Encampment
– Continuous
The
fire pops low and mean between them, a pocket of light barely holding
back the dark. Smoke clings to the air, bitter, oily, carrying the
scent of damp leaves and old blood. Cain sits hunched over the map,
elbows on his knees, fingers tracing routes that don’t feel real
anymore. He’s already planned three different ways of attack, none
of them clean.
Arruns
oils the action of his rifle with slow, practiced motions. Decimus
sharpens a blade, the rasp steady, almost soothing. Tiber lounges
back on his pack, boots toward the fire, watching the sparks drift up
and vanish.
Cain
checks his wristband again.
Too
long.
He
exhales through his nose. “They shoulda been back by now.”
No
one answers right away.
Decimus
finally looks up, grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Relax,
Aurellius. They’re together out there. Ain’t like Lucy’s
helpless.” He gives the blade one last stroke. “They’ll be back
any minute.”
Cain
doesn’t smile. His fingers curl against the map, knuckles
whitening. “That ain’t what I’m worried about.”
Tiber
snorts softly. “Sure sounds like it is.”
Cain
shoots him a look. “Drop it.”
Tiber
only grins wider, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “C’mon now. You
been starin’ at that clock like it owes you money. Girl’s been
gone twenty minutes and you look like the world’s endin’.”
Cain
shifts, uncomfortable. “She just—” He stops, jaw tightening.
“She don’t disappear. Not like that.”
Decimus
chuckles, low and warm. “Boy, if I didn’t know better, I’d say
you’re jealous.”
Cain’s
ears burn. “I ain’t.”
“Oh,
you absolutely are,” Tiber says, rolling onto his side. “Ain’t
nothin’ wrong with it neither. Kinda cute, honestly.”
Cain’s
face goes red clear down to his collar. He keeps his eyes on the map
like it might save him. “We’re not… it ain’t like that.”
Decimus
arches a brow. “Then what is it like?”
Silence
stretches. The fire cracks again.
Tiber
answers for him, easy as breathing. “They’re a couple. Ain’t
official, but hell, everyone knows it.”
Cain
finally looks up. “We are not.”
That
only makes them laugh.
Arruns
says nothing, but there’s a knowing tilt to his head as he checks
his sights.
Decimus
leans back on his hands. “Alright, fair. Maybe you ain’t a
couple.” His grin sharpens just a touch. “But you sure as sin
want to be.”
Cain
opens his mouth, then closes it. His gaze flicks back toward the dark
beyond the firelight, the direction Lucille and Marcus vanished into.
His voice comes out quieter. “She don’t need… complications.”
Tiber
snorts. “Brother, this whole damn operation’s a complication.”
Decimus
nods. “And lemme tell you somethin’, Cain.” His tone shifts,
not unkind, but serious now. “If you don’t say somethin’,
someone else will. World don’t wait on polite boys.”
Cain’s
jaw tightens. He swallows. “She’s been through enough.”
“And
she’s still standin’,” Tiber says. “Stronger’n most of us.
Ain’t made of glass.”
Cain’s
fingers curl into the dirt. “We been friends since we were kids.”
“Exactly,”
Tiber says, sitting up. “So what’s stoppin’ you?”
Cain
doesn’t answer.
The
firelight flickers across his face, catching the fear there, not of
death, not of battle, but of losing something he’s never dared to
name.
Decimus
sighs, softer now. “Ain’t nothin’ more dangerous than waitin’
too long.”
Cain
looks back down the dark path, heart thudding. Somewhere out there,
the mist thickens. The woods stay quiet.
Too
quiet.
Arruns
finally speaks, voice low, steady, cutting through the banter like a
blade laid flat. “After this Final Exam,” he says,
eyes on the fire, “that’s it. We graduate. No more Academy. No
more nights like this.” He works the bolt once, clean and precise.
“We go home. Or what passes for it. Join our Houses’ armies.”
The
words settle heavy.
“For
all we know,” Arruns adds, quieter, “this is the last time we’re
sittin’ around a fire together.”
Decimus
lets out a rough laugh, like he’s trying to shake the weight off.
“Hell, don’t get all funeral about it.” He grins, flashing
teeth. “My House serves Tarsa. Marcus’ too.” He jerks his chin
toward the dark. “If the gods ain’t cruel for once, we’ll end
up in the same unit.”
Tiber
huffs. “Damn. That’s lucky as sin.”
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“Luckier’n
most get,” Decimus agrees.
Cain
doesn’t join in.
He
stares into the fire, watching embers collapse in on themselves,
sparks leaping up just to die mid-air. The heat licks at his face,
but he barely feels it.
They’re
right.
Once
they graduate, everything fractures. Orders. Banners. Bloodlines. A
Domitian doesn’t choose where they go. She gets claimed. First
House with the pull and the need takes her, wraps her in their
colors, sends her to die somewhere far from anyone who remembers who
she was before the armor.
Lucille
won’t belong to the Academy anymore.
She
won’t belong anywhere.
Unless….
His
jaw tightens.
Unless
he says something.
Cain
swallows, throat dry. He thinks of her laugh when she forgets
herself. The way she stands half a step in front of him without
realizing it. The way her hand finds his sleeve in the dark like it’s
instinct, like it’s always been that way.
Fire
crackles. Wood splits.
If
he stays silent, someone else won’t. A commander. A House. A man
bolder than him.
Graduation
isn’t freedom.
It’s
a closing door.
Cain
lifts his gaze toward the black tree line, heart beating hard enough
to hurt. Somewhere out there, Lucille is moving through the dark, and
the distance between them feels wider than the war itself.
The
shrubs creak and crackle. Every rifle lifts a fraction. Every spine
tightens.
Cain’s
head snaps up first, hand already drifting toward his weapon.
Then
a shape steps into the firelight.
“Easy,”
Marcus says, half under his breath, attention still angled toward the
dark at their flank. One gauntleted hand reaches back, not grabbing,
not pulling, just there. A polite touch. Knuckles brushing Lucille’s
shoulder as he guides her through the thorny mess like she might snag
herself if he doesn’t.
She
ducks under the last branch and emerges into the glow.
Her
arms are full of apples, red skins bruised and muddied but intact,
cradled like something precious. Marcus has a thick bundle of sticks
slung over his shoulder with a length of rope, leaves still clinging
to the bark. He straightens and flashes that stupid, boyish grin at
the group, like the world isn’t ending.
“Y’all
ain’t gonna believe this,” he says. “Found us some treats out
there.”
Lucille
lingers a step behind him at first, shoulders drawn in, gaze flicking
from face to face. Then her eyes land on Cain. Blue and green catch
the firelight, polychromatic, bright, alive. Her whole face changes.
The shy tension melts clean away, replaced with a soft, unmistakable
smile, like the dark just loosened its grip on her chest.
Cain’s
heart stutters. He’s on his feet before he realizes he moved, boots
crunching in the leaves as he closes the distance. “You’re back,”
he blurts, then winces at himself.
Lucille
lets out a quiet breathy laugh. She shifts the apples, plucks one
free, and holds it up to him. “We found pyre caps too,” she says,
Southern drawl warm and familiar. “Ain’t much, but it’ll
stretch. Figured we could save the MREs tonight.”
Cain
takes the apple like it’s something sacred. Their fingers brush. He
doesn’t pull away fast enough. “That’s—yeah. That’s good
thinkin’. I was worryin’,” he adds, softer.
“I
know,” she murmurs.
Behind
them, Decimus leans toward Tiber, voice low, grin sharp. “Look at
him.”
Tiber
snorts quietly. “Boy’s got it bad.”
Marcus
watches the exchange for half a second too long. Something tightens
behind his eyes. Then he schools his face smooth, turns, and drops
the bundle of sticks beside the fire. Wood clacks together, sparks
jumping.
“Apples
and pyre caps,” he says, practical again. “Good enough to keep us
movin’.” He glances back toward the dark treeline. “Lucy swears
she heard a deer out there, too.”
Arruns
shakes his head, calm as ever. “Not likely,” he says. “Not with
simulated combat this close. Too much noise. Too many bodies movin’
around.” He checks the perimeter once more. “Wildlife’ll be
layin’ low.”
Lucille
nods, hugging the remaining apples to her chest. Cain stays close
without thinking, relief settling in his bones like a drug.
The
fire crackles louder.
Decimus
and Tiber keep grinning.
Decimus
flicks his wrist toward the fire. “C’mon, then. Quit hoverin’
like ghosts. Fire could use the fuel, and I’m starvin’ enough to
eat bark at this point.”
Marcus
gives a short huff of a laugh and kicks a few sticks closer. Cain
steps in beside Lucille without comment, easing the weight from her
arms. “Here, gimme those,” he says gently, already tossing apples
out in easy arcs. One to Arruns. One to Decimus. One to Tiber. Each
catches with a quiet thump and a muttered thanks.
They
settle in close to the heat.
Lucille
sits between Cain and Marcus, knees drawn in, shoulders brushing both
of them in the tight circle. The fire paints her in copper and
shadow. She shrugs off her rucksack into her lap and opens it,
pulling out the pyre caps she gathered, broad, orange-flecked flesh,
still damp with night.
Marcus
sorts through the sticks, selecting a few straight ones, shaving the
bark off with quick, careful strokes. He takes a pyre cap from
Lucille, nodding once. “These’ll do,” he says. “Ain’t got
salt, but roasted’s better’n raw.”
He
slices the cap into smaller chunks, spears them one by one, and sets
the skewers over the coals. The mushroom flesh hisses faintly,
releasing a rich, savory scent that cuts through the damp and smoke.
Conversation
drifts back in around them.
Decimus
talks about glory like it’s a foregone conclusion. “Gonna make my
House proud,” he says, grin wide. “Ain’t stoppin’ ‘til
they’re writin’ my name in the margins of history.”
Tiber
snorts. “You just wanna hear yourself announced.”
“Damn
right I do.”
Arruns,
quieter, speaks of command, of structure, of doing things right the
first time so fewer people die the second. Marcus mentions House
Tarsa again, half-hopeful, half-resigned. Cain listens, nodding where
expected, eyes straying back to Lucille more than once.
She
doesn’t say much. She watches the food cook. Turns the skewer when
Marcus hands it over. Takes small bites of the apple she kept, juice
running down her thumb. The fire reflects in her eyes, but they’re
far away, fixed on something none of them can see.
Eventually
Decimus glances her way. “What ‘bout you, Domitian?” he asks
lightly. “What’re you gonna be when all this is done?”
Lucille
hesitates.
The
fire pops. The night presses in.
She
swallows, fingers tightening around the apple core. “I… don’t
rightly know,” she says, voice soft, Southern drawl thinner than
usual. “Guess I’ll go where they send me. See what sticks.”
No
bravado. No dream wrapped in steel.
Just
honesty.
Cain’s
jaw tightens. Marcus looks back to the fire. No one pushes her
further.
They
eat in near silence after that, the mushrooms filling bellies but not
the hollow spaces underneath. The flames crackle, throwing long
shadows across the clearing, and above them the dark listens,
patient, waiting, already counting how many of these futures it
intends to take.
The
talk drifts on, half-formed dreams, half-jokes about rank and glory,
as the first pyre caps come off the fire. Marcus hands one down the
line.
Decimus
takes a bite and hums approval. “Ain’t half bad,” he says
through a mouthful. “Might survive this exam after all.”
Lucille
doesn’t eat. She straightens. It’s sudden. Sharp. Like a wire
pulled taut.
Her
head lifts, chin angling just a fraction. Her eyes unfocus from the
fire and fix on nothing, and everything, beyond it. Her shoulders
roll back, muscles coiling under skin still bruised and sore. One
hand drifts off her knee, hovering.
The
change is so immediate the others feel it before they understand it.
Conversation
dies mid-sentence. Decimus freezes with his skewer halfway to his
mouth. Marcus stills, knife paused in his fingers. Arruns’ grip
tightens on his rifle. Tiber’s smile vanishes.
Only
the fire crackles.
Lucille
listens.
Not
with her ears alone, her whole body leans into it, breath slowing,
eyes narrowing. Something in the dark speaks, and she hears it.
Cain
leans toward her, voice barely a breath. “Lucy,” he murmurs.
“What d’you hear?”
Her
jaw tightens.
A
second passes. Then another.
Her
hand snaps out and closes around the grip of her shield.
“Move,”
she growls, low and urgent, Southern drawl flattened into something
feral. “Now. Off the fire. Quiet.”
