The Aftermath –
Continuous
Cain
calls her name once, then again, louder. “Lucy.”
Lucille
does not flinch, but she does not look away from the corpse at her
feet either. Her breathing is still too fast, too shallow, lungs
burning like she has been running for miles. Her fingers are locked
white-knuckled around the hilt of her sword, the leather slick with
blood, some hers, most not. The world feels thin, brittle, like one
wrong sound might shatter it.
“Lucille.”
Cain reaches her at last. He moves carefully, like one might approach
a skittish horse or a wounded animal. He places a hand on her
shoulder.
The
contact jolts her.
She
inhales sharply, shoulders tensing, and for half a heartbeat her grip
tightens as if she might swing on him. Instead, she forces herself to
breathe. In. Out. The blade trembles in her hand before she lowers
it, slow and deliberate, until the tip rests against the dirt with a
faint scrape.
She
finally looks at him.
Cain
smiles, tired and crooked, relief etched deep into his face. There is
blood smeared along his armor, dust clinging to his hair, but his
eyes are bright. Alive. “Marcus an’ Tiber got the VIP locked
down,” he says. “He’s safe.”
Lucille
nods once. No words. She slides the sword back into its sheath with a
practiced motion, the sound final, almost ceremonial.
Only
then does the shaking start.
She
stills it with sheer force of will.
From
above, boots crunch on stone. Decimus descends from the ridgeline,
long strides measured and quiet. His rifle hangs against his chest by
its sling, one hand resting on the fore-end like he might need it
again at any second. His eyes flick across the clearing, cataloging
bodies, angles, threats that no longer exist.
The
smoke has thinned to nothing now. Dawn creeps in low and gray,
bleeding over the rocks, catching on the edges of steel and blood.
They
gather around the Instructor.
The
VIP stands unsteadily, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had bitten
into skin. Red marks ring them like shackles burned into memory. His
face is pale, eyes sunken, but he is smiling, genuinely smiling, as
he looks at the cadets arrayed around him. Not children. Not anymore.
“Well,”
he says, voice hoarse but steady. “I’d say that went better than
expected.”
Marcus
huffs out a breath that might be a laugh if it had any humor left in
it. His arm is wrapped tight in a field dressing, crimson already
seeping through. Tiber stands close at his side, one hand hovering
near him, ready in case he sways.
“You
did good,” the Instructor continues, pride unmistakable now. “All
of you. Coordinated. Decisive. Adaptable under pressure.” His gaze
lingers on Lucille just a second longer than the rest. “That’s
not something you can teach easy.”
Lucille
shifts her weight, uncomfortable under the attention. Blood still
dries along the edge of her armor. She says nothing.
Tiber
clears his throat. His voice is rough, scraped raw by exhaustion and
grief layered together. “So what now?” he asks. “Orders?”
Cain
answers before the Instructor can. His tone has changed, firmer,
steadier, carrying the weight of responsibility whether he wants it
or not. “We extract,” he says. “Soon as possible. This place is
burned. No tellin’ who heard that fight.”
Decimus
nods once in agreement. Marcus exhales, sagging just a little now
that the adrenaline has begun to fade.
The
Instructor straightens as much as he can, squaring his shoulders.
“Then let’s move,” he says. “Before daylight decides to show
us to the world.”
Lucille
turns away from the bodies first.
She
steps back toward her horse, boots crunching through ash and stone,
mind already racing ahead, routes, angles, threats unseen. The
victory sits heavy in her chest. Earned. Costly. Temporary.
Lucille
swings into the saddle without ceremony, movements economical,
practiced. Cain settles in beside her, boots finding their stirrups
by muscle memory alone. Marcus mounts stiffly, jaw clenched against
the pain in his arm, while Decimus checks straps and cinches twice
before climbing up. Tiber lingers a moment longer, eyes lingering on
the empty space where Arruns should have been.
The
Instructor is handed the spare reins.
Arruns’
horse stands patient and steady, flecked with dried sweat and dust,
ears flicking back and forth as if waiting for a familiar voice that
will never come. The VIP takes the reins gently, his expression
tightening as understanding settles in.
“I
take it this one’s… not spare by choice,” he says quietly.
No
one answers him. That, too, is answer enough.
Once
everyone is mounted, the Instructor taps his wristband. A faint chirp
sounds across their comms, and a set of coordinates flashes onto
their HUDs. Cain pulls his map free again, angling the red light
across it as the numbers overlay the terrain.
He
whistles low. “That’s a haul.”
Lucille
leans over just enough to see. Her eyes narrow. “We push hard,”
she says. “We make it by nightfall.”
“No
breaks longer’n five minutes,” Decimus adds. “Horses’ll hold
if we don’t let ’em cool too much.”
The
Instructor nods approval. “Then we move.”
They
kick their heels in, and the column surges forward. Hooves strike
dirt and stone in a steady, pounding rhythm, a fast trot that eats
distance but demands endurance. The land rolls beneath them, scrub
giving way to broken rock, ravines cutting through the earth like old
wounds. The sky brightens slowly, dawn bleeding pale gold into the
clouds behind them.
For
a long while, no one speaks.
Wind
tears at cloaks and loose straps. Armor creaks. Every rider is alone
with their thoughts.
Eventually,
Tiber breaks the silence.
“So,”
he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the hoofbeats.
“That it, then? Final Exam over?”
The
Instructor rides a half-length behind them, posture straight despite
exhaustion.
“Oh,
no,” he says calmly. “This was only one phase.”
Tiber
grimaces. “Figures.”
“There
is much more yet to come,” the Instructor continues. “Harder
objectives. Less structure. Fewer margins for error.” A pause. “And
fewer instructors close enough to intervene.”
Marcus
mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a
curse.
Cain
glances toward Lucille. She is staring ahead, eyes fixed on the path
unfolding before them, reins steady in her hands. There is no fear in
her expression. Only calculation.
The
Instructor finally turns his head slightly, just enough for his gaze
to sweep across them. “If you’re hoping for answers,” he says,
“you won’t get them from me. Not yet.”
“Course
not,” Cain replies dryly. “Wouldn’t be fair.”
A
faint smile touches the Instructor’s mouth. “You’re learning.”
They
ride on.
The
sun climbs higher, burning away the last of the mist clinging to the
low ground. Muscles ache. Wounds throb. Hunger gnaws. But the pace
never slows.
Behind
them, the battlefield is already being reclaimed by silence.
Ahead
of them waits whatever comes next.
They
ride until the sun finally crests the treetops, pale gold spilling
through the summer canopy in broken shafts of light. Only then does
Lucille lift a fist and ease the pace. The horses slow from a driven
trot to a steady walk, heads lowering, breath steaming softly as
their muscles unwind.
The
forest opens around them like a held breath released.
Birdsong
filters down through the leaves. Insects hum. Sunlight glitters off
dew clinging to ferns and spiderwebs. Somewhere far off, so distant
it feels almost unreal, gunfire cracks and fades. Bursts of automatic
fire. Then silence. Other squads. Other cadets. Still fighting. Still
bleeding.
Here,
though, it is quiet.
Too
quiet.
The
horses’ hooves crunch softly against packed earth and pine needles.
Leather creaks. Metal ticks faintly as armor cools. The smell of sap,
warm soil, and horse sweat hangs thick in the air, layered over the
faint copper tang of dried blood that none of them have managed to
wash off.
The
Instructor rides just behind the lead pair, posture composed, reins
loose in his hands. His eyes never stop moving. He watches the cadets
ahead of him, their spacing, their posture, the way they scan the
woods without even seeming to think about it. He watches how Marcus
favors one arm, how Decimus keeps glancing up toward the high ground
even now, how Tiber keeps drifting his horse just a little too close
to the flank, as if guarding an absence.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
He
says nothing. He is not here to guide them. Not here to teach. Not
here to save them. He is here to be an objective. A burden. A prize.
And
yet his gaze keeps slipping to the treeline, to the shadows between
trunks, to the places where the forest could swallow men whole. He
looks like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Up
front, Lucille rides with her shoulders loose but her spine straight,
reins held low and steady. Her eyes flick constantly, left, right,
forward, up. Every few minutes, she draws in a slow breath through
her nose, testing the air like an animal. Sweat, leather, horses. Old
smoke. Faint gun oil. Nothing new. Nothing wrong.
Cain
notices.
He
watches her from the corner of his eye for a bit, lips twitching,
before he finally murmurs, “You gonna start growlin’ too, or you
savin’ that for later?”
Lucille
glances at him, one brow lifting. “You complainin’?”
“No,”
he says, a grin creeping in despite the exhaustion dragging at his
eyes. “Just wonderin’ if I oughta fetch you a stick or
somethin’.”
She
snorts, sharp and quiet. “You throw a stick, I’ll throw it back
at your head.”
“That
don’t sound very wolf-like.”
She
leans a little closer in the saddle, voice dropping. “You ever met
a nice wolf, Cain?”
He
chuckles under his breath. “Fair point.”
For
a moment, something almost like normal settles between them. Almost.
The kind of quiet that might’ve passed for peace, once. Lucille’s
grin lingers just a second longer than it should, crooked and feral,
before she looks forward again.
Her
hand drifts, unconsciously, to her chest pocket.
The
book is still there. Heavy. Solid. Real.
Cain
catches the motion. Says nothing.
Behind
them, Marcus lets out a slow breath. “Hell,” he mutters. “Almost
makes you forget we’re sittin’ in the middle of a kill zone.”
“Don’t,”
Decimus replies flatly. “That’s how you die.”
Tiber
huffs a quiet laugh that carries no humor. “Ain’t that the
truth.”
The
Instructor hears all of it. Every word. Every pause. He files it
away, measuring them not by their bravado, but by how quickly the
jokes fade, by how fast their eyes snap back to the woods afterward.
The
forest does not care that the sun is up.
Lucille
feels it before she can explain it, the way the quiet presses in, the
way the birdsong thins just a touch when the wind shifts. Her fingers
tighten on the reins, just barely.
The
sun climbs until it sits heavy and merciless at noon, baking the
forest floor and pulling sweat from skin and leather alike. Then,
slowly, it begins its descent, light slanting long and gold through
the trees as the hours grind on. Fatigue settles deep into bone. Not
the sharp kind. The dull, gnawing weight that makes every movement
feel borrowed.
That
is when Lucille smells it. Her head lifts a fraction. Nostrils flare.
People.
Not cadets.
Gasoline
first, sharp, biting, wrong in a place that should smell like sap and
loam. Engine oil layered beneath it. Hot metal. Then musk and
cologne, cheap and heavy, the kind meant to cover sweat instead of
washing it away.
Her
pulse jumps.
She
glances sideways at Cain, eyes bright for half a second with
something close to relief. This is it. Maybe not the end of the Final
Exam, but the end of this stretch. Close enough now that she can hear
it too, low, distant, almost swallowed by the forest. Engines idling.
Big ones. Trucks.
But
the excitement never fully takes hold. Her shoulders stay tight. Her
gaze flicks past Cain, over the trail ahead, into the trees. The
forest feels… wrong. She eases her horse closer to his until their
knees brush, leather whispering against leather. She leans toward
him, voice barely more than breath.
“Cain,”
she murmurs. “You hear that?”
He
nods. “Yeah. Engines. We’re close.”
“That
ain’t what I mean.”
He
looks at her then, really looks. Sees the tension in her jaw. The way
her fingers curl into the reins.
“The
woods,” she whispers. “They gone quiet.”
Cain’s
brow furrows. He listens harder. Once he notices it, he cannot
un-notice it. No birds. No insects. No restless rustling. Just wind
sliding through leaves and the steady, rhythmic sound of horses
moving forward.
Still,
he answers softly, trying to anchor it. “Could just be the trucks.
Lotta noise. Scares wildlife off.”
Lucille’s
mouth tightens. “Maybe.”
She
does not sound convinced.
Her
eyes sweep the treeline again, slow and deliberate. Every shadow
feels deeper. Every fallen log looks like it could hide a man. Her
hand drifts closer to the hilt at her hip without her realizing it.
Behind
them, Marcus shifts in his saddle, rolling his shoulder with a quiet
wince. “Y’all feel that?” he mutters. “Like we walked into a
temple mid-sermon.”
Decimus
doesn’t laugh. He’s already scanning uphill, downhill, fingers
resting against his rifle even though it’s slung. “Yeah,” he
says. “I don’t like it.”
Tiber
swallows, glancing back once, then forward again. “Extraction ain’t
supposed to be spooky,” he says under his breath. “S’posed to
be boring.”
The
Instructor hears all of it. He straightens just a little in his
saddle, eyes narrowing. His gaze fixes on Lucille’s back, on the
way her horse slows half a step without her telling it to.
He
knows that posture.
He
has seen it on battlefields.
Lucille
lifts her fist, just slightly. Not enough to halt them. Enough to
slow the line. The horses respond, pace easing, hooves quieter now.
Her
voice comes low, firm. “Weapons loose,” she murmurs. “Not out.
Just… ready.”
Cain
nods and shifts his grip, casual on the surface, coiled underneath.
“You thinkin’ ambush?”
“I’m
thinkin’ I don’t trust silence,” she replies.
The
wind sighs through the canopy.
The
engine noise grows a shade louder.
The
silence stretches. Minutes pass. Then more. No shots. No movement. No
sudden violence breaking from the trees.
They
ride on.
At
last, the forest thins, trees pulling back as the trail opens into a
wide clearing carved raw and ugly from the land. Two armored
personnel carriers sit there, engines idling, exhaust ghosting into
the air. Their rear doors hang open. Floodlights are off, but the
vehicles hum with restrained power.
Praevectus
soldiers wait around them.
A
couple lounge in the open backs of the APCs, helmets off, boots
dangling as they snack and talk like men killing time. Others stand
near the vehicles, rifles slung, posture loose. One scrolls through a
datapad, eyes flicking between a live-feed map and the blinking icons
of GPS trackers.
Extraction.
It
looks real.
Tiber
exhales a shaky breath, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Marcus
lets himself sag in the saddle, relief plain on his face. Even
Decimus eases, his gaze lifting from the treeline for the first time
in what feels like hours.
They
made it.
The
quiet makes sense now. Too many engines. Too many people. No wildlife
would linger near this.
They
ride toward the trucks.
The
Instructor swings down from his horse the moment they reach the
clearing, boots hitting dirt as he strides for the man with the
datapad. A Captain, his armor cleaner, insignia sharp, bearing easy
and confident.
Tiber
dismounts. Marcus follows. Decimus slides off last, stretching his
legs, rifle settling against his chest.
Lucille
does not move.
Her
grip tightens on the reins until the leather creaks. Her horse shifts
beneath her, sensing her unease. Her eyes sweep the clearing again,
left, right, treeline, shadows between trunks. The air still smells
wrong to her. Too many overlapping human scents. Too controlled. Too
staged.
She
says nothing.
Cain
glances back at her. Holds her gaze for a heartbeat. Then his hand
loosens on the reins and he swings down, boots crunching into the
dirt.
“Easy,”
he murmurs, more to himself than her. “We’re here.”
Maybe
she is just wound too tight. The Final Exam has been nothing but
pressure and traps and misdirection. Paranoia is part of the lesson.
The
VIP and the Captain meet halfway. They grin at one another, clasp
forearms, the sound of armor tapping armor. Familiar. Practiced.
“Good
to see you breathing,” the Captain says.
“Likewise,”
the Instructor replies. “You ready to take us home?”
The
Captain nods. “That’s the question. You ready?”
“Affirmative.”
Lucille’s
head snaps toward the treeline.
She
sees it.
Just
beyond the edge of the clearing, half-swallowed by shadow; emerald
eyes. Unblinking. Watching her.
A
black wolf stands there, massive and silent, its coat drinking in the
light. She knows that wolf. Has known it her entire life. The same
presence that has followed her since childhood. The same creature
that led her, unbidden, to the shrine of Valroth Kyr in the Academy
depths.
It
does not growl. It does not bare its teeth. Its ears slowly pin back.
It shifts its weight, turns, and pads sideways, then slips into the
forest and is gone.
Fire
blooms along her left forearm. The scar of Valroth Kyr burns as if
fresh-cut, heat lancing up her arm. Her breath catches.
“No,”
she whispers.
The
Captain raises his hand. Two fingers lift. Circle once in the air.
Then
he points, casually, toward the cadets.
The
six other Praevectus soldiers straighten in unison. Hands move.
Postures harden. Rifles come free of slings.
Lucille
shouts. “CAIN!”
She
hauls for her rifle, sling biting into her shoulder as the first
soldier steps forward and the clearing turns lethal in the space of a
heartbeat.
The
other cadets barely have time to understand what is happening.
There
is no shouted command. No warning volley. The Praevectus soldiers
explode into motion with brutal precision, closing the distance in
seconds. Boots hit dirt hard. Fists slam into armor. Elbows drive
into throats. It is efficient. Controlled. Clinical.
Marcus
half-turns at Lucille’s shout and never finishes the movement. A
gauntleted fist crashes into his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
Another blow hammers into his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs
in a wet gasp. He stumbles, tries to bring his arms up, but a knee
takes him in the thigh and he goes down hard, the world flashing
white.
Tiber
manages a shout, just one, before he’s hit from behind. Someone
hooks an arm around his neck, crushing his airway, while another
soldier sweeps his legs out from under him. He claws at the forearm
choking him, vision dimming, panic flaring sharp and useless. The
ground rushes up and then hands are everywhere, wrenching his arms
back until his shoulders scream.
Decimus
reacts on instinct, body snapping into motion, fists flying. He lands
a solid strike to a soldier’s faceplate, staggers him. Another
punch cracks against a chest plate. For half a second, it almost
looks like he might break through.
Then
three soldiers converge on him at once.
A
boot slams into his knee from the side. Something crashes into the
back of his skull. He drops, still fighting, still snarling, until a
knee pins his spine and his arms are forced behind him. Zip-ties bite
into his wrists, cinched until they cut circulation. His ankles
follow. Then rough hands yank his head back and a black bag is shoved
over his face, pulled tight until all he can smell is canvas and his
own breath.
Lucille
fires. The shot cracks through the clearing, sharp and deafening. The
nearest soldier jerks as rounds slam into his chest plate, sparks
snapping from ceramic. He stumbles back, surprised but not down. Not
dead.
Another
soldier lunges for Cain.
Cain
moves, fast. He slips the grab, pivots, drives his elbow into a
throat. The soldier reels and Cain follows up, fists snapping, years
of training pouring out of him in a blur of violence. For a
heartbeat, it feels like they might carve a way out.
Lucille’s
horse screams and spins as more soldiers rush her. She hauls on the
reins, forces the turn instead of guiding it, panic overriding
discipline. The horse rears wrong, momentum breaking, and she is torn
from the saddle.
The
impact drives the air from her lungs. Dirt and stone scrape her
armor. Her rifle is ripped from her hands, skidding away across the
clearing. A boot slams down near her head.
She
fights.
She
kicks one soldier hard in the knee, feels something give. He curses
and stumbles. She claws at another, nails raking across his visor,
snarling like something feral. A fist crashes into her ribs. Another
into her back. Pain blooms, sharp and blinding, tearing through
already-damaged flesh.
Cain
is still on his feet, blood at his lip, swinging, breathing hard. He
takes one down, then another tries to grab him and he throws them
off. But there are too many. Always too many.
A
baton cracks across his shoulder. Another strikes his thigh. Someone
hooks his leg and wrenches it back. He goes down under the weight of
bodies, still fighting, still shouting Lucille’s name until
something hits the back of his head and the world tilts sideways.
Lucille
tries to crawl toward him.
A
knee pins her spine to the dirt. Her arms are yanked back, wrenched
high until she screams despite herself. Zip-ties cinch tight,
merciless. Her ankles are bound next. The burn in her forearm flares
hot and furious.
One
by one, black bags are pulled over their heads.
Canvas
scrapes her face. Darkness swallows the clearing. The sounds of
engines and boots and distant gunfire vanish, replaced by her own
ragged breathing and the thud of her heart in her ears.
Despite
the struggle. Despite the blood and the screams and every instinct
screaming to survive.
They
are subdued. Bound. Bagged. Taken.
