucking war.