Morning light spilled through the cracks in the barracks roof, dust motes glowing gold.
Marcus Hale stood in the center, arms crossed, his dark skin catching the dawn like polished bronze. Steady. Unmoving. The kind of presence that held a squad together.
One by one, the others filed in—laughter, boots thumping, chairs scraping.
Then the noise cut short.
Behind Damian stood a silver-haired youth. Thin. Silent. Gray eyes sharp, too sharp for someone so starved.
Caleb blinked. "Uh… Damian? You brought a kid?"
Ethan barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "What, you get soft? First you limp back from E-block, now you drag home strays? What are we, an orphanage?"
His grin said it was a joke. But nobody laughed.
"Name's Ratty. Found him in the outer zone."
Damian shifted just enough to block the youth from their stares.
Ratty stayed close, pressed against his back. Quiet. Unyielding.
The tension stretched—until the sound of boots broke it.
Noah Briggs entered, gloves in hand, gaze sweeping the room. His eyes paused on the youth. Narrowed. Weighed. Then slid to Damian's stance, protective, immovable. He didn't comment. Just dropped his gloves on the table and spoke, voice calm.
"I checked on the Ashbournes last night."
The squad leaned in.
"They're gathering. Fifteen A-rank warriors. Five Psionics. More still coming. They leave the day after tomorrow."
The weight of his words pressed down hard.
Noah's voice cut sharper. "If Damian's rumor was false, they wouldn't be moving like this. Whatever's out there—it's real. And it's dangerous."
Ethan's grin vanished. His voice turned flat. "And if we march on their schedule? We're shadows. Bait. First ones thrown to the fire when things go bad."
For a beat, silence ruled the room.
Then Marcus straightened. Shoulders like stone, eyes steady, voice ringing like steel drawn from its sheath.
"No more waiting. We move now."
The words hit like a drumbeat. No objections. No hesitation. In an instant, posture shifted—backs straight, jaws set. Doubt was gone.
From the back, the silver-haired youth clutched his knees tighter. His chest pounded, his head throbbed with sharp, merciless pulses. A warning. A plea.
But the squad was already moving. A machine set in motion.
Iron Fang would leave today.
Straight into the unknown.