This squad - she refused to think of it as her squad - this squad was as green as they came. Two of the privates had never been on a call before, and the longneck corporal called Medus had earned his stripes the wrong way: luck.

She could tell by the way he talked.

Agraneia had seen it before. Some higher ranking soldier gets killed on patrol, and he gets promoted by default. He knows he didn’t earn it. He knows, from here on, people are going to expect more of him. But this corporal doesn’t know what he’s doing. So he talks. As if he can bluff his way into real field experience with constant nervous chatter.

“And they don’t know what they’re missing. If I were back in the tents,” Medus was saying, “I’d take the fangs, and I’d lance anything that moves. Doesn’t matter. I don't care if it’s just the wind in the trees, I’d shoot it. If I were in command, I’d use a whole fleet of fangs and this war would be over-”

“Fangs don’t fly here,” someone said. One of the whiskerfolk, a private. Agra thought her name was Oloch or Elloch or something. Not that it mattered. “Fangs can’t fly here.”

Their squad was on point, ranging ahead of Witch Patrol. Behind them, a long column of ragged uniforms peeked through the black-barked trees. Mist did what it could to shroud their movements, but they couldn’t hide themselves like the locals could. They talked, they made the red leaves rustle, they left deep trails in the wet dirt.

Even the bugs knew they were coming. They noisome buzzing went mute as Witch Patrol stomped through the forests. Somewhere along the way, the scribe had fallen behind. Agraneia didn’t bother to wait. He would either catch up, or he wouldn’t.

“What do you mean they can’t fly here?” Medus’s voice was louder than the rest of the squad combined.

“You ever seen a fang on Thrass?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go.”

“What do you know about fangs? You a pilot? A mechanic?”

“There’s something in the air, idiot. Fangs get too close to the temples, they just stop flying.”

“Then blow up the temples. Easy. Done.”

“You can’t blow up a hole in the ground,” Private Taeso said, “Did your rotgill spread to your brain, or were you just born stupid?”

“Maybe not,” Medus said, turning to face Private Taeso. His bayonet tip swung dangerously close to Taeso’s face. “Maybe we could try stopping them up with your dumb ass.”

“Get that out of my face,” Taeso slapped the gun.

BANG!

Medus must’ve had his finger on the trigger, or something like that, because the moment Taeso knocked it away, the gun fired.

Somewhere, a branch cracked, and a clutch of birds exploded out of the trees, flapping into the sunset. The rest of the squad started shouting, and the greenfins in the squad behind theirs started shouting, passing the alert down the line.

“All clear,” Agraneia grunted, “All clear!”

This, Agraneia thought. This was exactly why she didn’t want to lead a squad.

She walked up to Medus - still stunned by his accidental shot - and with a deft flick of her hand, she dropped the lever, so the bullets slid out of the firing chamber and fell in a pile around his feet.

“Hey!” Medus shouted.

“Never,” she growled, “Do that again.”

Agraneia pushed the gun back towards him, and kept walking. She didn’t stop to see if he would agree, or promise, or argue. It didn’t matter. This one wasn’t going to make it. Might as well try to forget him now.

“It wasn’t my fault!” he called after her.

“Idiot,” one of the other privates said, shoving the corporal as he passed, “Now the blackmouths know we’re coming.”

But even that wasn’t true.

The locals had been watching them the whole time.

***

The most dangerous part of the day was the true evening, right before both suns set below the hills.

Most greenfins were used to Cyre, where even at the training camp, evening was the best time to relax. But on Thrass, evening was when the underswamp came to life. High above, the tallest blackwoods were booming with waves of insect noise. Lower down, the calls of birds and amphibians passing back and forth, keening and warbling and screeching and mocking each other.

A frenzied hour of life, right before the rains. To Agra, it always felt like the swamp was laughing. Reveling in the onset of nightfall.

The chill of the evening air seemed to pull the mists up and out of the wetlands and into the underbrush. Wrapping and writhing and snaking along the muddy trail. She could just see the shadows of other squads setting up camp. No fires. At least Captain Dinnae kept with that wisdom.

Jewel squad was mostly quiet, exhausted from a long day of trekking. One of the privates, a quiet dullscale who only talked to Taeso, was gathering wet leaves and brushing them over his rain tarp to keep it hidden from above. She looked like she could use some help. Agraneia didn’t offer.

Even Medus was mostly quiet for once. He was digging the last of his hole with a stunted shovel. When Agraneia walked past, he craned his neck up to look at her.

“Lieutenant, sorry about earlier,” he put a hand out. Begging for forgiveness. “It was an accident. Won’t happen again, I swear.”

She looked at him. Gave no answer. And kept walking.

“Palescale bitch,” she heard Medus spit, and worse things besides.

Let him talk.

Who cares what a dead cyran has to say?

She returned to her post a few yards ahead of the squad. Agraneia had carefully dug out the ground beneath the root of a huge grove tree. She masked the hole with two fallen branches and a few decayed leaves. From in here, she could look down on the forest, and count the numerous trails and greenpaths hidden in the underbrush.

These trails, however, weren’t the only way to move through the swamp.

High above, she could hear the click of clawed feet, cautiously creeping down the bark of a nearby tree. If you didn’t know what you were listening for, you might think it was the dripping of rainwater.

Then, she saw it.

Four black eyes, gleaming dully in the red evening light. It’s carapace was as gnarled as the trees from which it hunted. It scented the air over their position, saliva dripping from its long, black mandibles. Hundreds of tiny, white hairs quivered on jaws large enough to sever a cyran’s neck in a single bite.

She pulled up her rifle. Sighting it. Waiting for the beast to creep closer, down the bark of the tree as it stalked one of the squad members.

She dared not move.

Waiting. Waiting.

“Lieutenant?” a voice called out into the dark. Footsteps squelched over wet leaves and mud, heedless of the noise. A central cyran, his scales glittering in the last of the sunlight. His helmet straps were too tight.

The scribe.

The insect-thing jerked its head to watch the scribe crawling over the roots, leaving heavy footprints as he went. Seeing this easy prey, the insect tensed its legs. Recalculated its approach. Something didn’t add up, so it darted back up the tree, slipping away into the shadows.

Agraneia sighed. Maybe it would come back. Maybe not. Nothing she could do about it now.

The scribe cupped his hands and shouted, “Lieutenant!”

He was two feet away from her foxhole. Worse, he was essentially announcing her position to the whole forest.

Agraneia launched herself up out of the shadows, and wrapped a hand around his mouth. With her other hand she cupped his chin so he couldn’t scream.

“Shut. Up.” She whispered flatly into his ear. When he stopped making noise, she released her grip.

“Lieutenant,” he whispered, softer but still too loud, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. Since we’re making camp, this would be a good time-”

“No.”

“Look, I’ve been trying to get quotes from the others, but-”

“Stop trying.”

“Sir, they said you would be the one to ask. Corporal Medus said you’ve been on Thrass et Yunum longer than the Captain. Is that true?”

Agraneia did not answer. Instead, she crouched down and slipped back into her freshly-dug hole.

The scribe seemed to take that as an invitation, and crawled in after her.

Agraneia fished through her pack, and pulled out a stick of ration meat. The chewy meat yielded a salted tang of dried blood and muscle. She tore another bite off the stick. Staring at him as she chomped each bite.

He didn’t get the hint.

“Sir, millions of cyrans read our paper every month. The imperial people need to understand the war effort out here. It’s my job to help them see the sacrifices you people are making out here. I mean, you’re doing good work out here. You’re bringing civilization to the savages. Look, if you’ll just talk to me for a few minutes-”

“You have nothing I want.”

“I can send a message from you back to Cyre. Don’t you have friends there? Any family back home?”

“This is home.”

“You… Uh… Thrass et Yunum is your home?”

Agraneia took another hunk of flesh in her mouth, biting hard into the gristle.

“Look, Lieutenant,” He tried a new tack. “What you’re doing out here, what all of you are doing, it’s the most honorable thing a cyran can do. But nobody back home knows your story. They don’t think about it..”

He shifted his stance, trying to make himself comfortable without getting muddy. He seemed not to notice, or not to care, that Agraneia had not blinked since he’d started talking to her. The scribe pulled out a pencil and unwrapped his leather-bound journal, poised to write.

There was no muscle on him at all. Nothing had ever sharpened his senses, nothing had ever hardened him to the truth of this world. What’s greener than green? She could snap him like a dried twig.

“I mean, think about it,” he continued. “Yes, you might have to get firm with a few locals. But in the end, their children will grow under the light of the empire. And their grandchildren, too. And so on. How many millions - even billions - of lives are you changing here? You’re making this whole planet just like ours.”

“How’s that?” Agraneia asked.

“Noble,” he said, as if it was obvious. “Civilized.”

Agraneia bit off another hunk of flesh. A piece got stuck between her teeth. She stuck her fingers in her mouth and fished out the gristle, and flicked it on the floor of her hiding hole.

“You think we’re here to help the locals?”

“Of course. What else?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. It almost made her laugh. Not even the greenfins were this stupid. But then, the greenfins were conscripts. Forced out of their homes, taken from whatever provinces still had young blood, and then sent off to fight a war that would give them nothing. Only take.

“Scribe, listen to me. Put down the pencil and listen. Tomorrow, we’re going over the hill. I’m taking point. If you stay behind me, I promise you will live, as long as you do not get in my way. Got it?”

He nodded, eagerly. Excited to have finally broken through to her.

Let him think that.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “You will see what the Empire is really doing here.”