Chapter 8: Chapter 8 — The Next March

They were summoned at graylight.

The horn didn’t blare—too many still flinched at sudden noise this close to the outer dark—but a runner swept through the tents calling names, voice flat and practiced.

“Patrol squads assemble! Roegan’s line to muster point three!”

Around Bright, the stillness of sleep-starved soldiers broke apart. Some moved with dull obedience. Others with quiet dread. No one complained—complaints didn’t delay orders, only earned beatings.

Bright rose, strapping on his torn gear. His fused blade rested by his cot, wrapped in fabric and looking like any other repaired salvage. He handled it without drawing attention.

Duncan was already outside the tent, tightening the bindings on a rough iron spear. Bright moved to stand beside him without asking. Duncan didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge him—but he didn’t shift away either. In a place like Grimhollow, that counted as acceptance.

Link arrived next—light-footed, eyes sharp, his leather jerkin hanging half-fastened. Even without a visible core, he moved like someone who’d felt speed in his blood before. He glanced at Bright, then at Duncan.

“You two planning to keep breathing?” Link asked quietly.

“That’s the goal,” Duncan said.

“Then we do it together,” Link replied. “I’m not marching with fodder that runs at the first scream.”

“I didn’t ask to lead a squad,” Duncan grunted.

“You don’t have to,” Link said. “You just have to not die too fast.”

Bright said nothing. He simply fell in step beside them as they began walking toward muster point three. No one pushed him away. No one argued.

They passed rows of soldiers assembling in lines—leather, scrap metal, and bone pieced into armor. The weak huddled near the back. The ones with confidence or cores claimed the front. Very few glowed with any sign of enhancement, and those that did stood apart—treated with a wary respect, not admiration.

Cores were rare. Most soldiers died before ever touching one. The few who had them tended toward the same kind: speed in the legs, strength in the arms, thicker bones, denser lungs. Nothing flashy, just survival hard-coded into the flesh.

Bright watched them, memorizing faces. They weren’t safe—just further from the edge than he was.

At the edge of the assembly line, Adam stood alone.

He wore the same ragged coat as before, eyes slightly sunken, hair unkempt. But what drew attention was his hand—resting with unnatural calm on the handle of a pistol holstered beneath his coat.

Firearms weren’t standard issue. Most had been lost, broken, or stripped for scrap years ago. Ammo was even rarer.

No one asked him where he’d gotten it.

People in Grimhollow didn’t ask questions unless they wanted to get stabbed.

Adam noticed them watching but didn’t lift his head. He drifted closer, silent as dust, and fell into step with Bright’s side.

“You three teaming up?” he asked.

Link scoffed. “You listening, or is that pistol whispering to you?”

Adam ignored him. His gaze flicked once to Bright, then Duncan. “Patrol routes are heading east today.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“That side breeds Night Crawlers.”

Link’s jaw tightened. “How many types?”

“Three that are common,” Adam said softly. “Four if the ground’s wet. They hunt before full dark, but the fogline’s been shifting. They hit fast, and they don’t howl like the husks.”

“Cores?” Duncan asked.

Adam shrugged. “Very small chance if you take the head and spine intact. But most die trying.”

Bright listened, filing away every word. Other soldiers nearby pretended not to, though their eyes strained to catch the conversation.

Adam’s tone remained flat. “Most people on this run don’t have cores. The ones who do will let everyone else die first before risking theirs.”

Link spat on the dirt. “Good to know our odds are shit.”

“They were always shit,” Duncan muttered.

The muster horn thudded once—deep and dull.

Roegan emerged from the command tent, armor battered but fitted to him like a second skin. His presence carved silence across the squads. He’d survived enough patrols to earn obedience without shouting.

“Form up!” he barked.

Names were called. Assignments locked into place. No one protested.

As they waited to move, Bright leaned slightly toward Duncan.

“I have something for you.”

Duncan didn’t look at him. “If it’s a bad idea, don’t say it here.”

“It isn’t,” Bright said. “But I need something in return.”

Duncan’s eyes slid toward him now—sharp, measuring.

“What?”

Bright didn’t hesitate. “You have an extra serum. Trade it.”

Duncan stilled. “And what are you giving?”

In answer, Bright lifted the wrapped spear shaft he carried over his shoulder—one he’d pieced together last night from scavenged wood and metal. But inside the wrap lay the weapon he’d fused in secret—iron welded into itself without a forge, balanced heavier at the tip, harder to break.

“I’ll give you a better spear before we march out.”

Duncan eyed him, suspicious. “You can’t forge.”

Bright met his gaze without blinking. “I can fix things. And I don’t waste metal.”

A long pause stretched between them. Duncan’s jaw worked once.

“One vial,” Duncan said. “Not more.”

“Done.”

Bright didn’t smile. Duncan didn’t thank him. That was the nature of deals among the living.

Link glanced between them. “If you’re bartering before patrol, I better not be dragged into it.”

“You’re not,” Duncan said.

“You might benefit from it,” Bright added.

Adam, still listening without facing them, spoke quietly. “You’ll want that spear. Night Crawlers don’t die neat.”

Roegan began moving the squads toward the gate. The iron bars rattled with each step of the column.

Bright walked with Duncan, Link, and Adam in quiet lockstep.

They didn’t speak of survival odds. They didn’t swear loyalty. They didn’t pretend at friendship.

They simply moved forward, four men in a line where most would not return.

And Bright—not for glory, not for trust, but for survival—tightened his grip on the serum he would soon earn, and the weapon he would soon create.

One life insured for later.

One life protected now.

The rest would have to fend for themselves.

The gate began to rise. The dark waited.

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