The Encampment –
Continuous
Every
head in the clearing turns toward the shrubs where Marcus and Decimus
stand frozen in the dark. For a moment no one speaks. The
forest feels wrong now, too quiet, too aware.
Tiber
glances up, then back down at Arruns. His hands are still slick with
blood, still busy packing and cinching bandages. “Give me a
minute,” he says under his breath. “I want this finished before
we move.”
Lucille
nods. She reaches out and lightly touches Cain’s hand.
“Go,”
she murmurs. “Check on them.”
Cain
frowns instinctively, then the tension eases just enough for a small,
crooked smile. He nods once. He ties off the final stitch, firm and
clean, then presses the bandages into Lucille’s hands. “Finish
it,” he says softly.
She
does.
Cain
rises and crosses the clearing, boots crunching softly over leaves
and disturbed earth. The smell hits him before he reaches them, burnt
propellant, blood, and something metallic that sits heavy in the
throat.
He
parts the shrubs.
Marcus
and Decimus stand shoulder to shoulder over a single body. Neither is
moving.
Marcus
speaks quietly, urgently. “Decimus. It’s— it’s all right. We
didn’t know. We couldn’t—”
Decimus
doesn’t answer. His face is pale beneath the grime, eyes fixed
downward, unfocused, like he’s staring through the corpse instead
of at it.
Cain
steps closer. “What’s going on?”
They
both turn to him.
Whatever
Cain expects to see on their faces, shock, adrenaline, grim
satisfaction, it isn’t there. They look hollow. Drained.
Marcus
swallows hard, throat bobbing. His mouth opens. No words come.
Decimus
blurts it out instead, voice cracking. “These ain’t machines.”
Cain
stills.
“These
ain’t robots,” Decimus says again, louder now, almost angry. He
gestures sharply down at the body. “That’s Lars Festus.”
The
name lands like a blow.
Cain
feels the blood drain from his face.
Festus.
He remembers him. Everyone does. Loud in the halls. Terrible at
tactics, good with a rifle. Always laughed too hard after duels.
Dead
at their feet.
It
should have been expected. In the dueling phase alone, four cadets
had died. They’d been warned, missions could overlap, objectives
could intersect. Live fire. Live stakes.
But
this….
Marcus
kneels at another body, hands shaking as he checks armor plates,
pulls the helmet aside.
He
exhales, slow and broken. “Servius Suilius,” he says. “It’s
him.”
Another
name. Another face Cain knows.
Decimus
steps back like the ground has shifted under him. “They sent us to
kill each other,” he snaps, voice rising. “They sent us out here
to slaughter our own.” His hands curl into fists. “We’re
supposed to be comrades. Brothers. Not targets.”
Cain
looks down at the bodies again.
Cadet
armor. Academy markings, scorched and torn. The same armor they wear.
The same training. The same final exam.
The
realization settles like a weight on his chest.
This
wasn’t a test of skill.
It
was a test of obedience.
Behind
them, in the clearing, the others wait, bleeding, shaken, alive, for
now. And somewhere in the dark beyond the trees, the Academy watches,
silent and unseen.
As
Cain checks a third body, methodical now, grim routine where
disbelief should have ended, Lucille pushes through the shrubs. She’s
pale beneath the grime, one hand pressed hard to her side. Blood has
soaked through fresh bandages again. Still, she stands.
“What
happened?” she asks.
No
one answers. They just look at her. It has already been said once.
Saying it again would make it real in a way none of them want.
Lucille
doesn’t wait. She inhales. Blood, hot, metallic, layered. Familiar
scents beneath the smoke. Cadet-issue armor oil. Standard rations.
Fear, old and new. She sees it all at once. The bodies. The insignia.
The faces she recognizes, even if she never knew their names.
Understanding
clicks into place.
And
she feels… nothing. No shock. No grief. No anger. To her, it makes
no difference whether they were cadets, machines, or prisoners
marched out to die. They had aimed rifles. They had fired first. That
is the sum of it.
Her
eyes unfocus slightly as her mind moves ahead, already running
scenarios.
“Cadets
will be guarding the VIP,” she says after a moment. Calm. Flat.
“Which means we’ll have to kill more of them.”
The
words land like ice. She isn’t pleased by the thought. She isn’t
mournful either. It’s just a conclusion.
Decimus
shakes his head hard, fists clenched so tight his knuckles whiten.
“No,” he says. “I can’t. Not now. Not knowin’.”
Marcus
steps in close, grips his shoulder, firm. “We have to,” he says
quietly. “This is the Final Exam. We don’t finish, we don’t
graduate. None of us.”
Decimus
snarls, a raw sound, and rips his helmet free. He hurls it to the
ground, where it lands in blood and mud. “To the hells with this
mission!”
Lucille
turns on him. Her voice snaps like a blade drawn too fast. “They
ambushed us.”
Decimus
flinches.
“They
tried to kill us,” she continues, stepping closer despite Cain’s
hand hovering near her arm. “They would have put rounds through
your chest and left you to bleed out in the dirt.”
She
gestures sharply at the bodies. “If we hadn’t fought back, if we
hadn’t fought better, that would be us lyin’ there. All of us.”
Silence
stretches, taut and trembling.
“The
only thing that matters,” Lucille says, voice low and absolute, “is
survivin’. Bein’ the better soldier. Finishin’ the mission.”
Her eyes are hard now, burning green and blue in the low light.
“Bein’ the one who lives.”
Lucille
crouches without ceremony and starts going through the bodies. Hands
efficient. Movements stripped of hesitation. She pulls magazines from
chest rigs, checks weights by feel, stuffs them into her own. MREs
next. Ropes. Multi-tools. Spare batteries. Anything that still has
use.
Marcus
snaps, sharp and sudden. “Lucille, show some damn respect.”
She
doesn’t even look up. “They’re dead.” The words are flat.
Final. “They don’t own anything anymore,” she continues,
tugging a rucksack free. “If we leave this here, it rots with them.
We need it.”
Marcus
bristles. “They were cadets. Our own.”
“And
they tried to kill us,” she fires back, finally lifting her eyes.
Cold. Unyielding. “Respect don’t keep you alive.”
Cain
opens his mouth, voice quieter, shaken. “This ain’t how it’s
supposed to be. My brothers, none of ’em ever said it was like
this. Killing classmates. Final Exams ain’t meant to—”
“Maybe
it changed,” Lucille cuts in. “Maybe it didn’t.” She tightens
a strap, hoists the pack. “Don’t matter now.”
She
straightens, blood soaking through her side again, but she doesn’t
slow.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“All
that matters is finishing the mission,” she says. “And surviving
it.”
Decimus’
jaw tightens, eyes burning. “You’re heartless.”
Lucille
pauses for half a breath. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t defend
herself. She just turns away, gear clinking softly, and heads back
toward the clearing, vanishing into the shrubs like a ghost already
halfway gone.
The
three of them stand there, staring after her. The forest seems darker
where she passed.
Cain
exhales, low and uneasy. “She ain’t heartless,” he mutters.
Marcus
glances at him. “You sure?”
Cain
nods, though his face is tight. “She’s focused.”
Marcus
grimaces. “That’s almost worse.”
Cain
swallows. “You ain’t seen her in tactical theory. When she locks
onto the operation…” He shakes his head. “She’s terrifying.”
A beat. “Come on,” Cain says. “We better go after her. Before
she does somethin’ irrational.”
In
the clearing, Lucille works in silence.
She
stuffs two MREs into her rucksack, along with spare magazines and a
coil of rope taken from the dead. Practical. Necessary. She cinches
the straps tight, then swings the pack up and secures it to the rear
of her horse’s saddle.
The
horse snorts, stamping a hoof, head tossing like it can feel the
tension crawling through her spine.
Tiber
has Arruns on his feet, one arm slung over his shoulders. He presses
a canteen into Arruns’ shaking hand. “Drink,” he orders.
“Slow.”
Arruns
does, wheezing through it.
Tiber
looks up at Lucille. “What’re you doin’?”
She
doesn’t stop adjusting the straps. “We’re movin’ out.”
He
frowns. “Now?”
She
finally looks at him. “This place ain’t safe no more. Bodies
stink. Blood’s loud. And we ain’t got a clue who else heard all
that shootin’. We stay, we get ambushed again.”
Tiber
grimaces, glancing at the dark ring of trees. “…Yeah. Reckon
you’re right.” He hesitates. “Just don’t know how far Arruns
can ride.”
Lucille
doesn’t answer.
She
unties the reins and leads her horse into the center of the clearing.
In one smooth motion, she mounts. The horse is keyed up, muscles
tight, ready to bolt, but she keeps the reins firm, holding it steady
while Tiber helps Arruns toward his own mount.
That’s
when Cain breaks through the shrubs.
He
spots her in the saddle and his heart jumps clean into his throat. He
hurries over and grabs her knee, fingers closing like she might
vanish if he lets go.
“Lucy,
wait.”
She
glances down at him once, then looks forward again, eyes already on
the path she means to take.
“You
can’t just run off,” Cain says, voice low but urgent. “We gotta
stick together. That’s the team.”
A
growl rumbles up from her chest. For a split second she bares her
teeth, feral and sharp, before she reins it back in. When she finally
speaks, it’s meant for him alone.
“What
d’you think they trained us for, Cain?” she murmurs. “What we
been studyin’ all these years.” Her grip tightens on the reins.
“Who you think our enemies are.” She leans down just enough that
he can hear her over the restless horse. “The Order don’t fight
civilian-born humans,” she says. “It fights itself.” Her eyes
cut back to the forest. “It always has. It always will.”
Cain
swallows. He doesn’t doubt it. That’s what scares him most.
Lucille
tightens her grip on the reins, knuckles whitening as the horse
shifts beneath her, sensing the tension in her legs.
Cain
does not let go of her knee.
“It
still ain’t that easy,” he says, voice rough, catching. “Lucy…
those cadets. They weren’t strangers. They were ours. Folks we
trained with. Ate with. Slept ten feet apart from every night.” His
jaw tightens. “It ain’t so simple for the rest of us. It don’t
just… shut off.”
Something
ugly coils in her chest. Her lips peel back before she can stop them.
Teeth flash in the lantern light, sharp and feral, a warning snarl
breaking loose from her throat.
“The
rest of you,” she snaps, twisting in the saddle to glare
down at him. “That’s your problem right there.”
Cain
blinks, startled. “That ain’t what I—”
“You
got friends,” she cuts in, voice low and dangerous now. “You
always have. You got people waitin’ on you to hesitate. To feel
bad. To mourn.” Her grip tightens until the leather creaks. “Don’t
you dare put that on me.”
The
horse sidesteps, agitated. Lucille heels it forward, hard.
“I
don’t got friends,” she growls. “I got you. That’s
it. So don’t you stand there talkin’ like I’m wrong for knowin’
what this is.”
Cain’s
hand slips from her knee as the horse surges into motion. “Lucy,
wait, that ain’t what I meant!”
Too
late. The horse breaks into a trot, hooves thudding against packed
earth, muscles bunching to run. Lucille leans forward, intent on the
dark path between the trees, jaw set, eyes hard.
Then
a shape moves in front of her. Marcus steps straight into the horse’s
path.
“Lucille!”
he shouts.
The
horse rears slightly, tossing its head, breath snorting hot and loud.
Lucille yanks back on the reins, cursing under her breath as Marcus
lunges forward and grabs the bridle with both hands.
It
is a bold move. A stupid one.
The
horse dances, hooves pawing, neck arched, but Marcus plants his boots
and hauls it sideways, straining, teeth bared as he wrestles control
inch by inch.
“Easy,”
he grunts, more to himself than the animal. “Easy, damn it—”
“Marcus!”
Lucille snaps. “Get outta the way!”
He
looks up at her then, face flushed, eyes blazing. “The hell I
will.”
She
jerks the reins again, hard enough to make the bit bite. The horse
tosses its head, resisting both of them now, caught between commands.
“You
ain’t goin’ nowhere without your team,” Marcus snarls. “Not
like this.”
Lucille’s
temper flares white-hot. “Let go of my horse,” she demands.
“Right now.”
“No,”
he fires back, digging in harder. “You run off alone, you die
alone. I ain’t lettin’ that happen.”
She
leans down in the saddle, eyes burning. “That ain’t your call.”
“Like
hell it ain’t,” Marcus says. “You don’t get to decide this
for all of us.”
The
horse stamps, sides heaving. Lucille’s hands shake on the reins,
fury and fear tangling tight in her chest.
“Marcus,”
she says, voice dropping to something sharp and final. “You let go.
I ain’t askin’ again.”
He
does not move.
Behind
them, Cain steps closer, hands raised, trying to wedge himself into
the space before it all breaks. “Both of y’all need to stop—”
“This
don’t concern you,” Lucille snaps without looking at him.
“It
damn well does,” Marcus shoots back. “You think we didn’t see
it? The way you look at us like we’re already dead weight?”
Lucille
bares her teeth again. “I look at you like targets are closin’
in.”
“And
I look at you like you’re runnin’,” Marcus says, breathing
hard. “Maybe not from them. Maybe from us.”
That
one lands.
Her
jaw tightens. The reins creak in her fists.
“Get.
Out. Of. My. Way.”
Marcus
shakes his head, stubborn as bedrock. “Not a chance.”
The
clearing holds its breath. The horse snorts, restless, trapped
between wills. Lantern light flickers across faces drawn tight with
fear and anger and something worse, betrayal. Lucille stares down at
Marcus, eyes cold now, calculating. If he does not let go, she will
make him. And everyone there knows it.
Marcus
keeps his grip on the bridle, chest heaving, boots dug into the dirt
like roots.
“Stop
runnin’,” he says, voice low but iron-hard. “Stop tryin’ to
do this like you’re the only one bleedin’ out here. We’re a
team, Lucille. Act like it.”
That’s
the wrong thing to say.
Lucille
snaps at him, a sharp, ugly sound, all teeth and heat. “Don’t you
dare tell me I’m runnin’.” Her eyes cut past him to
Cain as he edges closer, hands ready, body coiled like he’ll yank
her out of the saddle if she so much as twitches. “An’ don’t
you think I don’t see that look, Cain. You try that, I swear—”
“Lucy,”
Cain says carefully, “I ain’t here to hurt you.”
“Then
get outta my way,” she snarls. “Both of you.”
The
horse tosses its head again, feeling the spike in her anger.
“If
y’all can’t handle doin’ what needs doin’,” Lucille goes
on, voice raw now, words tearing loose faster than she can rein them
in, “then I’ll do it for you. Not ‘cause I’m kind. Not ‘cause
I wanna. But ‘cause I have to.”
Marcus
opens his mouth, but she barrels right over him.
“I
can’t afford to fail this Final,” she says, jabbing a finger into
her own chest. “I can’t afford to freeze up or hesitate or get
sentimental.” Her breath comes hard. “I ain’t got a mom waitin’
back home. I ain’t got a daddy pullin’ strings. I ain’t got
brothers, sisters, or a House ready to catch me if I fall.”
Her
voice drops, shaking despite her effort to steady it.
“I
got nothin’. So don’t you stand there actin’ like this
is the same for me as it is for you.”
Silence
slams down heavy.
Cain
and Marcus exchange a look, quick, wordless, understanding passing
clean between them.
Marcus
looks back up at her. “Then it’s time that changes,” he says.
Lucille
scoffs, bitter. “Ain’t how the world works.”
“You’ve
always had Cain,” Marcus says evenly. “You don’t deny that.”
He nods toward him. “So maybe it’s time you start countin’ the
rest of us, too. You can call us friends now. Ain’t gonna kill
you.”
Her
mouth opens. No words come out.
Cain
steps in then, gentle but firm, hands lowering, not reaching for her
anymore. “Lucy… you don’t gotta carry this by yourself.” His
voice cracks just a hair. “That’s why there’s six of us. That’s
the point. We share the weight. All of it.”
She
looks away. Her jaw works.
“Just
‘cause you ain’t relied on folks before,” Cain continues
softly, “don’t mean you can’t start now.”
Marcus
huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Besides,” he adds, a crooked
grin tugging at his mouth, “what kinda men would we be if we let a
little lady do all the hard work while we sit back an’ take the
glory?”
Cain
lets out a quiet chuckle despite himself.
The
horse settles, breathing slowing.
Lucille
stays rigid in the saddle, reins clenched, staring out into the dark
trees, but something in her posture cracks. Just a little. Enough
that the anger leaks out, leaving something raw and unguarded behind.
For
the first time, she doesn’t kick the horse forward. For the first
time, she hesitates.
Hooves
crunch through leaf litter and ash as Tiber rides up on Lucille’s
free side. He hauls back on the reins, his horse skidding to a halt
close enough she can feel the heat off it. Arruns follows just
behind, silent and watchful, eyes scanning the treeline even as he
settles his mount.
Tiber
leans over and gives Lucille a firm pat between the shoulders.
It
startles her. Hard. She jerks, teeth flashing again, a half-snarl
breaking loose before she can stop it. Tiber just laughs, boyish and
bright, like this is any other night and not a blood-soaked exam gone
feral.
“Easy,
tiger,” he says, grin wide. “Heard every bit of that.”
Lucille
doesn’t look at him. Her knuckles stay white on the reins.
“An’
for what it’s worth,” Tiber goes on, tone sobering just a notch,
“I’m with ‘em.” He nods at Marcus and Cain. “Enemy’s the
enemy. Don’t matter if they wore the same colors last week.” He
shrugs, casual as hell. “Mission’s the mission. An’ if somebody
points a gun at us?” His smile sharpens. “Then them suckers are
coyote food.”
Arruns
gives a low grunt of agreement from behind him.
Footsteps
and jingling tack announce Decimus before he speaks. He comes out of
the dark with the reins of three horses looped through his hand, eyes
a little too bright, face still pale under the grime. He swallows
once, then lifts his chin.
“We
need to move,” he calls. “Now. Before somebody else comes
sniffin’.”
His
gaze flicks to Lucille, respect there, raw and unpolished. “Ain’t
gonna lie,” he adds, voice rough, “this ain’t how I figured
tonight’d go.” A humorless huff escapes him. “But hell. It’s
not like I liked all our classmates anyway. Some of ‘em are
assholes.”
That
earns a few tight snorts.
Tiber
grins again and tips his head toward Lucille. “Speakin’ of
assholes,” he says lightly, “bet we run into Seraphine out here,
huh?” His eyes gleam. “You could finally give her what’s been
comin’ to her.”
Arruns
makes a sound that might be a chuckle.
Lucille’s
jaw tightens. Something dark and old flickers behind her eyes.
She
doesn’t smile.
But
she doesn’t argue either.
She
shifts in the saddle, squares her shoulders, and finally loosens her
death-grip on the reins.
“All
right,” she says, voice low and steady now. “We move.”
She
looks at each of them in turn. Cain. Marcus. Tiber. Decimus. Arruns.
“Together.”
