Mud clings to my boots like it’s got a vendetta.

  My gear drags me down—straps biting into my uniform, oxygen mask tight on my face. Every breath tastes like rust. Cold. Bitter. Like I’m breathing the bones of dead men.

  Storm’s wailing all around, wind trying to rip the skin from my back. Rain slams my visor, turns the world into a blur of water and light. The sky looks like it’s fighting itself—black clouds tearing open with every bolt of lightning.

  Klaus Ritcher’s up front, moving through the storm like it owes him respect. His coat billows, rain rolls off like even the weather knows not to mess with him. Every step’s solid. Nothing holds him back.

  We follow.

  Ain’t got a choice.

  Lanny almost eats shit beside me, boots slipping in the mud. He mutters something, shifts his rifle—like that’ll remind him he’s got it. Huck says nothing, mask hiding whatever’s going on in his head. Min-Joon stays locked in, posture stiff. Even Canny, light on her feet most days, moves careful.

  We ain’t special.

  Ain’t no chosen ones out here.

  Just flesh and bone, marching toward monsters that only know how to kill.

  Navorians.

  Up ahead, a structure rises outta the dark—ruins of an outpost, half-eaten by time. Walls jagged like broken teeth. Wind screaming through the gaps. Klaus throws up a fist.

  Hold.

  My pulse pounds in my ears.

  I know what this is.

  A lesson.

  A warning.

  Past that outpost, beyond the wind and rain, war’s waiting for us.

  I grip my rifle tighter. Steel in my hands, but it don’t mean shit against what’s coming.

  Romeo’s voice slips into my mind:

  "If they are to die, let it be in battle."

  Yeah. I felt that—once.

  But now?

  Now I see the gap. Their suits. Their tech. Their survival.

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  And us?

  We’re the fodder.

  The first thrown in.

  We bleed. They win.

  The storm thrashes harder—wind’s got hands now, slapping rain into my visor like it’s mugging me. I stay locked in, finger near the trigger.

  Ritcher calls for night vision—can’t see a damn thing otherwise.

  Before all this, they gave us a presentation. Big talk from Jrake—the guy who built the Argov suits. He clowned us while he explained it, but I listened.

  Argov ain’t just metal. It’s named after a substance that don’t melt, don’t burn, don’t break. Eats tremors. Stores kinetic energy. Releases it through friction.

  Pull the trigger? You ain’t shooting bullets—you’re shakin’ the earth.

  Now that knowledge sits in my back pocket as Klaus leads us through the ribcage of the busted facility. He scans through his View—light, infrared, air vibrations. I copy. Nothing but static and storm.

  Then—

  Signal lost.

  Back row.

  Min-Joon’s squad.

  We all spin—except Lanny, who’s too locked in on the mud.

  “Focus, idiot,” Canny snaps.

  Klaus flicks on his flashlight—and we see it.

  Tall.

  Twice Min-Joon’s height.

  Navorian.

  It moves like lightning—grabs two soldiers by the head.

  Squeezes.

  Crack.

  Spray.

  Klaus barks orders.

  Some move.

  Some freeze.

  Statues in a nightmare.

  That’s what we’re up against?

  They ain’t sending queens, rooks, or knights to the board.

  Just pawns.

  Watching us fall.

  I drop into position. Aim. Hold.

  Klaus tosses a flare. The world bursts into light.

  Not two.

  Not ten.

  Thirty-plus.

  Clinging to the ribs of the facility like shadow-spiders. No heat sigs. No movement detected. Their tech’s next-level—stealth mode on lock.

  We?

  Just fifty.

  Fifty against three hundred.

  No.

  No fuckin’ way.

  Then they leap.

  And death begins.

  I fire. Trying to cover the squad.

  But they move like phantoms through the storm.

  They ain’t human.

  We are.

  I clip one. Limbs flail. Jrake said Navorians aren’t one species—just a collection. No standard form.

  Some got necks, some don’t. Small cores, long limbs, magnetic joints. Some wield weapons—real training. They breathe through filters that feed oxygen straight into the blood. Masks keep their mouths wet. Scales tough as hell, barely need armor. But they wear it anyway—light plates that don’t slow ‘em down.

  What did I learn from all that?

  We’re dead.

  So fucking dead.

  And then—

  One’s different.

  Its limbs hang loose. Each appendage ends in a blade. Cuts through soldiers like a ghost carving through corpses.

  I freeze. Just watchin’.

  Years of training. Suffering. Bleeding. I thought it meant something. I thought it made me more than just meat in the mud.

  But out here?

  There’s no glory.

  No heroes.

  Just bodies.

  And I’m next.

  Shoulda known.

  Ritcher’s voice rips through comms.

  “Fall back! It’s an ambush! Move!”

  No hesitation.

  I follow.

  Lanny.

  Canny.

  Huck.

  Where’s Min-Joon?

  Gone.

  He was with the snipers. First to get hit.

  My grip tightens.

  Ritcher rolls—dodges a spear. Turns. Fires.

  Hits.

  The thing stumbles.

  We all open fire.

  It looks at us—calm. Like it knows we’re nothing.

  “What are you doing?!” Klaus yells—but his voice wavers. Regret? Rage?

  Doesn’t matter.

  “Fire!”

  But it’s alive. Thinking. Moving.

  Then—

  Huck charges.

  No guns. Just fists.

  Like he can box death.

  The appendage slices clean through his throat.

  Blood drips. Huck still.

  Then he’s down.

  Soldier down.

  Friend down.

  And it’s coming for us.

  Canny screams. “Huck!”

  She spins, fires—

  Not air rounds.

  Heat.

  Lasers burn the bastard.

  Others follow suit. Switch modes. Fire.

  I join them.

  It dies.

  So does Huck.

  I look at him.

  Gone.

  Should’ve shot.

  Should’ve helped.

  But this ain’t the time to mourn.

  More enemies incoming.

  Those who stay behind?

  Distractions.

  We run.

  We regroup.

  We plan.

  Then we come back.

  And we make them pay.

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