Sacrifice walked at the front.
Her pace was steady—never hurried, never slow. Each step was measured against terrain, line of sight, and the shifting wind. Ruined stone, ash-soft earth, exposed bone—she adjusted without conscious thought.
Behind her, Reth followed, along with what remained of his squad.
And then more.
They were no longer four.
Thirty Sarkaz trailed behind her now—mercenaries, deserters, broken stragglers pulled from ditches and ruins.
Bandages showed through torn armor. Makeshift crutches scraped against stone. One man leaned on another, teeth clenched hard enough to crack. No one complained. She had adjusted their dosages already.
Pain was a variable.
Death was not.
Kazdel's borderlands stretched endlessly around them—layer upon layer of ruin, cities built atop graves, graves crushed into dust and mixed with the soil. Sarkaz corpses were common enough that no one paused to acknowledge them. The land itself had learned indifference.
Reth broke the silence with a dry snort.
[Reth]: You know, Doctor… you really ought to stop wasting supplies on people who are already halfway dead.
He gestured backward with his chin.
[Reth]: We're a walking museum of cripples. Thirty of us now. Slow. Loud. Easy targets. Like half-burnt potatoes—
He shrugged.
[Reth]: Not good eating, but still worth taking a bite out of.
A few mercenaries laughed weakly. Others stayed quiet, eyes lowered.
Sacrifice did not stop walking.
[Sacrifice]: Your analogy is inaccurate.
Reth blinked, caught off guard.
[Sacrifice]: Potatoes are a renewable resource. You are not.
That shut him up.
They continued forward. The wind dragged ash along the ground, whispering against broken steel and bone. Somewhere far off, something exploded—not close enough to matter. Not yet.
One of the mercenaries stumbled.
Before anyone reacted, Sacrifice was already there. She caught him by the shoulder, adjusted his weight, and tightened the wrap around his leg with a single pull. Her touch was firm, impersonal. Efficient.
[Sacrifice]: Your gait is worsening. You are compensating incorrectly.
The mercenary swallowed.
She looked at him. Really looked.
[Sacrifice]: Apologies are unnecessary. Pain alters behavior. That is expected.
She let go and resumed walking. The mercenary stared after her, uncertain whether he had just been scolded or forgiven.
Reth exhaled slowly through his nose.
[Reth]: You talk like you're reading numbers off a slate.
[Sacrifice]: I am.
He frowned.
[Sacrifice]: Heart rate. Skin temperature. Respiration. Tremors. Delirium markers.
She didn't turn back.
[Sacrifice]: If I stop reading them, people die.
Silence followed.
The Sarkaz behind them exchanged glances. Some looked uneasy. Others—relieved. A few stared at her back with something dangerously close to reverence.
They reached a shallow ravine carved by old artillery fire. Rusted wreckage lay half-buried in the dirt—vehicles from wars no one remembered winning. Sacrifice raised a hand.
They stopped.
She scanned the area—counted shadows. Measured distance. Wind direction.
Nothing.
[Sacrifice]: We rest for an hour, no more. Take our time, and eat and drink.
They obeyed instantly.
People collapsed where they stood. Groans escaped clenched teeth. One man slumped against a rock and laughed quietly, like he couldn't believe he was still conscious.
Reth lowered himself beside her, leaning heavily on his shield.
[Reth]: You never asked why we're following you.
[Sacrifice]: You are injured.
[Reth]: That's not—
She cut him off, not sharply, but completely.
[Sacrifice]: You are following because I reduce the probability of death.
She paused, then added—
[Sacrifice]: Purpose is an option that we give to ourselves to feel better. I am following mine like how you follow yours, Reth. Now, how long to get to the scar market
Reth stared at her for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't even amused. It was the kind of laugh that escaped when something inside finally gave up pretending it understood the world.
[Reth]: …You really don't hear yourself, do you?
Sacrifice sat on a slab of broken concrete, removing her gloves with methodical care. She inspected her fingers for blood seepage, cleaned them with a cloth already stiff from repeated use, then rewrapped her hands.
[Sacrifice]: I hear accurately.
[Reth]: No, I mean—
He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging ash with it.
[Reth]: You talk about purpose like it's a tool. Something you pick up because it's useful, not because it matters.
She looked up at him then. Not sharply. Not coldly.
Just directly.
[Sacrifice]: Tools matter if they work.
That shut him up again.
Reth looked away, jaw tightening as his eyes swept across the ravine.
Thirty Sarkaz rested there like wounded beasts—sprawled against stone, hunched over rations, drinking water slowly, carefully, as if the liquid might evaporate the moment they relaxed. No one spoke loudly. No one laughed now. Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb them.
[Reth]: The Scar Market's two days out.
He paused, then added quietly—
[Reth]: Three, with this many injured. With you stopping for every half-dead soul we pass… maybe a week if we're lucky.
His gaze returned to her.
[Reth]: And that's if no one decides we look profitable.
Sacrifice nodded once.
[Sacrifice]: Then we plan for seven days.
Reth let out a short, incredulous breath.
[Reth]: You say that like it's reasonable.
[Sacrifice]: It is.
She crouched near one of the resting mercenaries, adjusting a splint without asking, tightening it just enough to stabilize but not cut circulation. The man hissed, then relaxed when the pain eased.
[Sacrifice]: The Scar Market attracts violence because it concentrates desperation. We will arrive either prepared or dead. I prefer the former.
Reth watched her hands work—steady, efficient, unshaking.
[Reth]: You really don't care if this gets you killed, do you?
She didn't answer immediately.
She finished securing the splint, checked the man's pupils, pressed two fingers to his wrist, then stood. Only then did she look at Reth.
[Sacrifice]: I care if they die.
The distinction hung between them.
Reth frowned.
[Reth]: That's not an answer most people give.
Sacrifice did not stop walking.
[Sacrifice]: Most people are attached to the idea that their life has inherent meaning.
She moved to the ravine's edge, boots crunching softly over gravel and shell fragments. From there, she could see the group clearly—thirty Sarkaz huddled in broken clusters, eating in silence, wounds exposed to ash and wind. Not soldiers. Survivors. Animals licking their injuries because no one else ever had.
[Sacrifice]: Mine does not.
She crouched, picked up a stone, and tossed it down the ravine. It struck rusted metal far below with a dull, hollow clang.
[Sacrifice]: I am a sacrifice that should be used.
Reth stared at her back.
For a moment, he looked like he might laugh. Or argue. Or snap.
Instead, he exhaled slowly.
[Reth]: That's… a dangerous way to live.
[Sacrifice]: It is an efficient one.
She turned slightly, enough that he could see her profile—calm, composed, utterly disconnected from the weight of her words.
[Sacrifice]: Lives without meaning are easier to allocate.
Reth clenched his jaw.
[Reth]: You talk like you're already dead.
She considered that.
[Sacrifice]: I am no longer burdened by survival as a goal.
That earned her a sharp look.
[Reth]: Then why bother saving anyone?
The question hung between them, heavy and sharp.
Sacrifice looked back at the resting Sarkaz. At a mercenary, carefully rewrapping his bandage exactly the way she had shown him. At another offering his water to someone shaking too badly to drink. At the scout woman, chalk slate clutched to her chest like something precious.
[Sacrifice]: Because I can and I will save them.
Reth studied her for a long moment.
Not the way a man sizes up an enemy.
Not even the way a mercenary evaluates a potential employer.
He looked at her the way one looks at a paradox—something that shouldn't exist, yet very clearly did.
[Reth]: That still sounds like meaning to me.
Sacrifice did not answer immediately.
She knelt beside a fire someone had coaxed to life from damp scrap and oil-soaked rags. The flames were weak, struggling against the wind. She adjusted the stones around it, shielding the heat, then fed it precisely measured fuel. No waste. No excess.
Only then did she speak.
[Sacrifice]: Meaning implies choice rooted in desire.
She glanced at him—not accusing, not defensive. Simply factual.
[Sacrifice]: I do not desire this.
Reth blinked.
[Sacrifice]: I do not enjoy it. I do not feel fulfilled by it. I am not rewarded by it.
The fire steadied.
[Sacrifice]: I was created to be expended. A tool that remains unused is defective. A sacrifice that refuses the altar is a meaningless scrap.
She rose again, dusting ash from her gloves.
[Sacrifice]: Saving them is the correct use.
That… unsettled him more than any battlefield sermon ever had.
Reth leaned back against the ravine wall, horns scraping stone as he tilted his head upward, eyes tracing the scarred sky.
[Reth]: You talk like someone already dead.
[Sacrifice]: I told you when we met—I have already died once.
Her gaze dropped to the medical kit at her side.
It was still full.
Not just bandages and instruments now, but food sealed tight against ash, water carefully rationed and tucked into the fourth drawer—space that should not have existed, but did. She closed it with a quiet click, as if sealing a thought.
Then her head tilted.
A fraction. No more.
[Sacrifice]: Prepare yourselves.
She turned north, eyes unfocused, listening to something no one else had noticed yet.
[Sacrifice]: Footsteps. Uneven spacing. Poor discipline.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: Ten. Possibly fewer. They are trying to be quiet.
The ravine shifted.
Hands went to weapons. Weak ones, cracked ones, improvised ones. Thirty wounded Sarkaz rose or braced themselves as best they could. No panic—just grim habit. This was Kazdel. Silence before violence was a familiar rhythm.
Reth stood immediately, shield coming up, breath steadying despite the pain.
[Reth]: You heard that from there?
She didn't answer.
Instead, she moved.
Sacrifice stepped into the center of the ravine and raised one hand.
Not a command.
A calculation.
[Sacrifice]: Those who cannot stand—remain seated. You will not be targeted.
A few mercenaries stiffened.
[Sacrifice]: Those who can move—spread. Do not cluster. Elevation favors them. We will remove that advantage.
Her eyes flicked to Reth.
[Sacrifice]: Left flank. Draw attention. Do not overextend.
[Reth]: …You're giving orders now?
[Sacrifice]: I am preventing unnecessary death.
That was enough.
The first shot came from above—an arcing bolt of Arts that shattered against stone where she had been standing half a second earlier. The explosion showered ash and rock fragments across the ravine.
Too slow.
Sacrifice was already moving.
[Chapter End]