The third wave of Corrosion fell with the first light of dawn.

  Swift held his last shot, helmet clutched loosely in one hand now. The Corrosion that had clawed toward Watchpoint Vale through the long night were no more, limbs twisted across the bloodied field.

  Carlos let his rifle hang from its sling, stretching his fingers. “That should be the last of them.”

  Swift gave a slow nod, the silence between them now familiar. He slid the helmet into his pack, careful to nestle it deep beneath the flap.

  Carlos leaned against the tower’s ledge, eyeing him. “You blessed it, didn’t you?”

  Swift didn’t answer right away. His eyes followed the distant edges of the forest. “Yeah.”

  Carlos whistled under his breath. “Didn’t think you were the type to burn BP on gear.”

  Swift shrugged. “Excalibur takes a full minute to reload. I don’t burn through rounds like most people. Makes sense to balance it out with something that keeps me alive.”

  “Still. I’m not sure how you did it, but you’ll want to be careful who sees you wear it. People talk. Priests listen.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Swift muttered.

  Carlos glanced back toward the camp. “You and me—we’re not the ones they watch close. Until suddenly, we are.”

  The checkpoint commander stood behind a rough-hewn table inside the central shack, arms folded across his chest, face lined from years of sleepless nights. Maps were pinned with iron nails, curling at the edges. A cold breeze slipped through the open doorway.

  Voss stepped inside first, followed by Carlos and Swift.

  The commander gave them a nod, skipping pleasantries. “That was a clean defense. Minimal damage. No losses.”

  “Corrosion didn’t seem organized,” Voss replied. “Still—three waves in one night? That’s not random pressure.”

  “Agreed,” the commander said. “But let’s not pretend this outpost was built to last. If this region’s heating up again, I can’t afford to lose people defending trade paths.”

  Voss crossed his arms. “We’re not here to hold ground. Our goal is the capital. Your garrison’s not coming with us—fine. But we need intel. What’s ahead?”

  The commander motioned to the eastern edge of the map. “There’s been no communication past Bastion Ridge. Last patrol that left for the capital three days ago hasn’t come back.”

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  “That’s two convoys in a row,” Carlos muttered. “Not a coincidence.”

  “Probably not,” the commander replied. “There’s fog up that way—thick and low. Could be a new wave of corrosion forming, or just nature being cruel. Either way, you're heading into blind territory.”

  Voss grunted. “If we sit here, more attacks come. If we move, we might be driving into worse.”

  The commander gestured toward the wagons visible through the window. “You’ve got decent headcount and solid fighters. Move fast, stay tight, and you might cut through clean. If it were me? I’d wait for reinforcements from the capital.”

  “Which you said haven’t come.”

  “Exactly.”

  A long silence stretched across the room.

  Swift glanced between the two men—both seasoned, both calculating risk. Neither willing to say the other was wrong.

  Finally, Voss stepped away from the table. “We leave before midday.”

  “You’ll be on your own,” the commander said flatly.

  “We always are.”

  The smoke curled low over the trees, trailing faint embers into the morning light.

  Swift moved through the clearing with Carlos and a few others, helping clear the remains of the Corroded. Some were already nothing but charred skeletons. Others… not so far gone. One they dragged from the field looked disturbingly human. Its skin hadn’t fully grayed, its fingers still flexed every so often, like it was dreaming of something it used to be.

  As Swift approached, its leg twitched. A spasm—not violent, but enough to raise a question he didn’t want to ask.

  He paused, staring down at the thing. Not a person. Not anymore.

  Probably.

  In the quiet, he could hear Carlos a few steps away, tossing a body onto the burning pile. No one was looking. No one gave him orders.

  Except one.

  Across the field, maybe thirty steps out, a figure in pale robes stood motionless, just beyond the fire pit. The priest.

  He didn’t approach. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

  Swift reached back and unshouldered Excalibur.

  It was heavy in his grip—not from weight.

  He stepped closer to the Corroded body, raised the weapon, and drove the bayonet down in a sharp, clean motion. It slid in with little resistance.

  The twitching stopped.

  Swift withdrew Excalibur, wiped the edge on the Corroded’s torn clothes, and slung the musket back over his shoulder.

  When he looked back, the priest hadn’t moved.

  Carlos said nothing as they kept working.

  Neither did Swift.

  Swift was cinching down the final strap on his pack when Voss stepped up beside him, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. The convoy was about to head out and Swift assumed Voss was walking around to do final checks.

  “You did well,” Voss said, tone low, almost casual. “Didn’t fight like a typical two dot.”

  Swift didn’t look up. “Guess the training stuck.”

  Voss made a sound between a grunt and a chuckle. “Most don’t train. They just shoot and hope.”

  He paused, eyes drifting to Excalibur where it rested along Swift’s shoulder. “What’s its name?”

  “Excalibur,” Swift replied.

  Voss raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

  Swift shrugged. “It’s just a name, maybe it becomes legendary one day.”

  Voss nodded slowly. “Well… make sure you live up to it.”

  Another pause. The air between them settled—quiet, not unfriendly.

  “You know,” Voss said, “everyone’s obsessed with evolving their weapon. Making it stronger, faster, louder. But that’s not what keeps you alive.”

  Swift glanced at him. “No?”

  Voss shook his head. “It’s not the steel that matters. It’s the one carrying it.”

  He looked off toward the road, where the wagons were beginning to line up.

  “You evolve the gun, sure. But if the hand pulling the trigger stays the same… then what’s the point?”

  Swift adjusted the strap across his chest. “And if the hand gets worse?”

  “Then the gun’s just a mirror,” Voss said. “And the wrong reflection can kill more than just the enemy.”

  He turned, stepping away, then called back over his shoulder:

  “We roll out in ten.”