Chapter 25
Infiltration
Carter stiffened as the blonde man took a step toward him, the faint clink of metal from his gear cutting through the quiet night.
What now? Unease crawled up his spine.
Then—scrape, crunch.
A new sound bled into the air. Boots. Heavy ones. Grinding over gravel. Getting closer.
His heart skipped. Soldiers?
The man's head twitched toward the noise, sharp and alert. Carter froze, unsure whether to back away or run. He didn't get the chance to choose.
The blonde man spun toward him, words spilling in that same strange language. Carter didn't understand a single syllable, but the tone—urgent, steady, almost protective—left no room for argument.
Before he could speak, a gloved hand wrapped around his wrist. The man tugged him forward, away from the shadows and toward the tents.
Carter stumbled after him, pulse hammering, eyes darting to the moving shapes in the dark. Whoever was coming was close.
He yanked his wrist free, breath sharp. "No," he hissed. The man stopped, turning toward him with a look Carter couldn't read.
"I can't go," Carter said, voice trembling. "Not now. I need to know what happened—to my dad, to my friends."
The man frowned, a crease forming between pale brows. He said something again in that foreign tongue—softer, but insistent. His hand hovered as if to grab Carter again, then dropped.
Carter's chest tightened. He glanced toward the dark outline of the street where people had been dragged away earlier. His scar gave a faint, needling pulse—like a cold wire tightening under his skin. The sound of approaching boots grew clearer, echoing like a countdown.
If I run now, I might never know.
The blonde man exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers pressed the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut for a moment—like he was weighing something he didn't want to.
Then, in a rough accent, he muttered, "...Okay."
Carter froze. English.
The man's eyes opened again, calmer now but no less focused. He jerked his chin toward the tents and gave Carter a light nudge.
Carter's heart slammed in his chest. He wanted to protest, to demand answers, but the footsteps were almost here—so close he could feel the gravel tremble.
The man's blue eyes locked with his, steady and sharp.
"Move," he said. The word cut clean through the dark.
Carter swallowed hard. Damn it. He took a step forward. Then another.
Their footsteps whispered across the gravel as they retraced the path toward the tents, a stone's throw from the fence. The air grew colder, biting at Carter's fingers. The night felt stretched thin—like it could tear with one wrong sound.
He risked a glance toward the fence line. Now that he was actually trying to find a way in, the place felt impossible. Floodlights swept in a steady rhythm, cutting through the fog like knives. Soldiers moved in pairs, rifles slung and boots pounding in unison.
The metallic tang of oil and ozone stung the air. The closer they got, the more Carter's stomach turned.
How the hell are we supposed to get in there?
Earlier, sneaking around alone had felt reckless—but somehow safer. Now, with the blonde man beside him, it felt real. The risk, the stakes, the danger—everything pressed in on him.
He wasn't a soldier or a spy. He was a sixteen-year-old who tripped over his own backpack straps on a good day. If he breathed too loud, a guard would hear. If he hesitated, the man might leave him behind.
He hugged his arms to himself, breath quick. This isn't like the games. If we get caught... there won't be any do-overs.
The man stopped suddenly. Carter almost bumped into him. The blonde turned his head slightly, the floodlight glinting off his gauntlet. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Carter—cool, unreadable.
Then he spoke, low and clear.
"Follow."
It wasn't a request.
Carter swallowed, fists clenching at his sides.
His pulse thundered as he took one shaky breath—then followed.
They moved along the fence, gravel crunching softly underfoot. The perimeter stretched on longer than he'd realized when he'd snuck here alone. They slipped through the shadows between the tents and the metal barrier.
Every so often, a pair of patrolling soldiers passed by—boots thudding in rhythm, rifles angled low but ready. Flashlights skimmed the ground, sometimes grazing their legs. Carter froze each time, shoulders locking up like a deer in headlights.
But the soldiers only looked. Glanced. Then moved on.
No one went near the blonde man.
That realization twisted something in Carter's stomach. Whoever this guy was, people clearly knew better than to stop him.
They walked for what felt like five minutes before the fence broke into a narrow service gate. Two armed soldiers stood there, posture rigid. Carter's pulse jumped.
Then he saw it.
A black sun encircled in gold.
The insignia was stamped across their armor plates—clean, gleaming even under the floodlights. Recognition slammed into him like a hammer.
Valiryea.
Carter's body locked before his mind caught up. His heart skipped, and a strange, sharp tension flared down his spine. His fingers curled into fists.
Varka.
Images flickered behind his eyes—burning banners, men screaming, the flash of gold armor split open by a blade he'd never held. His muscles coiled without him meaning to, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. A cold, familiar edge slid down his nerves, urging him to move. To attack.
Wait—this isn't me.
He swallowed hard, shaking his head. He could feel the heat under his skin, like his body was waking up to someone else's memories. He'd seen what Varka had done to this empire in his dreams, but seeing their sigil here—real, right in front of him—was different.
Why am I getting ready to fight?
The blonde man didn't slow. The soldiers straightened as he approached, exchanging short, clipped words in that same alien tongue. No one raised a weapon. No one even looked at Carter twice.
The gate clanked as one of them unlocked it.
Carter's pulse pounded in his throat. The memory wasn't his, but his body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. Someone dangerous. Someone who didn't hesitate.
He barely had time to take in the chaos inside before a squad intercepted them.
Boots scraped against the tarmac in sharp rhythm, rifles angled but ready. At the center strode an officer — posture straight, eyes hard. Two otherworlders flanked him, one a woman wrapped in a blue robe threaded with gold, moving like someone used to being obeyed.
The officer's gaze locked onto Carter and the blonde man. His expression soured.
"Why the hell," he barked, stopping a few feet away, "is a civilian walking in here with you?"
The soldiers around him tightened their line, but it was the officer's voice that cut deeper—low, precise, and deadly calm.
"I've got enough on my damn plate dealing with your kind," he said, the words sharp as glass. "And now you're babysitting random kids?"
Carter stiffened. He didn't need anyone to explain—he could feel the tension. Soldiers and otherworlders weren't allies. Just tolerating each other.
The officer turned to Carter. For a moment, the hard edge in his tone cracked, replaced by something quieter.
"Kid," he said, steady but careful, "is this man threatening you? Did he force you to follow him?"
Carter's breath caught. He opened his mouth—but the blonde man beat him to it.
He spoke a short string of words in that strange language. Controlled. Confident.
The woman at his side translated smoothly. "He says: Useful. Marked."
The air shifted. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. The officer went still—not with surprise, but with the heavy quiet of someone who understood.
For a second, his expression softened. The corners of his eyes tightened. That unshakable mask cracked just enough for Carter to see what was underneath.
Pity.
"...Yeah," the officer muttered, almost under his breath. Then louder, "Stand down. Let them through."
The rifles lowered, reluctantly. No one argued.
The officer lingered, eyes fixed on Carter—not with anger, not even suspicion, but with the look of someone watching a kid walk toward something they couldn't come back from.
"Try not to get yourself killed, kid," he said finally, his voice almost human now.
Carter's throat went dry. He wanted to answer, but the words stuck.
The blonde man gave him a small push forward, wordless. And Carter followed—past the line, past the soldiers, into something deeper.
The gate clanged shut behind him. The sound echoed in his chest long after it faded into the night.
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