Level 16

  Race: Human/Hollow

  Strength: 333

  Dexterity: 329

  Vitality: 377

  Magic: 324

  —

  Soldiers paused mid-stride when he crossed the yard, eyes sliding over his bandages and then away as if looking too long might invite the same fate–or maybe they were afraid of him. Some watched him like he was a cannon with legs. Some watched him like he was a legend. Others had pity in their eyes. A few tried to nod like he was just another man who’d done hard things and come back breathing.

  It was hard to say what any of them thought of him. Maybe they were just afraid. The boy didn’t know. The eagle-feather necklace sat against his chest, one of the few things he liked owning. Maybe they were wondering why he had something like this?

  The boy had been sitting on an upturned crate beside the barracks wall, letting the morning wind dry the last of the water in his hair, when Lily found him.

  She came barreling out of the doorway like she’d been holding her breath since the last time she’d seen him move, and she refused to slow down until she was right in front of him.

  Lily’s gaze snapped to his face.

  “You’re sittin’,” she accused.

  “I’m breathin’ too,” he said. “You gonna yell at me for that?”

  Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile and failing.

  “I ain’t yellin’,” she said, and it came out too fast, too bright. “I’m— I’m—”

  She stopped, drew a breath, then leaned in like she was telling him a secret.

  “Come on,” she hissed. “I gotta show you somethin’. Right now.”

  The boy squinted up at her.

  “You find canned peaches?”

  Lily made a sound of pure disgust.

  “No!”

  Then she grabbed his sleeve and tried to pull him up like she could drag a whole wagon by herself. The boy let her tug him for half a second—long enough for her to think she was winning—then stood on his own. Pain bit at his ribs where the wrap pulled, sharp enough to make his vision flicker.

  “You ain’t supposed to be up,” Lily said.

  “I’m up,” he answered. “Ain’t lying down again.”

  She huffed, then pulled again.

  “Come on,” she said, the words tumbling over themselves. “Narua said you’d be up today and I been waitin’ and waitin’ and—come on!”

  Narua.

  The Numunuu witch who could… what was it… shoot lightning from her fingertips?

  And she’d been with Lily while he was gone.

  He let Lily drag him across the yard.

  Mary trailed behind them.

  He didn’t notice at first—only caught the soft scuff of boots that were too careful. When he glanced over his shoulder, Mary was there with Ember tucked tight under one arm, her other hand clutching the hem of her dress like she thought it might come loose and expose her to the sky.

  Her eyes lifted to meet his.

  They were too serious for a girl her age.

  “Ya’ll gonna break somethin’?” Mary asked, voice flat.

  Lily spun on her.

  “No!” she snapped. Then, softer, “Maybe.”

  That did not help.

  The boy sighed.

  “Show me,” he said, and Lily’s whole face lit like she’d been struck with a match.

  She marched them toward the back side of the fort where the gun range sat—a long strip of packed dirt bordered by rough posts and half-splintered boards. Someone had hammered up a few new targets since the last time he’d been here. Buckets, mostly. A couple of tin plates nailed to planks. One dented metal bucket sat out there like it had survived three wars already.

  Near the firing line, Narua waited.

  Barefoot, as always. Hair tied back. A shawl thrown over one shoulder, and under it a pistol at her sash.

  She looked at Lily, then the boy.

  “You are not dead,” Narua said. “A badger boy indeed.”

  “Not for lack of tryin’,” the boy muttered.

  Narua’s mouth quirked. She tipped her chin at Lily.

  “She’s been bouncing like jackrabbit,” Narua said. “Telling everybody who’ll listen she’s got a new trick.”

  Lily’s cheeks flushed.

  “It ain’t a trick,” Lily snapped. “It’s— it’s magic. It’s different now.”

  Narua leaned closer, eyes sharp.

  “Show him,” she said.

  Lily stepped up to the line like a soldier. She planted her feet, shoulders squared, chin lifted with the same stubbornness that had kept her alive on roads full of teeth.

  Then she held out her right hand. She lifted her pointer finger straight ahead like she was pointing at a sin. Her voice came out clear and bright.

  “Jet!”

  For a heartbeat nothing happened.

  Then fire snapped out of her fingertip, a long, narrow jet—white-hot at the core, orange at the edges—screamed across the range and struck the metal bucket fifteen yards out like a whip made of sunlight.

  The bucket melted. Metal sagged inward as if it had been made of wax. A bright bead of liquified tin slid down the side and dripped onto the dirt with a hiss. The air filled with the sharp stink of scorched metal. Lily held the jet steady. Her arm trembled almost immediately. Her jaw clenched. She kept her finger pointed anyway, stubborn as a nail driven too deep to pull.

  One second.

  Two.

  Three.

  The stream stayed straight.

  Four—

  Her shoulders hitched.

  Five.

  The jet flickered and died.

  Smoke curled from the bucket, thin and gray. The bucket had a hole in it now, edges glowing dull red, sagging like a ruined mouth.

  Lily’s arm dropped. She swayed.

  The boy took one step forward on instinct.

  Narua moved first.

  Her hand caught Lily’s elbow, steady as a fence post.

  “Breathe,” Narua said, low. “You don’t hold your breath when you throw it.”

  “I wasn’t—” Lily started, then sucked in a ragged gulp of air like she’d forgotten her lungs existed.

  Her eyes were bright as coins. She turned that look on the boy.

  “Did you see?!” she demanded. “Did you see it?”

  The boy stared downrange at the smoking bucket.

  He had seen men die.

  He had seen beasts the size of houses.

  He had watched a dragon turn a prairie into glass.

  And still—something about that little jet of fire coming out of his sister’s finger made his chest go tight.

  Because it meant the world could reach her now.

  It meant the world had decided she was worth arming.

  “Yeah,” he said. His voice came out rough. “I saw.”

  Lily bounced once on her toes, then winced and grabbed her side like excitement had tugged her stitches.

  “Okay—okay—so that’s Jet,” she said, words spilling fast. “Narua said—Narua said if you keep usin’ it, it gets stronger. Like—like muscles. Like when you make me do that stupid water-bucket carryin’ thing—”

  “That ain’t stupid,” the boy said.

  “It’s stupid,” Lily insisted. “Anyway—she said magic’s like that too. You make the Spark a lot, and it stops bein’ just… spark. It grows.”

  Narua’s eyes flicked to the boy.

  “She’s right,” Narua said.

  The boy’s fingers flexed.

  He didn’t like the way that sounded.

  Lily didn’t care.

  “So my Spark,” she said, jabbing a bandaged thumb at her own chest, “it ain’t Spark no more. It changed.”

  She leaned closer like she was letting him in on something sacred.

  “I got new ones now,” she whispered. Then, louder, to prove it, “Jet.”

  Narua snorted softly.

  “And?” the boy asked. “You got another one?”

  Lily’s grin sharpened.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Oh I got the other one too.”

  Narua’s hand tightened on Lily’s elbow.

  “Don’t burn the whole range,” Narua warned.

  “I won’t!” Lily lied immediately.

  Then she stepped forward again and lifted her right hand. This time she spread all five fingers. Her eyes locked downrange at the posts and boards and the dirt and the emptiness that had never meant anything to her before the world started trying to eat her. Her voice went high with excitement.

  “Blaze!”

  Fire exploded out of her hand.

  Not a jet.

  A cone.

  A massive wedge of flame roared forward from all her fingers at once, spreading wider the farther it went, a fan of heat that made the air wobble like summer haze. It slammed into the target line and ate everything it touched—boards blackening in a breath, the dirt flashing dry and cracking, a tin plate turning cherry-red and warping like it had been punched.

  Heat rolled back toward them in a wave.

  Mary yelped and ducked, Ember clutched to her chest like a shield. A soldier farther down the yard shouted and stumbled back as if the flames might decide to leap the distance and bite him too.

  Lily held the Blaze for a heartbeat—two—

  Then her knees wobbled.

  Narua slapped the back of Lily’s hand hard.

  “Cut it!”

  Lily’s fingers clenched.

  The cone of flame snapped out.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Smoke rose from the target line in lazy curls. The board nearest the buckets was gone down the middle—burned clean through, edges glowing faintly.

  Lily panted like she’d run a mile.

  Her face was flushed. Her eyes were wild and bright.

  “I did it!” she squeaked, half laugh, half gasp. “I did it, I did it—”

  Then she swayed again, and this time Narua had to hook an arm around her waist to keep her from falling flat on her face.

  Lily scowled at her own legs.

  “Five seconds for Jet,” she said, furious, “but Blaze is—Blaze is harder. I can only do like—like two seconds before I get all wobbly.”

  Narua’s mouth pulled into something close to approval.

  “That’s two seconds more than you had yesterday,” she said.

  Lily’s gaze snapped back to the boy.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Say it.”

  The boy stared at her for a moment, and then smiled. He lifted his hand and patted her head, gentle, the way he used to when she’d cried in the dark and he’d had nothing else to give but what little pieces there were of himself.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said.

  Lily’s whole face softened.

  For a heartbeat she looked like she had when the whole world still fit inside a small and rundown house they called home.

  “Yeah?” she asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  He forced a crooked little smile.

  “Just… don’t set the fort on fire,” he added.

  Lily giggled, then immediately tried to look serious again.

  “I won’t,” she promised.

  Narua arched a brow.

  Mary, still crouched, muttered, “She probably will.”

  The boy pretended he didn’t hear it.

  Inside, though, where no one could see, something in him twisted hard. The boy had never believed in god and the bible, but if there was a god, then he hoped and prayed that Lily never had to fight as he did, to go through what he went through.

  He swallowed.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you water before you fall over.”

  Lily made an offended sound.

  “I ain’t fallin’ over.”

  She took one step. Her knees dipped.

  Narua caught her again without comment.

  He put his hand on Lily’s shoulder and steered her back toward the fort. Mary followed, quieter now, clutching Ember tighter. Narua walked beside them, eyes always scanning like she could smell danger on the wind. They got halfway across the yard when a runner found him.

  A young soldier with dust on his boots and a hard face. The boy vaguely remembered him when they performed marching drills together.

  “Sir,” the runner said, breathless. He looked at Lily, then away fast. “Lieutenant Prichard wants you. Now.”

  Lily’s hand tightened on his sleeve.

  “What?” she demanded. “Why?”

  The runner shrugged like his shoulders were full of rocks.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Just—he said now.”

  The boy looked down at Lily.

  “It’ll be quick,” he said.

  Lily’s eyes narrowed.

  “It better,” she said.

  Narua stepped forward.

  “I’ll take her,” Narua said to the boy, and there was no question in it.

  The boy nodded once.

  He followed the runner across the yard toward the command building.

  The command building smelled like sweat and ink and old wood.

  Prichard’s office door stood open. Inside, Prichard leaned over a table littered with papers—reports, scribbled notes, a half-finished map with smudged charcoal lines. His uniform coat hung off the back of a chair like he hadn’t had the time to be an officer today. Hargrove once stood where he was standing, but Prichard was growing into his new office.

  He looked up when the boy entered.

  His face was paler than usual. His eyes were shadowed like he’d slept in ten-minute chunks.

  He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

  “They’re dead,” Prichard said.

  The boy stopped in the doorway.

  “Who?” he asked, though he already knew.

  Prichard’s jaw worked.

  “The captives,” he said. “The three knife-ears you brought back. The ones we tied up like Christmas presents and prayed would start talking.”

  The boy’s hand twitched toward his belt out of habit, toward a Colt that wasn’t there.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Prichard scrubbed a hand down his face.

  “Found them this morning,” he said.

  “Pale. Lifeless. No sign of struggle. No broken ropes. No blood. Just—” He snapped his fingers once, sharp. “Done.”

  The boy stared.

  “Elves don’t bleed red,” he said.

  “I know,” Prichard snapped, then softened a fraction like he realized he was yelling at the wrong thing. “I know. And that’s the part that makes my skin crawl, because I can’t even tell if they died or if they just… stopped.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Poison?” he asked.

  Prichard nodded once, hard.

  “Probably,” he said. “Only thing that makes sense. Something hidden. They had armor seams we didn’t understand, and I’ll be damned if I know what else they had on them.”

  He exhaled, slow and controlled. “They took their secrets with them.”

  Prichard leaned forward, voice quieter.

  “And,” he added, “if there was any hope of learning how they got here, how many more of them there are—well. That hope’s in the ground now.”

  The boy felt something cold spread under his ribs.

  “We’ve got injured out the ears,” Prichard said. “We’ve got tribes camped inside my walls who don’t trust the Army, and I don’t blame them. We’ve got men whispering about dragons and devils and pointed-eared cannibals. I sent riders east yesterday and I’ve heard nothing back. Nothing.”

  His eyes sharpened. “And we’ve got you.”

  The boy’s shoulders tightened.

  Prichard gestured toward the window where the yard stretched out, full of movement and tension.

  “They see you and they think we’ve got a chance,” Prichard said. “Or they see you and they think we’re cursed. Depends on the man.”

  The boy’s jaw set. Prichard drew a breath like he was about to say something heavier. The boy cut him off.

  “I’m leavin’,” the boy said.

  Prichard blinked.

  “What?” he asked.

  The boy didn’t flinch.

  “Me and Lily,” he said. “We’re leavin’ Fort Mason.”

  For half a heartbeat, Prichard just stared like he’d misheard the words.

  Then his brows rose.

  “That’s—” He stopped, then tried again. “That’s sudden.”

  “It ain’t,” the boy said.

  Prichard leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him.

  He didn’t argue. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t try to guilt the boy with duty or flags or God. He just looked tired.

  “Where are you going?” Prichard asked.

  The boy’s mouth went tight.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  Prichard’s gaze sharpened.

  “You’re leaving a fort full of guns and walls and people who’d die to keep you breathing,” he said, “and you don’t know where you’re going.”

  The boy met his eyes.

  “I want Lily somewhere she don’t have to fight,” he said.

  Prichard’s face didn’t change much, but something in his eyes shifted—understanding, maybe. Or the same kind of helpless anger. The boy went on, voice low.

  “I died,” he said.

  “And I came back. And I—” He swallowed. He didn’t know how to explain ash-wastelands and shadow-men without sounding insane. “I ain’t doin’ that again if I can help it.”

  Prichard stared at him for a long moment.

  Then he nodded once.

  “I understand,” he said quietly.

  He rubbed his jaw with his thumb, thinking.

  “If I had to guess,” Prichard said, “the safest place is probably Washington.”

  “Washington,” the boy repeated.

  Prichard shrugged like the world was a joke that had stopped being funny months ago.

  “Center of the country’s power,” he said. “Most men. Most guns. Most brains, if any survived the last few weeks. If monsters are appearing, they’ll show up there too, but—”

  He spread his hands. “If there’s any place that can turn into a fortress fast, it’s Washington.”

  Then he paused.

  “And even then,” Prichard added, voice dry, “I’m not sure anymore.”

  The boy absorbed that.

  Prichard leaned forward again, elbows on the desk.

  “Take what you need,” Prichard said.

  The boy blinked.

  Prichard’s mouth tightened.

  “Food. Powder. Caps. Lead. Canned goods. Blankets.” He waved a hand like the fort itself was already slipping away. “Hell, take my boots if it makes you move faster. You’ve earned it, boy.”

  The boy stared.

  Prichard’s eyes went hard.

  “This place isn’t going to hold forever,” Prichard said. “Not if the Army doesn’t send reinforcements. Not if those things come back. Not if every week we get a new kind of nightmare.”

  He sighed. “I’m starting to suspect the Government will decide Fort Mason is an expense they can’t justify the moment it becomes too dangerous to sit in a chair in Austin and pretend Texas is fine.”

  The boy didn’t know what to say.

  Prichard’s gaze stayed on him.

  “And,” Prichard finished, voice quieter, “if we have to abandon it, I’d rather you and your sister aren’t trapped inside when it happens.”

  The boy nodded once.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Prichard grimaced like the words tasted odd.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just get her out.”

  The boy turned to go.

  Prichard’s voice stopped him at the door.

  “Boy,” Prichard said.

  The boy looked back. Prichard hesitated for a moment before he spoke.

  “If you end up headed east,” Prichard said, “stay off the main roads when you can. Monsters aren’t the only thing that hunts men now. A lot more bandits than there used to be.”

  The boy nodded once and left.

  Outside, the sun felt too bright.

  He found Lily near the shade of the corrals, sitting on a barrel with Narua beside her. Mary sat in the dirt at their feet, Ember in her lap, pretending she wasn’t listening while she listened with her whole body.

  Lily looked up the moment she saw him.

  “Well?” she demanded. “What’d he want?”

  The boy stopped in front of her.

  “We’re leavin’,” he said.

  Lily blinked.

  Then, instead of fear, her face lit.

  “Good,” she said immediately.

  Narua’s brow rose. Mary went still.

  Lily kept talking, words quick and sure.

  “I don’t like this place,” she said. “I mean— I like not bein’ eaten. But everyone here looks at you like they’re waitin’ to see what you turn into.”

  Her mouth twisted. “And they keep talkin’ about war like it’s comin’ whether we want it or not.”

  The boy’s throat tightened.

  Narua watched him with that sharp, quiet gaze.

  “You told Prichard?” Narua asked.

  He nodded. Narua didn’t smile, but the tension in her shoulders eased.

  “Good,” she said.

  Lily hopped off the barrel, winced when she landed wrong, and ignored it with pure stubbornness.

  “When do we go?” she asked.

  “Now,” the boy said.

  Lily didn’t hesitate.

  “Okay,” she said, as if he’d told her they were going to fetch water. Then she turned and pointed at Mary like Mary was another piece of gear they needed to pack.

  “You too—” Lily began.

  The boy cut in fast.

  “Lily.”

  She stopped.

  Her eyes snapped to him, sharp and offended.

  “What?” she snapped.

  The boy glanced down at Mary.

  Mary stared at the dirt, but her knuckles were white around Ember’s cloth body.

  The boy kept his voice low.

  “Mary’s headed to Dallas, ain’t she?” he said.

  “Oh.” Lily’s mouth tightened. Mary’s shoulders hunched like she’d been struck.

  Narua’s eyes slid between them, reading the shape of the problem without stepping into it.

  “Pack,” Narua said into the silence. “We talk after you get food.”

  So they packed.

  Prichard’s word traveled fast; men in the armory–now also the storehouse–stepped aside when the boy entered. The quartermaster’s face tightened when Lily asked for canned food, but he didn’t refuse. He just stared at the boy’s eyes like he didn’t want to meet them and finally said, “Take what you can carry.”

  The boy didn’t bother telling him he could carry more than the man could imagine.

  He reached into [Inventory] and pulled out an empty sack so Lily could see something physical—something real to fill. Then he started loading it.

  Cans clanked.

  Beans. Salt pork. Peaches, by miracle. Hardtack wrapped in cloth.

  Lily’s face softened when she saw the peaches.

  “Don’t you eat those without me,” she warned.

  “I don’t even like ‘em,” the boy promised.

  Powder next. Percussion caps in tins that rattled like angry insects. Black powder in horns and small kegs. Lead balls in sacks that felt like stones.

  Mary trailed behind them, silent. Too silent.

  When they had enough to keep from starving, the boy went to the yard where the native leaders had gathered.

  Peta stood near the hitching posts with his horse, speaking low to the Kiowa war chief and the Lipan elder. The Cheyenne leader was there too—flint eyes, face drawn with exhaustion that had turned into something hard and permanent. They all looked up when the boy approached.

  Peta’s gaze went straight to the eagle feather necklace at the boy’s chest.

  Then to the boy’s face.

  “You leave,” Peta said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  The boy nodded.

  Peta studied him for a long moment, then nodded once in return, a warrior acknowledging another warrior’s choice.

  “Where?” the Cheyenne leader asked in rough English.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Don’t know,” he admitted.

  The Kiowa chief’s eyes narrowed. He said something quiet in his language. The Lipan elder answered, voice low.

  Peta translated with a brief motion of his chin.

  “They say you have strong feet,” Peta said. “But feet need a road.”

  The boy huffed.

  “Road ain’t been kind lately,” he said.

  Peta’s mouth twitched.

  “No,” he agreed. “It has not.”

  Lily stepped up beside the boy, chin lifted like she refused to be left behind again.

  Peta’s eyes softened a fraction when he looked at her.

  “Naatsi,” he said, and Lily’s mouth tightened like she was trying not to smile at the Comanche word she’d been hearing more and more.

  Peta looked at the boy.

  “She burns now,” Peta said.

  The boy’s jaw tightened.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She’s pretty good at it, too.”

  Peta stepped closer.

  He reached out and touched the eagle feathers lightly.

  “You wear that,” Peta said. “You wear it with pride. You are Numunuu friend.”

  The boy nodded once.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Peta’s eyes held his.

  “You protect your little one,” Peta said. “Don’t get killed again.”

  The boy blinked. Then, to his surprise, a laugh escaped him—short and cracked. Peta’s mouth curved in the smallest hint of a grin.

  “Go,” Peta said.

  The boy nodded again.

  He looked at the Cheyenne leader and gave him a small dip of the head.

  The Cheyenne leader returned it, solemn.

  The Kiowa chief lifted his eagle-wing fan in a brief salute.

  The Lipan elder’s gaze stayed steady, old and tired and unbroken.

  The boy turned away before the weight of it sat too long on his shoulders. They moved toward the gate. The fort’s stone walls loomed above them, hard and sun-warmed. Men stood on the walk with rifles, watching the horizon like it might grow teeth again.

  Lily held the sack strap tight over her shoulder like it was a lifeline. Why she didn’t just send it into her [Inventory], the boy did not know. Maybe she forgot. The boy walked beside her. They passed the last building. They stepped into the open yard before the gate.

  Sunlight hit them full, bright and honest.

  The boy’s boots crossed the shadow of the wall.

  And then—

  “Wait!”

  A small voice, sharp with panic. The boy turned. Mary came sprinting out of the fort like she’d been hiding behind a barrel waiting for the exact second she couldn’t stand it anymore. Her hair flew loose. Her cheeks were streaked with dust. Ember was clutched to her chest so tight the doll’s cloth face crumpled.

  She ran straight at them, breathing hard, eyes wide like she was about to drown on dry ground.

  “Don’t leave me!” Mary shouted. “Don’t you leave me behind!”

  The boy raised a brow and smiled, before reaching out to ruffle Mary’s hair till it became messy and the little girl pushed his hand away. “Alright.”