Fallen Angel [Bellamy Blake]

Chapter 39

THIS WAS MY FIRST EVER GUARD PATROL.

And somehow, even after everything—the crash, the blood, the bodies—I still wanted it.

I had brought up the idea to Bellamy and Clarke when they were first treating my wounds. Back when everything still felt... manageable. They had been hesitant—understandably. I was bruised, cut open in places that still throbbed if I moved too fast, and mentally... I wasn't exactly stable either. But I had pushed. Hard.

I didn't want to sit around and wait for something to happen to me.

I wanted to see it coming.

I wanted to be useful.

Somehow, I convinced them to take pity on me.

Of course, that was before the whole bridge fiasco. Before everything escalated. Before war stopped being a possibility and became an inevitability. The topic had been dropped, buried under more urgent concerns.

But I hadn't forgotten.

And now, standing at the base of the wall, climbing up the ladder with a rifle slung over my shoulder, I felt something strange settle in my chest.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Control.

Miller removes the gun strap from his shoulder as I reach the top. He sets it down by the post and gives me a half-hearted salute, his lips quirking up just slightly like he's amused by the whole thing.

"Don't fall asleep up here," he mutters before starting his descent.

I huff a quiet breath through my nose, watching him go before turning to face the woods.

I try to get comfortable, shifting on the makeshift wooden bench, but the rough planks dig into my legs through my clothes. It creaks faintly beneath me, like it's protesting my weight.

Still...

It's peaceful up here.

For the first time since we landed, I feel removed from it all—from the noise, the arguing, the constant tension humming through camp. Up here, it's just the trees. Endless and dark, stretching out like they go on forever. The wind moves through them in soft whispers, leaves rustling like quiet voices just out of reach.

I had forgotten how nice it was to look at the world from above.

To feel small in a way that wasn't suffocating.

To breathe.

For a moment, I let myself pretend this was normal. That I wasn't waiting for an attack. That I wasn't surrounded by people slowly unraveling under the weight of everything we'd been through.

I thought my post was going to be uneventful.

—or at least, that's what I had hoped.

That illusion shatters the second the wooden beams beneath me start shaking.