Fire and Frost

22

He was quiet for a second too long.

"Dhruv."

He looked at her. Finally. "It's not official. But I know how he moves. The weight distribution, the angle of approach... It's him."

She stared at him, hard. "Say it."

"It's Shivaay," he said softly. "He's going down the pass. Alone."

Her throat closed. It was what she feared. It was what she prayed wasn't true. And yet... it was exactly what she knew he would do.

Because of course he wouldn't wait.

Of course he wouldn't send one of the boys in his place.

"You're sure?" she whispered.

"Not enough to take it to Command. But enough to know."

Her breath clouded in the cold. She said nothing. Just stared at the line of fencing at the far end of the base, where the ridge turned to white and disappeared into distance.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

"Because someone should know who he is," Dhruv said. "In case this is the last time we see him."

She blinked hard. "They still won't send anyone, will they."

"No. Not without confirmation. Not unless he makes it to a relay point and sends a burst signal. And that's a long way down."

"Too long."

He didn't answer.

Anika's fingers flexed in her lap. She could feel her pulse everywhere now—in her throat, behind her eyes, in her wrists.

"Thank you," she said.

"I shouldn't have told you."

"I know."

He stood, brushed the snow off his knees. "If Command finds out I leaked—"

"They won't. I won't let them."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Promise me you won't do something stupid."

Her eyes didn't move. She didn't blink. She didn't answer.

Dhruv exhaled softly, like he already knew what her silence meant.

Then he left.

The wind had picked up again. Not a blizzard, just that low, scraping kind of wind that brushed against canvas and bone alike. Anika sat still, her back straight, the cold biting through the back of her jacket.

The tin mug beside her was still there, rim rimed with frost.

She picked it up and wrapped both hands around it—not for warmth, but for something to hold. Something to anchor her in the moment before it slipped away.

Somewhere out there, Shivaay was walking alone.

Down a ravaged slope, through unstable snowpacks and jagged wind-scoured rocks. No flare. No backup. No sky support.

Maybe the cold would get him. Maybe he'd be too slow.

Maybe a drone—one of theirs—would catch his movement and flag him as hostile.

Maybe the ridge would give way beneath him. Or a mine buried under the snow would detonate. Or some jagged wire from a forgotten post would tear his leg open.

Maybe he'd be caught. Captured. Interrogated.

Killed.

Or maybe—maybe it wouldn't be something that dramatic.