GRAVESKIES

Chapter 8

A few days later, Ryujin saw Rakians for the first time.

She was on lookout. She was the best scout they had, so her shifts were long and often. Ryu had been exhausted that day, so it had taken her a while to convince herself she hadn't dreamed it.

First came the rush of running water. She'd thought it a creek, but she'd ventured too far from the river that stretched out from Wrecks. The closer she got, the more it sounded like thunder. Could a storm subjugate baby blue skies? She chased the surge until she could tell apart the footsteps. Tens of thousands of footsteps. Panic settled in; that sight made her forget all that was not fear.

The Rakian army marched west at a steady pace. They shone like a river of blood— bodies enfolded in metal coated in deep burgundy leather. The deposit loomed in the distance, a mere shadow behind riotous clouds. A dark sun. Through the bewilderment, she didn't have time to assess their weapons. She couldn't remember what color their banners flared. She desperately searched their faces for something.

Disappointment came last. Because they looked just like her. Deviants, yes, but not beasts. Compared to all the buzz, their presence underwhelmed her. If they were the same as her, then this would be an easy monster to kill. It had to be. What other choice did she have?

The day of the battle forged itself from ash. She had woken up to scattered fallen feathers on her bedsheets— probably from the stress. It didn't matter anymore. Thin metal armor adorned her body, built aerodynamically as to not impair her flight. There was care and promise of death in every stroke of silver taut over her muscles. The Akan insignia on her shoulder spelled damnation.

"We're flying on clear sky today. Not a single spirit. Bad omen," Sawyer had said that morning. Ryu thought it an advantage. As unusual as it was, she had an unaltered view of the horizon.

Ryujin flew above the hills, the wind a roar in her ears, the sunrays soft as the touch of a lover. This was a day for lazily waking up to steamy coffee and plush bagels; for walks in dog parks and reunions with old friends. Even the ancestors had drifted off to better places. Looking at the sky made her crave things she'd never have time for. Mellow things. Patient things. She needed to look away.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back; the morning bask snowed around her like an aura. She would miss this quiet, kind light, when the canons would rage and the sky would turn red.

Fear curled inside her stomach, a clawed, ice-cold serpent.

The Rakians marched as they did yesterday. They looked as they did yesterday. Like her friends.

They were coming.

Sawyer waited in the cave. Thousands of soldiers surrounded him, in formation. Some sang ballads to raise spirits and get their blood pumping; old, crappy melodies about wives or husbands or mothers or whores. It was way too dark inside for any of it to raise morale. Ghost voices echoed across their cold, isolated pocket of the world. Some whispered to their friends secrets and fears and promises. Sawyer's friends were not there. The air grew thin. The exit glowed far away, reaching gauzy white arms over massive walls of stone.

They'd been right to applaud Heron. His cave was a masterpiece. It had two wide-spreading levels with enough room to host three Divisions. The entrance consisted of a faultless, exceptionally short but wide rectangle, practically a slit at the bottom of the giant, abrupt cliff. It was only tall enough for a man to pass; it couldn't be seen from a distance, over the tall grass.

They waited. They waited and it was long; nothing would ever feel as purposeless as that wait. Sawyer felt betrayed. He despised inertia. Couldn't suffer it for the life of him. Now he had to sit unmoving as he waited to die?