Otwin saw them appear.

  One second, the ridge ahead was empty, just pale dirt and scattered rock under a flat, washed-out sky. Heat shimmered above the ground in lazy sheets. Wind pushed grit across stone.

  The next, shapes stepped out of nothing.

  Not from behind cover. Not from a fold in the land. From the air itself, as if the world had blinked and forgotten to render them until the last moment. A wavering distortion clung to their outlines for a heartbeat, oil-on-water ripples that collapsed inward and vanished.

  Rifles came up together.

  Gunfire hammered the ridge.

  Medium-caliber rounds snapped past Otwin’s helmet and slammed into his STV’s frontal plate. Impacts rang like a hailstorm on metal. One round hit his chest and drove the breath out of him, a heavy shove that would have flattened him without the Stormtrooper armor to spread the force through the frame.

  Another round punched into the STV’s engine housing.

  The engine shrieked.

  The sound was wrong. High and tearing, metal screaming under sudden stress. The STV lurched, track biting once and then slipping. Smoke burst from the side panel. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died.

  Otwin did not hesitate.

  He grabbed his energy rifle, unhooked his vibro sword, and launched himself off the dead machine in one smooth motion. Boots hit dirt. He sprinted toward the nearest rocks as rounds chewed up the ground behind him, spitting dust and stone into the air.

  The attackers moved fast.

  Exoskeletons.

  He saw it as he dove behind cover. Exposed frames rode over their bodies like mechanical skeletons bolted on after the fact. Thick piston-assisted braces ran along thighs and calves, anchored at the hips and spine with crude power couplings. Armatures hugged forearms and shoulders, amplifying every motion with abrupt, forceful assistance. Cables, servos, and shock struts were left half-exposed, more industrial than refined.

  The gear looked surplus and ugly, matte pewter plating scuffed and mismatched, bolted over standard armor in a way that prioritized function over comfort. It did not wrap the wearer in protection. It wrapped them in leverage.

  It did not make them tanks.

  It made them quick.

  It made them dangerous.

  Otwin pressed his shoulder into the rock and breathed once, deep and steady.

  The world narrowed.

  Sound sharpened. He picked out the cadence of their firing, the clack of stripper clips, the shouted calls of men who believed they had surprise and numbers. He leaned out for a fraction of a second. The sight picture snapped into place faster than it should have.

  He fired.

  The energy bolt struck the nearest trooper square in the chest. The man jolted as if yanked backward by a cable, boots scraping stone. He collapsed where he stood. The exoskeleton frame twitched, servos whining briefly before going still.

  Otwin was already back behind the rock when return fire arrived.

  Bullets cracked against stone and sparked off his shoulder plate as he shifted position. Dust sprayed across his visor. He ignored it, sliding along the rock to a new angle.

  They tried to flank.

  He heard it in the change of footfalls, the way two sets broke wide, moving low and fast with exoskeleton assistance. Smart. Coordinated. Not amateurs.

  Otwin popped out on the opposite side and caught one of the flankers mid-stride.

  He fired once.

  The bolt punched through the man’s torso and dropped him hard. The exoskeleton dragged him a short distance before locking, metal joints clattering as they seized.

  The other flanker froze.

  Just for an instant.

  That instant was enough.

  Otwin rose higher, aimed, and fired again. The bolt struck the trooper’s head. The man went down immediately, weapon skittering across rock.

  Three.

  The remaining attackers hesitated.

  Not for long. Discipline drove them forward again. They returned fire, trying to pin Otwin, shots snapping past his cover and punching shallow scars into stone.

  Otwin moved.

  He broke from cover and ran laterally, armor stabilizers biting as he sprinted across uneven ground. Rounds snapped at his heels. One hit his thigh plate and glanced off. Another caught his shoulder and ricocheted away.

  He did not slow.

  He fired on the move.

  The bolt struck a trooper who had stepped too far out, turning to track Otwin instead of keeping his angle. The man dropped where he stood, rifle falling from limp hands.

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  Four.

  Six left.

  Their firing faltered now. It was audible in the rhythm. Confidence cracked. Shots came faster and less controlled, more noise than precision.

  Otwin slid behind another cluster of rocks and breathed once.

  Anger sat in his chest, clean and ready.

  He hated how natural it felt.

  Two of the troopers were forced to reload.

  He heard it. The metallic scrape of stripper clips being yanked free. The brief, precious pause where rifles were silent.

  Otwin charged.

  He came out of cover like something unleashed, energy rifle up, vibro sword in his other hand. The sword hummed to life, its vibration cutting the air with a predatory whine that carried across the rocks.

  One trooper tried to meet him.

  The man stepped forward, exoskeleton boosting his movement, bayonet coming up as if resolve could close the distance Otwin had already eaten.

  Otwin did not slow.

  He swung.

  The vibro sword cut through armor and frame alike with a single decisive motion. The man fell in two heavy halves, both hitting the ground with dull finality. The exoskeleton whined, confused, trying to move what no longer worked.

  Five.

  Otwin raised the rifle and fired into the next man before the trooper could finish seating his clip. The bolt bored straight through the chest and dropped him where he stood.

  Six.

  Four left.

  One turned and ran.

  Another screamed, hands rising, weapon clattering to the ground.

  Otwin’s face did not change.

  He cut the surrendering man down without breaking stride. The vibro blade passed cleanly through, the body collapsing in a heap at his feet.

  Seven.

  The last two tried to retreat together, backing toward the place they had appeared from, as if the cloak might save them again.

  It could not.

  Otwin caught them.

  One went down under the vibro sword, a swift, efficient strike that ended the fight instantly.

  The other tried to raise his rifle and died before he could aim, energy burning through the exoskeleton frame and leaving it collapsing in a lifeless tangle.

  Nine.

  Only the runner remained.

  Otwin turned, scanning.

  He found the fleeing man farther out, sprinting hard, exoskeleton pushing him faster than he had any right to be. The trooper glanced back once, panic in his posture, stride breaking.

  Otwin fired.

  The bolt struck the man in the back and threw him forward into the dirt. He skidded to a stop and did not rise.

  Ten.

  Otwin stood in the open, breathing hard now, rifle still up, scanning for more. The ground around him was torn and pocked, weapons scattered among still forms. The fight had burned itself out in seconds.

  Then the air shimmered.

  Off to his left, beyond where the attackers had appeared, the distortion peeled away from something large. The outline sharpened as if reality were snapping back into place.

  A Tracked Personnel Carrier.

  Low and boxy. Engine growling. Side panels still moving from the disembark.

  The cloak dropped fully.

  The TPC stood revealed against the flat land, brutally visible.

  Otwin stared at it for half a heartbeat.

  Then he keyed his comm.

  “Contact,” he said, voice steady despite the heat in his chest. “It wasn’t just a squad. There’s a carrier. Cloak just dropped. I’m handling it.”

  ***

  The TPC tried to run.

  Its engine roared as the driver cranked the steering hard, treads grinding against stone while the carrier began a wide, desperate turn away from the kill zone. Dust kicked up around its flanks. The side panels rattled as the vehicle fought its own momentum.

  Otwin did not give it the space it needed.

  He broke into a sprint, armor servos flaring as he crossed directly in front of the TPC’s nose. The carrier loomed over him, metal mass rushing past close enough that he felt the heat of the engine wash over his chest. One misstep would have turned him into a smear beneath the treads.

  He leapt.

  His boots slammed into the carrier’s front plating, and he caught the driver-side door with one armored hand, fingers biting into a seam meant for maintenance access, not combat. His energy rifle swung loose on its shoulder strap, bouncing hard against the hull.

  The door did not budge.

  Through the narrow vision slits, Otwin could see the driver. The man’s eyes were wide, hands jerking at the controls as he tried to complete the turn. Panic had stripped him down to reflex.

  Otwin did not shout.

  He drew the vibro sword and drove it forward.

  The blade punched through the door with a shriek of tortured metal and vanished inside the cab. Otwin felt the resistance change, then give. He hauled the sword upward in a brutal, ripping motion.

  The driver went limp.

  The TPC lurched, its turn collapsing into an uncontrolled grind as the machine lost guidance. It shuddered and slowed, momentum bleeding away as it rolled to a crooked halt.

  Otwin braced himself against the hull as the vehicle settled.

  He yanked the vibro sword free and set to work on the door. The blade carved a rough outline, metal glowing and peeling away as he cut. He planted a boot and smashed the weakened panel inward.

  That was when something hit him.

  It was not a bullet. There was no impact sound, no sharp crack. Just force.

  Otwin was lifted off the carrier as if a giant hand had swatted him aside. He flew backward, armor screaming warnings as he slammed into the ground. He bounced once, then again, skipping across the dirt and stone like a thrown weight before striking a cluster of rocks hard enough to knock the world sideways.

  He came to rest facedown, air driven from his lungs.

  His HUD erupted with alerts.

  Structural stress warnings. Armor integrity compromised. Left shoulder actuator damage. Power routing disrupted.

  Somewhere in the tumble, the strap to his energy rifle had snapped.

  The weapon was gone.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow and realized his vibro sword was no longer in his hand.

  Unarmed.

  Otwin rolled onto his back and forced himself to sit up, vision swimming. The TPC loomed ahead of him, engine idling unevenly, one side scarred and scorched. The cut door hung twisted and half open.

  It moved.

  The door opened fully.

  A man stepped out.

  Small. Narrow. Ratty looking in a way that had nothing to do with his clothes and everything to do with posture. His hair was thin and unkempt. His eyes were sharp and calculating.

  A mage.

  Otwin felt the cold recognition settle in his gut.

  Mages were rare. Even weak ones were valuable. Dangerous.

  The man raised a hand.

  Otwin was hit again.

  The blow caught his left shoulder and flung him sideways, armor grinding as he skidded across the ground. Pain flared, bright and immediate, then dulled as his altered body tried to keep up.

  He rolled, gasping, and forced himself to his knees.

  The mage was already drawing power again, both hands lifted now, air around him warping with gathered force. The man’s mouth moved, words lost in the roar of blood in Otwin’s ears.

  Otwin’s hands brushed against the ground.

  Stone.

  Small. Irregular. He closed his fingers around it.

  The mage’s hands rose higher.

  Otwin took a half step forward, cocked his arm back with a jolt of pain through his shoulder, and hurled the stone.

  It left his hand faster than it should have, accelerated by strength that no longer felt foreign to him. The stone crossed the distance in a blink.

  It struck the mage’s head.

  The man’s spell collapsed instantly. His body snapped backward, arms flung wide as he fell out of sight behind the open door.

  Silence followed.

  Otwin stayed where he was for a moment, breathing hard, waiting for more force to hit him.

  Nothing came.

  He pushed himself upright, every movement measured now. His armor protested, but it held together. He limped toward the TPC, eyes never leaving the open doorway.

  Inside, the carrier was still.

  The mage lay motionless, the front of his skull caved in, and with a stone was embedded in his brain.

  Otwin stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, the reality of how close he had come settling in.

  Then he toggled his communicator.

  “That didn’t go as well as I hoped,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I’ll be coming in with a new TPC, though.”