Page 32 of Fifth
Hannah’s breath hitched and she whispered again, almost to herself, “They move like soldiers, not hunters. Can you defeat so many, Locus?”
“Unlikely.”
The crowd sensed it too, the restless roar shifting, delight creeping into the bettors’ voices as they realized these weren’t men chasing coin but soldiers drilled to stand in unison. Finally, they’d see Locus defeated.
Drones swept lower, eager to capture the taut stillness, their lenses catching the glint of disciplined eyes behind metal. The air itself seemed suspended, waiting for the first spark to turn all that tension into fire. Six figures advanced, tall and armored,every step measured, weapons in hand, their formation tight as a shield wall. They radiated danger the way lightning carried its own storm.
Above, the headman’s voice cracked from hidden speakers, sharp with cruel delight: “Tear them apart! Give us blood! Bettors, place your wages. Who goes down first, Alien or combatant? Woman or alien?”
Hannah gasped. Her hand clutched at the gun she held, her hand shaking. Locus shifted forward, stance wide, knife and rifle ready. He placed himself between her and the soldiers without thought. His breath eased. His eyes locked on the first enemy tomove.
But no strike came.
They stopped in unison and their weapons lowered. Then, in a motion so synchronized it rang of ritual, they slammed fists to chests in salute. Armor rang like struck bells. Flickering light danced across metal, bronze and gold. The sound carried into silence.
For a long moment the line of armored males held, unmoving, the torches flaring across their visors as the crowd howled for blood. Then one of them broke formation. Aseventh figure stepped forward, larger than the rest, his presence pressing through the silence. Every eye turned as he reached up, the scrape of gauntlet against metal loud in the hush. Piece by piece he unsealed the helmet, lifted it clear, and revealed hisface.
Sixth.
Recognition cracked through Locus, sharp as the snap of a bone. His muscles tightened, every reflex ready to strike, but his mind halted. Sixth’s eyes met his—implacable, shadowed,carved by too many battles. Those eyes flicked to Hannah, lingered, then cameback.
“You will stand down,” Sixth said. His voice was a command, clipped and certain. “She will be protected.”
Hannah stiffened, eyes darting between them. “Who—who is he?” she whispered.
“Sixth,” Locus answered. “Apex of the Alpha Unit. My commander.” The words tasted almost bittersweet as he spoke them, dominion and memory pressing in with the lights from torches and drones.
Hannah’s breath caught and she lifted the gun a fraction. Her voice shook, but she aimed the question at Locus, not the newcomer. “Why is he here? Does he mean to kill us?”
Locus’s mouth curved in something close to irony. He shifted his gaze to Sixth. “Affirmative, why are you here, Commander? Do you mean to kill us?”
Sixth’s mouth twitched, the faintest suggestion of a smile ghosting there before his expression hardened again. “It would end this ridiculous game. Shall I end it?”
Locus shifted, drawing Hannah directly behind him, positioning her where his body could shield her. His voice cut through the tense quiet. “If you would end this game, Commander, then end it without killing me or the female. That would be my preference.”
Sixth’s gaze narrowed, his hand resting a moment too long on the butt of his weapon as if he weighed the simplicity of killing them all here and now. The crowd bayed for blood, the drones hummed expectantly, and for an instant it seemed he might obligethem.
Then, with a swift exhale, his shoulders eased. “Very well, Fifth,” he said at last, his tone flat as stone. “If you insist. You may live.”
The bettors screamed outrage. Wagers shattered in the chaos. The headman bellowed curses, spitting into the drones. “Betrayal! Kill them all!”
The other soldiers ignored him. They closed in, forming a circle around Locus and Hannah. The cameras strained, trying to catch the angles, but the wall of armored bodies blocked theview.
Hannah pressed into Locus’s side, her bare shoulder brushing his ribs. Heat flared through him at the contact. He forced himself still. Her scent threaded beneath his guard, sharp with fear and something softer beneath it, something that stirred hunger he couldn’t afford. His control tightened like afist.
Sixth approached. For a long moment the two stared at one another, then both broke into easy grins and they embraced, pounding each other on the back. The embrace was brief but solid, two warriors meeting again after parting, their embrace carrying the memory of shared battles and loyalties that had not been forgotten.
Hannah’s sharp intake of breath carried between them, her confusion plain. Locus pulled back, his hand still on Sixth’s shoulder, and studied him with a mixture of relief and suspicion. Sixth’s eyes flicked to Hannah again before returning to him, and in that heartbeat Locus recognized the pressure of choice tighten in his chest. Was this reunion the start of another trial?
The crowd reacted in a frenzy, their roars splitting the night. Some screamed betrayal, others shouted wild wagers on how long this truce would last. Drones swarmed lower, their lenses flashing as they tried to catch the embrace from every angle.Torches guttered in the rush of noise, the flames bending as though the air itself shuddered with anticipation.
Hannah shifted behind Locus, bewilderment plain on her face as she looked from him to the towering commander, as if trying to reconcile the blood feud the crowd demanded with the brief brotherhood she had just witnessed.
“What game is this?” Locus demanded, once they’d broken apart.
Sixth’s gaze didn’t waver. “No game. Truth. The trials are a snare. The headman is a puppet. Greater hands move these pieces.”
Locus’s grip on his knife didn’t ease. “Speak plainly.”
