Chapter 73: Blackrun

  Laurent took the mission without hesitation. The notice was pinned low on the board, half-hidden beneath training rotations and certification results. Blackrun: Guard Support. Patrols. Crowd control. Riot prevention. Three months. Imperial credit.

  That was the reason he allowed himself to say. Credit meant access. Gear that didn’t fail. Armor that didn’t fold the first time it mattered. After watching steel warp and split under escort fire, he understood it now with painful clarity.

  Good gear didn’t make you strong. It kept you alive long enough to matter.

  He signed. Four days later, he was on the road. The closer he got to Blackrun, the worse the traffic became—and all of it was flowing away from the city. Families on foot. Carts piled too high. Faces turned inward, not backward.

  Refugees.

  By the time the walls appeared, Laurent already felt wrong. Blackrun wasn’t panicking. It was compressed. Market hours were cut short. Civilian movement was monitored. Guards stood at every major crossing, visible but not aggressive. Soldiers were everywhere—tired, efficient, eyes never still. Waiting-for-impact danger.

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  Laurent reported in. The captain looked at his papers, then at him.

  “You walk. You stand. You don’t escalate unless ordered.”

  “Yes, sir.” That was it. He was not special. He was manpower.

  The first week was noise and nothing. Long patrols. Arguments diffused before they ignited. Rumors stamped out before they turned into fear.

  Then he saw the children. At first, they came in groups. Quiet. Moving too fast for their size. Then one came alone. She couldn’t have been older than four. Blood soaked her dress, dark and sticky, far too much for such a small body. Some of it wasn’t hers. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even look around. She just stood there.

  Something snapped. Aly’s face rose up without permission—laughing, stubborn, alive. The image slammed into the present and twisted.

  Damn it. His hands curled before he noticed. Damn it all. Moravin. The word burned. Not abstract. Not political. Those bastards.

  The thought came sharp and violent, nothing like him. I’ll take it. I’ll take this fight myself. I’ll put my hands on their throats.

  The rage scared him. Not because it was loud—but because it felt right.

  He forced it down. Swallowed it. Did his job. But it didn’t go away. Every injured child reopened it. Every cart carrying bodies. Every whispered story that ended too early.

  By the end of the second month, he was sleeping poorly. By the third, he stopped pretending he didn’t know why. Three months passed. No riots. No collapse. Blackrun held—by inches.

  When the rotation ended, the captain paid them all the same. Twenty-one crowns. Guard pay. Honest. Limited. Laurent accepted the pouch without comment.

  It was the most money he’d ever held. It didn’t matter. Imperial credit was logged. His name stayed clean. That mattered.

  The walk back felt longer. When the academy gates came into view, nothing looked different. Full. Loud. Structured.

  Laurent stepped inside carrying something he hadn’t brought with him. He hadn’t fought a war. But now he knew—when it came—he wouldn’t wait for it to reach him. He would go to it.