The weapons were thrown at their feet like scraps to a pack of starving dogs.
Snow knelt in the dirt, her hands still bound, as one of the Legion soldiers tossed her longshooter down in front of her. It clattered against the ground, the metal scratched and worn but still intact. Its wooden casing is decorated with faded symbols—Havenium blessings, meant to ward off misfortune. Snow wasn't sure if they had ever truly worked, but the weapon itself was what mattered. Her knife followed, its blade catching the dim light as it landed beside her.
She reached forward, feeling the familiar weight of the longshooter in her hands. It had been too long. The moment her fingers wrapped around it, it felt like an extension of herself once more.
Rook flexed his fingers as he retrieved his shockfist—a crude but effective weapon, its electrified blade still humming with barely-contained energy. It had seen better days, the metal plating dented from years of abuse, but it would do.
Bricks scooped up his makeshift steel club, his massive hands tightening around the handle. It was a brutal, inelegant thing, a hunk of metal welded onto a rebar shaft. Against flesh and bone, it had been devastating. Against machines? That was yet to be seen.
The other slaves hesitated before taking their weapons, as if uncertain whether this was a trick. But the Legion soldiers stood around them, repeaters at the ready. There was no running. No refusing. They were being armed not as an act of mercy, but as another layer of control.
The Consul sat atop his mobile tower, watching from above with an air of detached amusement. His lips curled into a thin, knowing smile.
"You will break the path," he said, his voice carrying over the gathered fighters. "Or you will die, and someone else will take your place."
That was all. No speech, no grand proclamation—just a simple statement of fact.
The group started moving, silent and divided, until Rook addressed them, his voice not shaken like others, except a few like Snow.
"We should stick together. Give us a better chance of facing those things."
A cynical-looking man in the group scoffed. He was tall and lean, his face lined with deep creases, his eyes sharp with suspicion. His hands tightened around the grip of his weapon—a shockcaster, a long staff crackling with stored electricity. "And why should we listen to you?" he asked, turning his gaze to Rook. "You're just another pawn in their game, same as us."
Snow looked at him coldly. "Because he knows how to fight these things better than all of us combined," she said. "You can follow him, or you can go your own way and get torn apart like the last batch. Makes no difference to me."
Silence. The man looked away, clenching his jaw.
Bricks grunted and slung his club over his shoulder. "Doesn't matter what we were before," he muttered. "Only what we do now."
That was the end of the argument.
They moved quickly toward the trench, keeping low, their weapons held tight. The ground was torn apart by time and war, filled with craters and rusted debris. Snow peered over the edge, scanning the battlefield.
The machines were still there.
They stood like statues, some half-buried in the dirt, others slumped in unnatural positions, as if they had simply run out of power mid-stride. But they weren't dead. The last slaughter had woken them, and now they watched, waiting for movement.
One of the younger slaves—a wiry girl barely past her teens—swallowed hard. "There's no way we're getting past that."
Rook exhaled through his nose. "We're not going to get past them," he said. "Not all at once."
He gestured toward the battlefield. "Divide and conquer. We draw their attention, separate them, then take them down one at a time. Those of us with shock weapons focus on their weak points. The rest, just keep moving and don't get caught."
Snow frowned. "Risky."
"It's the only way."
Bricks nodded. "Better than dying like cattle."
The first target stood alone—a skeletal automaton, its frame stripped of plating, revealing the cables and servos beneath. It carried a shockrod in one hand, the electrical arcs flickering dimly.
It wasn't even worth a proper ambush.
The cynical man with the shockcaster approached first, moving silently through the rubble. When he got close enough, he jabbed the crackling end of the staff into the automaton's back. A surge of electricity jolted through its frame, and it collapsed instantly, its systems fried.
The moment it fell, the others moved, stripping its weapon and pressing on.
But the machines were not blind.
From the wreckage, they began to stir.
A pair of automatons—rusted but still functional—turned toward them, their optics flaring to life. Their bodies were a mismatched collection of scrap and salvaged parts, their limbs ending in crude claws and rusted blades. They moved with jerky, unnatural motions, but they were fast.
Snow barely had time to register their movement before she was on her feet, the stolen shockrod sparking in her grip. She met the first automaton head-on, swinging the weapon in a sharp arc. The electrified baton slammed into its skull, sending a pulse of energy through its frame. Its body seized, sparks bursting from its joints before it collapsed in a twitching heap.
Rook was a blur of movement, his shockfist crackling as he carved through the second automaton. The blade sank deep into its torso, sending a violent jolt through its systems. The machine let out a distorted screech before falling limp.
Bricks moved in next, his club slamming into the chest of a third automaton. It didn't kill it, but it staggered, disoriented just long enough for the cynical man to jab his shockcaster into its exposed wiring, frying it instantly.
They were holding their ground—for now.
Then the earth trembled.
Something massive was moving.
From the wreckage, a hulking form emerged—a crab-like walker, its thick legs crunching through rusted metal and shattered bones. Its two massive pincers snapped open and shut, each one large enough to shear a man in half.
It moved with eerie precision, scanning the battlefield with cold, unfeeling optics.
Rook's voice was sharp. "Spread out. Lure it away from the others."
Snow gritted her teeth, gripping her longshooter tightly. The Havenium markings along the barrel had faded, but the weapon was still hers. Still loaded.
She exhaled, steadying her aim.
And then she ran.
————————————————————————————————————————————
The Shellsnapper moved with an eerie grace for something so massive. Its thick, rusted legs carved deep trenches into the earth as it advanced, the curved pincers at its front snapping open and shut with a mechanical rhythm. The grinding sound of its gears was deafening, a monstrous churning like bones being ground to dust.
Rook had dubbed it the Shellsnapper not long ago, after seeing what those pincers could do to human bodies. He had no desire to see a demonstration now.
Snow took aim with her longshooter, exhaling through her teeth as she squeezed the trigger. The blessed weapon cracked like thunder, the shot slamming into the Shellsnapper's carapace. The force of the impact left a dent in the thick plating, but it wasn't enough to stop it.
It was, however, enough to make it turn toward her.
The machine's optics glowed as it locked onto her, and then it surged forward. Its pincers lashed out, aiming to snap her in half, but she rolled aside just as they clamped shut where she had been standing. A split-second later, Rook was on it, vaulting onto its back and driving his shockfist deep into its head.
Electricity crackled through the machine's frame. The Shellsnapper twitched, convulsed, then went still. Its heavy frame sagged as its legs gave out, and it collapsed in a heap, a dying whine escaping from its speaker before it fell silent forever.
Rook wrenched his weapon free and turned to Snow, extending a hand. She took it, letting him pull her up.
"More incoming," he warned, jerking his head toward the battlefield.
He was right. The machines were converging on their position. Slaves screamed and scattered as the rusted automatons surged forward, some already being cut down. There was no time to rest.
Snow broke away toward Bricks, who was running for his life. Behind him, a massive construct rolled forward on thick, tank-like treads, its upper half a haphazard assembly of metal plating and rusted servos. It moved with unstoppable force, crushing debris beneath its weight. Rook had called these ones Dozers, and Snow could see why.
Bricks wasn't fast enough to outrun it.
Snow didn't hesitate. She reached for her belt, fingers closing around a banger—a crude, improvised grenade. She yanked the pin free with her teeth and hurled it forward, aiming just beneath the Dozer's treads.
The banger detonated.
The explosion ripped through the machine's lower half, sending shards of metal flying. The force knocked the Dozer sideways, its once-relentless charge faltering. Smoke billowed from the shattered remains of its chassis as it ground to a halt, dead in its tracks.
Snow rushed over to Bricks, who was sprawled on the ground, coughing from the dust.
"You good?" she asked.
Bricks grunted, pushing himself up. "Still breathing."
That was all that mattered.
A scream rang out.
Snow turned just in time to see the cynical man—the one with the shockcaster—trying to block an attack from a new machine.
The thing moved like a mantis, its thin frame eerily organic despite the metal plating covering its body. Its elongated arms ended in serrated blades, which it swung with lethal precision.
The man's shockcaster sparked as he tried to deflect the strike, but it was no use. The machine's blade cut straight through the staff, through his arms, through him. His body hit the ground in two halves, blood soaking the dirt.
The mantis-machine—the Harvester—turned its head toward another target.
The young slave girl.
She had fallen in her panicked attempt to flee, her ankle caught on a piece of twisted metal. She clawed at the dirt, trying to scramble away, but the Harvester was already lunging toward her, its blade raised for the kill.
Then Rook was there.
He moved fast—faster than Snow had ever seen him move before. His shockfist cut through the air, slicing off one of the Harvester's arms before it could strike. Sparks exploded from the severed joint, the machine stumbling as it recalibrated.
Rook didn't give it the chance. He lunged forward and drove his shockfist into its chest, sending a surge of electricity straight into its core. The Harvester spasmed violently, then collapsed in a heap.
The young slave girl looked up at Rook, wide-eyed.
"Th-Thank you," she stammered. Her face flushed, either from fear or gratitude or something else entirely.
Rook gave a curt nod and turned away, scanning the battlefield.
It was bad.
The remaining slaves had been pushed into a tight circle, surrounded by the rusted automatons. Snow, Bricks, and Rook regrouped near the center, the girl clinging close to Rook's side.
There were too many.
The machines closed in, their weapons raised, their cold optics scanning for the next kill.
On the mobile tower, Rain watched in horror.
"No," she whispered.
Her heart pounded as she saw Snow, Rook, and Bricks surrounded, saw the terrified faces of the last surviving slaves. If nothing changed, they were all going to die.
She turned to the Consul, her fists clenched. "Send the Legion in!" she pleaded. "They'll all be slaughtered!"
The Consul didn't even glance at her. "Yes, they will."
Rain felt ice in her veins. "You—You planned this."
"Of course I did." The Consul smirked. "Every machine they destroy is one less obstacle for me. If they all die in the process, all the better."
Rain tried to yank herself free from the chain that bound her to the throne, but the Consul's guard was faster. A backhanded slap sent her reeling, her vision blurring from the impact.
The Consul chuckled. "Watch, little Knower. Watch as your arrogance gets them killed."
Rain clenched her teeth, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. She couldn't let it end like this.
Then the air exploded.
A thundering boom rang out across the battlefield as cannon fire struck the encroaching machines. Metal and circuitry were torn apart in an instant, the shockwave sending dirt and debris flying.
Snow barely had time to process what had happened before another explosion erupted, blasting another wave of automatons into scrap.
Everyone—machines, slaves, even the Consul—froze.
Then, from the horizon, came a sound.
The sound of hoofbeats.
Snow turned, and there they were.
A cavalry force, longshooters raised, their banners rippling in the wind. Their armor gleamed beneath the dim sunlight, their formation disciplined, their presence undeniable.
At their head, the banner of the Eastern Alliance flew.