15th of the 9th month, year 44 of the crimson moon
-Rook Vass's POV-
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
Not the smell of my sweat and leather wraps after a fight. Not the tang of iron from a fresh cut on my lip. This was… oil, salt, and something that reeked of hot metal and gunpowder even though I couldn't see any fire. My eyes snapped open to a grey sky, heaving sea, and a dozen men in strange blue-grey uniforms packed tight around me in a metal box rocking with the waves.
And I was one of them.
The body wasn't mine—broader in the shoulders, heavier in the arms, calloused hands gripping a strange, short rifle with a fat magazine. My chest rose and fell too fast, and the vibration under my boots came from the roar of engines and the pounding surf ahead.
I didn't know how I got here. One moment, I'd been leaning against the rail at the Kestrel docks, listening to the shouts from the fighting pit and thinking about my next bout. The next, I was standing here—no, being here—while some broad-faced sergeant barked orders over the crash of waves.
I caught pieces of it:
"—keep your heads down—"
"—don't bunch up past the wire—"
"—move fast off the sand—"
No one looked at me like I didn't belong. They called me "Hale," whoever that was. My mouth opened to say I wasn't Hale, but instinct—or maybe the tightness in my gut—shut me up. Asking questions here felt like a fast way to get shot or trampled.
I forced my breathing to slow. My eyes swept the boat. Two rows of us, knees knocking in time with the waves. Helmets dull under the mist, gear strapped tight, faces hard or pale. Some chewed gum, others muttered under their breath. The man to my right was making a sign with his fingers over and over, like it was a charm.
They weren't afraid the way normal men are before a fight. This was something else—like they'd already made their peace and were just waiting for the signal to throw themselves forward.
The walls of the landing craft were high enough that I couldn't see the beach, but I could hear it. The deep thud of distant guns, the occasional sharper crack that echoed off the water, and—just under it all—a faint, rhythmic hammering, like someone pounding nails into steel.
Then the first shell hit close.
It was just a flash in my peripheral vision and a sound like the world splitting open. The craft lurched sideways, water spraying over the side. One man swore loud enough to be heard over the engine. The sergeant didn't flinch, just yelled, "Keep low!" and pointed forward.
I knew battle, in my own way. I knew how to read the flow of a fight, when to slip inside someone's guard, when to backstep to let them wear themselves out. But this… this wasn't two men circling in a pit. This was being shoved toward a meat grinder with no way out but through.
The part of me that had survived every back-alley ambush and pit brawl I'd ever faced kicked in. The first rule was simple: Don't freeze. Second: Find the angle. Third: Hit first if you can. If you can't, make damn sure you're the one left standing when it's done.
"Hale!" the sergeant barked. It took me half a beat to realize that meant me. I looked up.
"You watch left once we hit the surf! Move up the dunes with your squad leader—don't stop for anything!"
I nodded like I knew exactly what he meant. My left? Sure. Dunes? I didn't see any dunes yet, but I'd figure it out when we hit them.
Another shell landed somewhere behind us, and a mist of water and shrapnel hissed down over the deck. The man across from me wiped his face and laughed, high and sharp. I kept my head low and my eyes moving, cataloging everything—where the extra ammo pouches were on my belt, how the safety on the rifle clicked, the weight of the grenades hanging from my harness.
The boat pitched harder now. We were getting closer; I could feel the change in the rhythm of the engines, the shallowing of the waves. The gunners at the bow opened up—long, rattling bursts into the smoke ahead. I couldn't see the target, but I could hear the reply.
Bullets make a sound you don't forget—a tearing snap as they crack the air overhead. I'd heard that sound once before when a drunken dock guard fired a warning shot past my ear. This was that sound, multiplied a hundred times, echoing off metal and water.
The man beside me—thin, sharp-nosed—was murmuring something about home. I didn't listen. My focus narrowed to the sergeant's posture, the tilt of his helmet, the way his hand clenched the strap on his weapon. I was watching for the moment he moved, because when he moved, I had to move too.
The boat slammed into something—sand or rock, I couldn't tell. The jolt threw me forward, helmet banging against the man ahead. The ramp stayed up for now, holding back whatever was waiting beyond. I could hear shouting outside—our own men, the enemy, I didn't know.
The sergeant's head snapped toward the bow. His hand went up.
"Thirty seconds!"
My pulse kicked harder. Thirty seconds until… what? Until we stepped out into that storm of noise? Until the world decided whether Hale—whether I—kept breathing?
I adjusted my grip on the rifle. The metal was slick under my gloves. My breathing was steady now. My confusion was still there, a raw edge in the back of my skull, but the fight instinct was stronger. I didn't know where I was or why—but I knew what I had to do to keep from dying in the next minute.
The gunners fired again, short and sharp. The sergeant pointed at the ramp. "On my mark!"
The mark didn't come yet. Thirty seconds could stretch a long way when you were counting your life in them. My ears caught the rhythm of the fight outside—bursts of fire, answering shots, the deeper boom of something heavier. I could hear men screaming, but I kept my eyes forward.
The ramp clanged and began to drop.
Light knifed into the compartment, along with the hiss of bullets cutting water. Spray hit my face, cold and sharp. I caught a glimpse of grey sand, black rock, and wire. Smoke drifted low, curling over shapes that might have been logs or bodies.
The sergeant roared, "GO!"
The ramp crashed into the surf, and the world became fire.
Men surged forward in a blur of helmets and rifles, some shouting, some silent, some already falling before they'd taken three steps. I had no time to think—my legs carried me with the tide, boots splashing into knee-high water that sucked and pulled with every step.
The noise hit harder than the water. A hundred guns spitting at once, bullets snapping past my ears, explosions throwing sand and foam into the air. The stench of cordite and salt slammed into me like a fist.
I forced myself low, rifle held tight, moving with the men around me. To my left, a figure pitched forward face-first into the surf, helmet rolling away. Another man dragged him a step before letting go when blood clouded the water.
"Move! Move!" the sergeant roared from somewhere behind.
My feet pounded, slipping, catching, pushing toward the jagged smear of sand and wire ahead. Every instinct screamed to dive for cover, but there was none. Just open water, open sand, and fire from the cliffs.
A geyser of water erupted five paces to my right, tossing a body into the air like a rag doll. My mouth opened, but I bit back the shout. Noise wouldn't save me. Moving would.
I reached the sand, boots sinking deep. Men were clustered behind steel obstacles driven into the beach—X-shaped things bristling with jagged edges. I dove behind one, breath tearing at my throat. Bullets smacked sparks off the metal inches from my head.
The rifle felt too heavy in my hands, but I raised it anyway. I picked the ridge where muzzle flashes winked through smoke, squeezed the trigger. The weapon spat, the recoil punching my shoulder. I didn't see if I hit anything. Didn't matter. I was firing back, adding to the noise, giving myself an edge.
"Left! Hale, cover left!" someone shouted.
I turned, saw a man stumbling in the shallows, his arm shredded, blood slick. Two more were dragging him, and enemy rounds chewed the sand around them. I fired at the flashes on the left cliff, short bursts, the way the body remembered even if I didn't. The attackers paused long enough for the wounded man to be hauled behind a barrier.
Adrenaline drowned out confusion. I wasn't Rook Vass from the pits anymore. I wasn't standing on Shiraquay docks watching the waves. I was a soldier—this Hale—and soldiers didn't freeze on beaches like this.
"Forward!" the sergeant's voice again, closer now. He sprinted past me, crouched low, weapon barking at the ridgeline. Men followed him in bursts, dashing between the iron crosses and blown craters.
I forced myself to move, legs pumping. Sand sprayed up around me as rounds struck close, but none found me. I hit the next crater and slid in, heart hammering. Two men crouched there already, eyes wide, hands shaking as they reloaded.
"You good?" one shouted at me.
I nodded, too breathless to answer. He didn't wait—just popped up, fired, ducked down.
The plan was clear enough: keep moving, keep pushing until we reached the dunes and whatever cover they offered. But every step forward felt like tempting fate, daring death to pick me out of the pack.
I pushed again, crawling out of the crater and sprinting low. Ahead, wire tangled across the sand in wicked curls. Men were clustered at it, cutting with tools or throwing grenades to blow gaps. One blast ripped a hole wide, sending shards of wood and steel raining down.
"Through! Through!" someone yelled.
I hurled myself into the smoke, boots catching on torn wire. My sleeve snagged, ripping, but I yanked free and stumbled through the gap. Beyond was open sand again, sloping up toward the dunes where the enemy fire poured down hardest.
A man beside me went down screaming, clutching his leg. Another tripped over him and kept running. My lungs burned, my legs felt like lead, but I ran too.
The dunes loomed closer now—dark earth and rock behind curtains of smoke. I fired as I ran, not caring if I hit, just laying down fire to keep their heads low. The rifle bucked, clicked empty. My hands worked on instinct, slapping in a new magazine, racking the bolt.
I dove behind another obstacle, chest heaving. My helmet rang as a round glanced off it, the shock rattling my teeth. I swore and pressed lower. That had been too close.
"Hale! With me!" It was the sergeant again, crouched a few paces ahead, waving me forward.
I didn't think—I just went. We sprinted the last stretch, sand spitting, air shrieking with fire. The dunes rose like jagged walls. We threw ourselves into their shadow, pressed flat against the earth.
Cover. At last.
Men gathered, panting, shouting, some firing upward blindly. Others were already climbing, digging into the slope with hands and boots. The sergeant slapped my shoulder.
"Keep your sector! Don't let them roll us back!"
I nodded, eyes scanning left. More men were pushing up behind, some stumbling, some dragging wounded. The beach was a mess of bodies and smoke now, the sea stained red where men had fallen in the surf. And still more landing craft were coming in, bringing more of us into the storm.
My hands trembled as I reloaded again, but my breathing steadied. This was the fight now. No ring, no rules—just survival. And I'd survived worse than men with guns.
I pressed the rifle to my shoulder, peered up the slope, and waited for the order to climb.
- - - heart <3! - - -