The fighting had already passed the point where it mattered.

  Smoke hung low over the street, thick enough to dull sound, thin enough that shapes still moved inside it. Orders cut through the haze in clipped bursts, precise and calm, followed by motion that obeyed them without hesitation. Black-armored soldiers advanced in lines that did not break, rifles raised, boots steady against the shattered pavement.

  Across from them, the other side was running out of places to run.

  Someone shouted. Someone else screamed. A vehicle burned where it had overturned, its engine popping weakly, the fire already eating itself out. The militia fired back when they could, more out of reflex than hope, shots cracking wide or striking armor and doing nothing at all.

  It was already decided.

  He felt the impact before he heard it. The man he was dragging jerked hard, fingers spasming once before losing their grip.

  “Stop,” the wounded soldier said. His voice was strangely calm. “I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

  Blood soaked through the back of his uniform, dark and spreading. The drag marks behind them were uneven now, one body doing all the work.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, though the words tasted false as soon as they left his mouth.

  The wounded man laughed, short and breathless. “You don’t have to…”

  Another shot struck nearby, spraying stone. The carrier tightened his grip and kept moving. Every step sent pain up his arms and into his chest, a deep, burning ache that made his vision narrow.

  They reached the doorway just as another round hit him in the side. The force spun him, slammed him against the wall. He felt warmth immediately, slick and heavy beneath his hand.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The wounded soldier looked at him, eyes clear in a way that hurt to see.

  “You won’t make it,” he said.

  The carrier opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. The math was obvious now. It had been obvious for a while. He had just refused to acknowledge it.

  Boots thundered nearby. Voices. Orders.

  He pushed the wounded man inside anyway, hauling him across the threshold and into the dark. When he tried to follow, his legs buckled. He caught himself on the doorframe, breath coming in ragged pulls.

  For a moment, everything went quiet.

  A distant silence. As if the world had stepped back to watch.

  He thought of nothing grand. Just the weight of the man he had dragged, the warmth of blood on his hands, the certainty that this was as far as he went.

  A tear slipped free without him realizing it had formed.

  Then the sound came rushing back.

  He slumped against the wall as shots tore into the doorway. The last thing he felt was relief that the wounded man was out of sight.

  The street was quiet when it ended.

  Ash drifted down like dirty snow, settling over broken glass and spent casings. Bodies lay where they had fallen, some armored, most not. Black-uniformed soldiers moved through the aftermath in pairs, scanning, marking, confirming.

  One paused near the doorway. His visor turned slightly, as if listening for something. After a second, he shook his head and moved on.

  Orders were followed. The area was secured.

  -

  Weeks later, the city belonged to someone else.

  Checkpoints rose at every major intersection. Patrols walked predictable routes. Power hummed through cables strung hastily along the streets, feeding lights that stayed on all night. People learned where they could go, where they couldn’t, and how to keep their heads down.

  Rumors spread anyway.

  People whispered about what the battle had been for. What the soldiers were looking for. Why entire blocks were being searched, cataloged, swept again and again.

  Most assumed it had something to do with the fighting. With the blood.

  Near the edge of the occupied district, behind a collapsed wall no one bothered to clear, a woman paused on her way home from work. Something caught her eye between the stones.

  She crouched, brushing away ash and dirt.

  “What’s that?” she murmured.

  Someone behind her leaned closer.

  “Look there…”

  Nestled in the soil was a flower.

  It was red, deep and dark, shaped wrong, too round to be a bloom, too soft to be a fruit. Its surface looked warm, almost alive, petals folded tight as if holding something inside.