Chapter 32: The City Burns

  The streets were a maze of stone and fire.

  Grim moved like a shadow, the others close behind, boots slamming against cobblestone.

  The city wasn’t a battlefield—it was a graveyard waiting to happen. The people here weren’t armed, weren’t ready. Some ran. Some fought. Some didn’t even realize what was happening until they dropped, blood painting the walls.

  And Grim?

  He was running, but not from enemies. From himself.

  The young soldier’s face wouldn’t leave his mind. The way he hit the ground. The way Grim didn’t hesitate.

  His hands felt heavier with every pull of the trigger.

  "Something’s wrong."

  The words slipped out before he could stop them. They weren’t strategy, weren’t logic—they were instinct. A gut feeling clawing at his ribs, telling him they were doing something horribly, horribly wrong.

  Ahead of him, Ash didn’t slow down.

  "This is how war is."

  No hesitation. No regret.

  Grim felt something crack inside him.

  The group tore through the streets, slipping between alleys, cutting down anyone who got in their way.

  The guards were young—too young. Some barely older than the kids in the refugee camp. But no one questioned it. No one stopped.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Except Grim.

  Only for a second.

  A second too long.

  A dying soldier grabbed his wrist, fingers sticky with blood. A boy—sixteen? Seventeen? The life already gone from his eyes, but his lips moving, whispering something Grim couldn’t hear.

  He wrenched free. Kept running.

  Didn’t look back.

  Didn’t let himself.

  The castle loomed overhead. Dark stone. Narrow towers. The heart of this rotting city.

  The moment they broke through the gates, they moved fast, clearing hallways, kicking down doors. Room after room—empty.

  No king.

  No commanders.

  No real army.

  Only bodies.

  The realization set in slowly. A trickle, then a flood.

  "It was a trap."

  The pieces clicked into place. The weak guards, the empty throne room, the fake defenses.

  The king wasn’t here.

  He was never here.

  The real army had already left.

  And the battle—it wasn’t happening here.

  It was happening at the refugee camp.

  Grim’s stomach turned to ice.

  They had wasted time. Killed dozens of people for nothing.

  The blood on his hands—it wasn’t just from war.

  It was from a mistake.

  And suddenly, the weight of it all was unbearable.

  The basement was cold, damp, silent.

  The group sat in the dark, catching their breath, guns resting against stone walls. The mission wasn’t over, but for now—they could stop.

  Grim exhaled.

  He felt sick.

  His hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Not from exhaustion. Not from adrenaline. From something else.

  From something he didn’t want to name.

  Ash sat beside him. Close, but not touching.

  She looked at him. Really looked at him.

  "You're shaking."

  He hadn’t realized.

  He forced his fingers still. Swallowed hard.

  There were a million things he wanted to say. About the mission. About the dead. About the feeling in his chest that had been growing since the moment she pulled him out of the wreckage.

  Instead—

  "There’s something I want to tell you."

  A pause.

  "After all this is over."

  Ash didn’t press. Didn’t ask what he meant.

  She just nodded.

  And in that quiet moment, in the middle of a war that was about to swallow them whole—

  Grim let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he’d get the chance to say it.

  End of Chapter.