They argued over the body.
Not Krans.
The commander.
"Move it," someone said. "We can't just leave him there."
"Why not?" another voice shot back. "He left them."
No one mentioned Krans.
Not directly.
The boy stood a few meters away, staring at the ground where Krans had fallen. The dirt was darker there. Wet.
He hadn't moved since it happened.
Not really.
"…Hey."
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
He didn't react at first.
"Hey."
Stronger this time.
He blinked.
Looked up.
A soldier stood in front of him—older, dirt-streaked, eyes sharp but not panicked.
"You alive?" the soldier asked.
"…Yeah."
"Good. Then listen."
The boy said nothing.
The soldier glanced around, lowering his voice slightly.
"Chain of command's broken. Officers are either dead… or useless."
A glance toward the commander's body.
"…We need someone who knows what they're doing. Fast."
"Why are you telling me?" the boy asked.
"Because you're still thinking."
The boy frowned slightly.
"Most of them aren't," the soldier continued. "They're angry. Or scared. Or both. That gets people killed."
A pause.
Then—
A distant rumble.
Not memory this time.
Real.
The soldier looked toward the horizon.
"…They're not done."
The boy felt it too.
That same pressure.
That same wrongness in the air.
"They're coming again," he said.
"Yeah," the soldier replied. "And if we don't get organized, this time there won't be six hundred left."
Shouting broke out nearby.
"We need orders!"
"Who's in charge now?!"
"No one's giving commands!"
The unit was unraveling.
The boy looked around.
At the bodies.
At the survivors.
At the empty space where Krans used to stand.
Something in him… shifted.
Not healed.
Not okay.
Just—
Different.
"…Then we find someone," the boy said.
The soldier studied him for a second.
Then nodded once.
"Good. Move."