Chapter 847
Brenna looked up at Caroline’s determined face, at the second pack strapped to her chest. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks, but these were not tears of exhaustion. They were tears of profound, overwhelming gratitude.
She gripped Caroline’s outstretched hand and, with a final, desperate surge of strength, hauled herself to her feet.
Caroline slung Brenna’s arm over her own shoulders, taking on a significant portion of her weight. Half-carrying, half-dragging her friend, she rejoined the relentless, punishing march.
Her heart was a black, empty hole in her chest. Her world had been leveled. But in the freezing mountain air, under the weight of two burdens, she made a silent, resolute vow.
The world had narrowed to the next agonizing step.
The burn in her lungs was a constant fire. The muscles in her thighs screamed with every upward push. The weight on her shoulders was a dead, crushing thing, but the second rucksack strapped to her chest was worse. It felt like a block of iron, compressing her ribs, making each breath a shallow, desperate gasp
She felt Brenna stumble beside her, her weight slumping heavily against Caroline’s side.
“I’m sorry, Caroline,” Brenna sobbed, her voice a ragged whisper against Caroline’s ear. “Just leave me. Please. I can crawl the rest of the way. Don’t fail because of me.”
Caroline didn’t have the energy for reassurance. The black hole in her chest where her heart used to be had consumed all warmth, all softness. All that was left was a cold, mechanical resolve.
“Shut up,” she said, the words scraped raw from her throat. “Save your breath for walking.”
Then, a light appeared.
Far up the winding ridgeline trail, a harsh, white glare cut through the oppressive darkness. The finish line. It looked impossibly distant, like a cruel star you could see but never reach.
A ragged, desperate cheer erupted from the exhausted trainees scattered along the path. Hope, even a sliver of it, was a powerful drug. Men and women who had been shuffling like zombies found a new spark, their pace quickening.
Two figures, moving with infuriating ease, passed Caroline and Brenna at different angles. Melanie Thorne pushed ahead on pure spite, her right hand still splinted and pinned in its sling against her chest. Beatrix Hendon moved several paces off to the side, smooth and self-contained, belonging to no one but herself.
Melanie slowed her pace, turning her head to look at Caroline’s struggling form. A smirk of pure, unadulterated contempt twisted her lips.
“How touching, Ma’am,” she sneered, spitting the required honorific like a mouthful of poison, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “It’s a shame that on a real battlefield, saints like you get whole squads killed.”
Brenna made a furious, choked sound, trying to push herself away from Caroline to launch a verbal counterattack. Caroline’s arm, locked around Brenna’s waist, tightened like a vise, holding her in place.
She didn’t even glance at Melanie. Her eyes remained fixed on that distant, merciless light. She treated Melanie’s presence as she would a rock on the path, an obstacle to be navigated, not engaged with.