The words fell like a stone in still water.

  Swift didn’t respond immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on Carlos, but his body didn’t move—not out of fear, but respect. Silence gave the truth space to breathe.

  Carlos exhaled slowly, the breath curling in the cold.

  “Four years ago, I was part of a scout team. Tasked with surveying a forming Corrosion Tower outside a place called Alder Hollow. It wasn’t huge yet—five, maybe ten stories—but it was spreading fast. Corrosion tends to pool like water. Then it hardens, solidifies, becomes... something more.”

  Swift leaned in slightly. He’d never heard this before.

  “Towers are where it collects and grows. We call them nests. The locals call them something else—Rotspires. Sounds more honest.”

  Carlos kept the bullet in hand, gaze unfocused.

  “Church said it was a recon job. Low risk. Just eyes, notes, then fall back. What they didn’t know—or didn’t tell us—was that the tower was already awake. Already watching.”

  He went quiet. Swift waited.

  “We crossed a ridge. That’s all it took. Whatever was inside… was ready. Guardians. Not undead. Smarter. Tactical. They opened fire from concealment. Three of my team dropped before we even found cover. I caught a spike through the thigh. Crumpled like paper.”

  Swift imagined the scene. He could almost feel the tension in the air, the stench of corroded wood, the sound of branches snapping like bones.

  “Would’ve died there if not for Remy. He pulled me out. A large distance, over rocks, through mud. Held off whatever chased us with nothing but grit and a recoilless rifle. He saved me. Twice. When we got back, only two of us remained.”

  Carlos finally stopped rolling the bullet.

  “That night, I sat on the barracks roof. Loaded this round. Thought I’d just end it. No big scene. Just... quiet.”

  Swift didn’t look away. His voice, when it came, was low.

  “But you didn’t.”

  Carlos shook his head. “Ran out of courage. Or maybe I had just enough to wait.”

  The fire cracked between them.

  Swift leaned forward. “There was a guy I used to train with. Taught martial arts. Quoted philosophy like gospel.”

  Carlos raised an eyebrow, but listened.

  “He said the one thing that defines us—truly separates us from the rest of existence—is choice. Pain, loss, fate—none of that’s under our control. But the next step? That’s ours.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Carlos nodded faintly, like he knew exactly what that meant.

  “He also liked to say: ‘You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.’ Took me years to get it. Still working on the last part.”

  Carlos looked down at the bullet again, his voice quieter. “That’s a hell of a thing to believe in.”

  “Believing’s easy,” Swift replied. “Living it—that’s the hard part.”

  “That’s true,” Carlos paused, eyes flicking toward the sky. “You remember a lot, you know that?”

  Oh crap, new summons shouldn’t have this good of memory.

  “I…uh.”

  “Relax Swift, memory is also not under our control.” Carlos said as he got up, “Let’s turn in for the night. And… thanks.”

  The next morning came with a pale sky and a thin layer of frost on the leaves. Swift shook the chill from his shoulders as he packed up his gear. Their convoy would rest again today, waiting to link with a westbound trade group. Voss gave them the morning off-duty, which meant Carlos had plans.

  “Come on,” Carlos said, slinging his pack. “Let’s stretch your range a little.”

  They walked beyond the camp perimeter, up a shallow incline that crested into a rocky overlook. It was a perfect vantage point, different than yesterday. Down below, the terrain was open—patchy grass, twisted trees, the occasional log or stump perfect for target use.

  Carlos sat on a log and massaged his leg. “Let’s see how you do when it’s not a target dummy standing ten steps away.”

  Swift gave a slight smirk. “I can hit a bottle at fifty.”

  Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Cool. Try one at two hundred.”

  They spent the morning setting up their makeshift range—bottles, old cans, slivers of cloth tied to branches. Carlos adjusted the scope on his M21, checked wind drift, and walked Swift through how to mark targets at range.

  “Sniping’s not about being fast,” Carlos said. “It’s about seeing what no one else does.”

  Swift nodded. “I like that.”

  Carlos set him up prone, adjusted Swift’s posture like a teacher correcting a student. “Elbow in tighter. Don’t rest your cheek—anchor it.”

  The first shot rang out. Miss.

  “Too much anticipation,” Carlos said. “Let the shot surprise you.”

  They cycled through drills. Shot groupings. Timing breath with trigger pull. It was technical, exact—and Swift loved it.

  But it wasn’t just about shooting.

  “You ever think about why you train this hard?” Carlos asked between drills.

  Swift lowered the rifle and looked out across the trees.

  “I don’t think it’s about strength. Not really. It’s about being prepared. For what’s to come.”

  Carlos nodded, the silent approval in his posture was more than words.

  As the sun lowered past the treetops, the two men sat under the same pine they’d trained beside all morning. White Feather and Excalibur rested between them. Swift wiped sweat from his brow, and Carlos reached up to pull the bullet from behind his ear.

  He held the bullet in his hand.

  Looked at it.

  And extended it.

  Swift stared for a moment. “You sure?”

  Carlos nodded once. “You’ll know what to do with it.”

  Swift took it carefully, the weight of it more emotional than physical.

  “For memory,” Carlos said, his voice lower. “Not for use.”

  Swift looked down at the brass casing. The dimming sunlight caught the rim and flared gently, like a whisper.

  He closed his hand around it.

  Neither of them said another word.

  A crunch of boots over gravel interrupted the quiet.

  Voss approached from the trail behind them, cigarette dangling from his mouth, though it wasn’t lit. His eyes swept over the ridge, then locked onto Carlos. “Got a minute?”

  Carlos stood slowly, giving Swift a small nod. “Hold that thought.”

  The two walked a few paces away, just out of earshot, but Swift watched their posture—Voss speaking low and fast, Carlos listening with his usual unreadable calm. No gestures. No urgency. But the air had shifted.

  When Carlos returned, he lowered himself back beside Swift with a slow exhale.

  “What was that?” Swift asked.

  Carlos looked out toward the horizon, the orange line of the sun dipping behind black trees.

  “The trade convoy,” he said. “It’s late.”