The fire had burned low, the embers pulsing faintly in their rock ring, no longer providing warmth, just a heartbeat of light. Swift crouched beside his pack, staring at it as if it might bite him.
He reached in and pulled out his vest and gloves, strapping them on with practiced hands. The vest sat flush over his flight suit, the webbing silent and hidden. He reached in again and withdrew a dark green cloak, worn and slightly patchy, and pulled it over his shoulders. His helmet stayed tucked deep in the pack. A conversation he didn’t want to start—not yet.
He stood and rolled his shoulders. The cold air bit at his neck, but the gear helped. One last check of Excalibur—long, heavy, unwieldy as always—then he stepped out into the quiet.
Carlos was already there at the edge of the foxhole, crouched low beside a split log angled as partial cover. White Feather rested against his shoulder, the muzzle aimed out toward the tree line. Between his fingers, he twirled a single round, flipping it rhythmically, more like a meditation than a fidget.
Swift dropped into place beside him without a word.
The forest beyond the clearing was still—unnaturally still. No frogs, no crickets, not even the distant hoot of an owl. Just leaves moving like whispers in the breeze.
Carlos glanced sideways. “You ever do night watch like this before?”
Swift nodded once. “A few times.”
Carlos gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and twirled the bullet again. “Out here, you start to realize how loud quiet can be.”
Swift scanned the treeline. “You ever run into anything on night watch?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Yeah.” Carlos let the bullet pause between his fingers. “First time out here, I spent a full moon cycle tracking a sound I thought was a corrosion scout. Turns out it was a wild dog with three legs and no tail.”
Swift gave a small laugh. “Did it sound like it was on two feet?”
“No. Sounded like it was eating gravel.”
They both chuckled quietly and fell into silence again.
After a while, Carlos motioned toward Excalibur. “Your weapon. What’d you say it was called?”
“Excalibur.”
“You treat it like a relic.”
Swift looked at him. “Maybe it will be.”
Carlos glanced down at his M21, running a finger along the scope's edge. “You want it to become legendary huh?”
“I want it to evolve. Into something I can trust. Something strong enough for me to survive out there.” He gestured toward the treeline. “In whatever’s waiting.”
Carlos nodded slowly. “You’re already treating it like it’s something more. Our weapons become what we put into ‘em.”
A long breath passed between them.
click.
A soft, precise noise not belonging to trees or animals. It was sharp, close to the ground, and intentional.
Both men froze. The bullet disappeared back into Carlos’s belt pouch. His hand moved smoothly to his rifle stock. Swift’s fingers tightened around Excalibur’s shaft, slowly raising it just above his shoulder.
They waited.
Nothing.
A faint breeze stirred some dead leaves, but the clicking was gone.
A moment passed. Then another.
Carlos tilted his head, listening harder.
Swift barely breathed.
shuffle.
A whisper of motion, like something dragging itself just behind the first line of trees.
Swift pivoted slightly, angling his stance. Carlos raised his weapon fully. Both aimed into the dark, searching for movement, for contrast, for a single glint of eyes.
But there was nothing. Just shadow.
Silence.
They stayed stationary for almost a minute.
Finally, Carlos slowly let his weapon lower to a semi-ready position. Swift followed his lead.
“Whatever it was…” Carlos murmured, “didn’t want to be seen.”
Swift didn’t answer. He was still watching the trees. Still thinking about how the shuffle didn’t sound like an animal. Too slow. Too heavy. Too… deliberate.
Carlos exhaled slowly and stretched one shoulder, rolling it with a quiet pop.
Swift glanced at him. “You think it’s gone?”
“I think it’s waiting.”
