Late autumn in Belvarlia had always been bleak. This year, it was different. That autumn, UN observers confirmed the last leader of the government-in-exile had been killed by the Belvarian Guard. Belvarlia was no more. And the season felt even colder.

  A week after Aleksander Valnyev’s assassination, an unwelcomed guest arrived in a small town in the east.

  That afternoon, a man stepped out of a restaurant. Its windows were boarded up. He stood at the entrance, lit a cigarette from a dented aluminum case, adjusted the mask on his face, then stubbed the cigarette and put it back in the case. His eyes swept the street.

  His gear—tactical uniform, combat backpack—had once been olive green. Now it was the color of old dust. Still, the townspeople walked faster as they passed. No one looked at him. No one met his eyes. He knew why. The rifle on his back.

  He turned to look at the sign above the door. Faded lettering in Belvarian: Polina’s Kitchen.

  The sign was caked in dust, marked with bullet holes. Pitiful, like the crooked cross on the church down the road, like the plaza scattered with rubble, the dry fountain basin.

  He thought: Who would believe this place still served food?

  And yet, people still lived here. That was clear. Rubble had been swept away from half-collapsed doorways. In some yards, patches of vegetables were growing. At the corner earlier, he’d seen a child trailing him—hoping to pick up spent casings.

  Then again, the woman who served him so warmly might not even be Polina. It didn’t matter. What did was this: damn Richard Connell and his convoy—why weren’t they here yet?

  All waiting ends, like all things.

  Three vehicles turned the corner, kicking up dust. The lead Unimog stopped with a snort of brakes. A stocky man in tactical gear jumped down from the passenger seat. His gear was cleaner. Simpler. This was Richard.

  “How long you been standing here, Owl?”

  The man didn’t move. Under the mask, he said, “Password.”

  Richard paused. His smile faded. He glanced at the driver, then looked back, his eyes showing a hint of disgust.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Bread and cold wind,” the man said.

  “We’ve got rations too,” the young driver said, laughing. He stopped when he saw Richard’s face.

  “Password’s right. Good enough?” Richard asked.

  The man didn’t answer. He walked past, toward the second truck. He peered through the armored window.

  “I want the second vehicle.”

  “That one’s for the asset. You’re not getting in,” Richard said.

  “I smoke. Rear truck has munitions,” the man replied. He glanced sideways. “Or do you want to put me in the lead?”

  The lead truck was all comms gear and command seats. Richard’s brow tensed.

  “Fine. Suit yourself.”

  “And Tyto isn’t ‘Owl.’ Owls make noise.” He turned away.

  Richard didn’t reply. He climbed back into the front seat and slammed the door.

  “Well, he thinks he’s something,” he muttered.

  “Don’t be mad, boss. He’s got rank—but only at HQ,” said Viktor, starting the engine. “Out here, he’s just catching a ride.”

  “I heard he’s not even officially Spiral Matrix,” he added.

  Richard frowned. “Can’t be.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “You think it’s because he’s one of them?” Richard asked suddenly.

  “One of who?”

  Richard jerked his chin back. “Like the one in the rear truck.”

  Both men fell silent.

  Tyto felt something off as soon as he got in. Two others were already inside. Malik, the driver. Louis, not in the front but the back. Watching him.

  The rear of the vehicle had been turned into a cage. Crude metal bars welded into the frame. A padlock hung from the cage door.

  The light was dim. He could only see metal crates stacked outside the bars, marked with biohazard triangles. He didn’t care. He dropped his gear, lit the cigarette he hadn’t finished.

  The town was already behind them. They were heading west.

  Dusk fell over the plains—rich soil, nothing growing. Shrubs lay dead. Near the villages, a few rowans still held clusters of red fruit.

  A sound from the cage. A woman. Coughing.

  She muttered, “Smoke… take it out…”

  Then he understood what had felt off. Women had that strange effect. Even their silence hummed.

  Louis tensed. He reached for a cooler, took out a syringe, unlocked the cage.

  Tyto couldn’t see the woman. She struggled, then gave in. Louis locked the cage again. Silence.

  “What was that?” Tyto asked.

  “Sedative. Company does that for priority targets,” Louis said.

  “You’re pumping her full like saline. She won’t make it to Granitz.”

  “If we don’t, she’s gone. She’s got a… special Gift.” Louis watched him, testing.

  Tyto looked around. No ashtray. He crushed the cigarette out, annoyed.

  “Special like me?”

  Louis hadn’t expected that. He muttered, “Maybe,” and went quiet.

  Tyto gave a thin smile.

  Trying to smooth the air, Louis added, “Don’t know what she’s got. But she’s dangerous. Real dangerous. I figure that’s why they call her Ricochet.

  If she were just another Giftborn, her country wouldn’t send a woman like that into Belvarlia.”

  “Which country?” Tyto asked, finally showing some interest.

  “East, where else? They’ve got more Giftborn than anyone.”

  “Biggest population wins,” Malik added.

  “Say, with your clearance, any word from HQ? Any progress? Is it really random? No way to trigger it?” Louis asked.

  “As of now, no. Pure chance.”

  “Then we’re screwed. No one outbreeds Serica,” Louis muttered, leaning back.