The dropship cut through the smoke-smeared sky like a ghost, silent and fast. Inside, the cabin pulsed with dim blue light. No one spoke. The war didn't leave space for small talk.
Aera sat strapped to the side wall, breath shallow, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The building. The fire. The sudden appearance of those soldiers. The man called Kael. It was all moving too fast.
She hadn't even thanked them.
Across from her sat the squad — or what remained of it. Their armor was battered, smeared with blood and ash, their breathing steady. They were too calm. Not with the kind of calm that came from peace, but the kind that came from dying too many times and coming back anyway.
There were six of them, now. Each distinct — yet somehow carved from the same stone.
The woman who had pulled Aera to her feet leaned back in her seat, helmet resting on her knee. Pale silver hair, sharp eyes like tempered steel. She had a long scar along her jaw, the kind that came from losing once and never again. Aera would've guessed sniper, but something about her posture screamed field commander. Or survivor.
To her left was a beast of a man. His armor looked torn apart and welded back together too many times. His face was marked by brutal, old burns. Yet his hands — resting calmly over a massive rifle — didn't shake.
Then there was Kael.
He hadn't sat. He stood near the forward bulkhead, one hand against the cold steel, watching the projection of the ruined city shrink below. His armor — smooth and seamless, like polished obsidian — shimmered faintly with deep purple hues when the lights shifted. No insignia. No rank.
His back was straight. Too straight. Like he hadn't known rest in years.
"They're quiet," Aera muttered without thinking.
The silver-haired woman tilted her head. "Because they shouldn't be alive."
Aera blinked. "What?"
She nodded toward Kael. "Two weeks ago, we were surrounded. Fifty men. Heavy artillery. Trapped in a canyon with no sky access. Command wrote us off."
"What happened?"
"He walked in," the scarred man growled. "Alone."
No one laughed. Not even a smirk.
"Cut through them like they were nothing," another soldier added, shaking his head slowly. "We'd already said our prayers. And then he just... was there."
Aera's eyes drifted back to Kael.
He hadn't even turned to listen. As if he'd heard it all before — and didn't care.
The woman spoke again, softer this time. "He doesn't smile. Doesn't eat with us. Doesn't sleep when we sleep. We don't know where he came from. Only that he's not like the rest of us."
Aera bit her lip. "You trust him?"
"No," the woman said. "But I follow him. Because he's the only one who looks at the world like he still thinks it can be fixed."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the war outside.
Aera found herself staring at Kael's reflection in the viewport glass. His eyes — silver-gray and distant — weren't watching the burning city. They were searching it. Like he was trying to measure the ruin. Understand it. Defy it.
Who are you, Kael Riven?
He turned then, and Aera almost flinched — as if he'd heard her thoughts. His gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat too long. Then he walked past her, silent as death, toward the rear of the dropship.
As he passed, Aera caught something in the edge of his armor. Symbols etched into the plating — not tech runes or military marks. They looked... hand-carved. Ancient.
Aera didn't know what they meant. But they didn't feel like decoration.
They felt like reminders.
The dropship banked hard. The pilot's voice cracked through the comms. "Approaching forward base. 90 seconds."
Kael turned to the squad. "Get ready for intake."
No flare. No command bark. Just calm certainty. The kind that made even scarred veterans sit straighter.
As the others moved to prep, Aera stayed frozen in her seat, heart still racing. She felt like she'd been dropped into someone else's story. Like she'd stumbled across a name whispered between ruins — one not meant for civilian mouths.
And yet, here she was.
Looking at Kael Riven.
A man who had walked alone into the mouth of war... and walked out with others behind him.
She had a thousand questions. But only one stuck in her throat.
Why do you fight?
And somewhere inside her, a colder voice whispered:
You already know.