It was mid-morning when a trio of drifter scouts arrived to speak with Sergeant Cross. The squad's march was halted, but everyone kept a watchful eye on the tree line. Quill stood next to Vardok, a few steps removed from the conversation.

"Is it normal for drifters to appear without a smoke signal?" Quill asked.

The big man shrugged and spat in the snow. "Only if they got bad news."

"Swell," Quill muttered.

"You can't relax like you did yesterday."

The sudden remark made Quill's stomach drop. But when he looked at Vardok’s face, there was no judgment, no anger—just a man offering honest advice.

"We ain't known you long, but we all fight together out here. Don't die. Don't get us killed, huh?"

"Right."

Vardok gave a small nod before turning to face the Sergeant who had just finished speaking with the drifters. The three men were already making their way back into the dark tree line. Cross's face hadn't changed, but Vardok sensed something Quill didn't.

"Ah, fuck." Vardok sucked his teeth. "Gotta bad feelin' 'bout this."

Everyone looked to Cross as he returned. Quill didn't know what to expect, but everyone else seemed to understand that bad news was coming.

"Listen up, men." Cross motioned for them to follow as their march continued, but in a different direction. "Squad behind us has gone missing. We'll clean it up and return to our position in the formation before noon. We march quick. On me."

Quill struggled to keep pace with the rest of the squad. He was still sore and exhausted from the day before, while the rest of the squad showed no signs of wearing down. His ear had dulled to a constant throb, less the sharp agony of the previous night, but still enough to make him wince with each step. Moving through the snow was still difficult for him. Until a few weeks ago, he’d never seen more than a light dusting while living in Rokhov. Fortunately, he had no time to dwell on what dangers lay ahead or what might be lurking in the shadows around them. It took all his focus just to keep from falling flat on his face in the snow.

Wil noticed his struggle and chose to march beside him, offering a hand whenever Quill stumbled or tripped. Since their first encounter on the night Quill joined The Order, Wil had become the squadmate he wrote about most in his manuscript. Wil most closely resembled the "hero" of an epic adventure tale. A knight whose moral compass led him to forsake nobility and fight for the good of the world. Quill liked that. He felt drawn to men with story-worthy potential, despite their awkward first encounter.

Less than an hour later they had reached a small clearing where a thin pillar of green smoke still drifted into the air. Cross raised a closed fist, and everyone halted. It was silent save for Quill's labored breathing.

Cross motioned for the squad to get low. Every man responded with practiced stealth, each taking position behind a tree and sinking into a crouch. Quill peered into the clearing and nearly let out a scream.

A hundred feet away, five giant humanoid figures sat hunched over the corpses of a dozen soldiers. Their skin was the same sickly gray as the Needlemaws', but had pulsing black veins running all along their large bodies. Though crouched, Quill could tell they would stand taller than any horse. Their long fingers curled into sharp claws, each dripping with dark red blood. But it was their faces that nearly made Quill lose his breakfast. Where eyes should have been, only black, scarred sockets remained, like they’d clawed them out long ago. No nose, no ears, just smooth gray skin where they should have been. Their mouths were their defining feature. They had no lips, only wide mouths stretched across their abnormally large faces.. Sharp teeth locked into a single expression: a smile. 

These were Grinners. Quill had read about them in the Codex. They killed with inhuman strength and speed. For reasons unknown, they always sat hunched over their victims—smiling down at them. Everyone looked to Cross for command.

"Five Grinners," Deckard whispered. "Red, sir?"

Cross opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted. One of the corpses in the clearing let out a loud groan followed by a ragged cough. The Grinners didn’t react, but someone out there was still alive.

Every man glanced at each other, an unspoken question lingering in the air: Could they save him?

Wil spoke first in a hushed whisper. "Sergeant, there's still a survivor out there. We have to act now."

“Fuck no. Man’s good as dead already. We call for backup,” Vardok growled.

"If we wait for reinforcements, he'll be dead by the time they arrive," Wil countered

Deckard already had his pack in front of him, smoke signals at the ready. "Your call, Sergeant."

Cross hadn't looked at any of them, keeping his eyes on the enemies in the clearing. 

Quill knew if they called for reinforcements, their chances of survival increased greatly. For all they knew, the survivor was already beyond saving. But Stevan's face appeared in Quill's mind again. He'd been ripped away in an instant... saving Quill's life. If Stevan were here, Quill knew what he'd say. 

"Wil's right, Sergeant," Quill said, keeping his voice low. "We must try to help him."

Cross still said nothing. Every moment that passed felt as if they'd missed their chance. 

"Sergeant," Wil pleaded. "Let us save him."

Finally, Cross turned to the squad.

"All right. Circle around the clearing. Stay low. Stay silent. Deckard—get a green ready."

He gave a hard look to Trevin and Slim. “When you see smoke, you go. Archers split up and take whichever target’s closest to your side.”

Then he looked to the rest of them. "Rest of you, fight together. Strike swift and hard. Don't stop when you think their dead. These bastards don't go down easy."

Finally he met Quill's gaze. "Rook. With me."

Wil let out a sigh of relief and gave a grateful nod to Cross before moving through the tree line at a crouch. The rest followed without hesitation, though Vardok shook his head as he went. Soon, Cross and Deckard were the only two within Quill's sight. 

"Stay close," Cross said. "Watch for an opening. Don't charge in blind."

Cross waited the exact amount of time needed. Quill squinted at the tree line, but couldn't see if the rest of the squad was in position. Cross knew. He gave a quick hand signal to Deckard, who twisted the signal tube.

Two arrows shot from the trees. One slammed into a Grinner’s head, the other buried in another’s chest. All five of the creatures stood, even the ones already leaking dark blood. They opened their mouths, not to screech, as Quill expected, but to gasp. Loud and long. Then they lurched in different directions toward the tree line. When they moved, their chest jolted forward first. Hands hung limp at their sides, heads lolled back, legs zigzagging in long, bounding strides.

Cross drew his blades and calmly moved forward. Quill followed a step behind, iron in hand. Yoran and Wil moving to engage on his left. Vardok and Deckard were on his right, shields up, mace and hammer held high. The Grinner with an arrow in its head closed in on Wil when another arrow slammed into its skull. It tumbled, sending a spray of snow into the air. It somersaulted forward and used its momentum to launch itself at Wil, this time with a bloodcurdling screech. Wil raised his shield to catch the impact and Yoran stepped in to hack at the creature's side. 

Quill turned his attention to the Grinner that was coming his way. He couldn't breathe. The Needlemaws were terrifying, these Hallowbound were something else entirely. Time slowed as the Grinner closed in, body wildly wobbling as it sprinted forward. Stevan’s lifeless face flashed across Quill’s mind.

If a man like that could die...

He didn't finish his thought. The Grinner was here.

Sergeant Melvin Cross fought with two blades—the longer in his right, the shorter in his left. Simple iron swords. Nothing flashy. Nothing special. Just cold, hard steel. Perfect for a man like Cross. With a screeching Grinner mere feet away, the man's face didn't change. Still the same cold, hard features.

He’d stepped forward to meet the charge, but now stood with feet planted, swords hanging at his sides.

The Grinner lunged, swiping its bloody claws down in an X-shape. Cross pivoted, letting it sail past. Quill hadn’t even seen him move, yet the Grinner now bled from a deep gash, and Cross’s blade dripped dark ichor. Quill stepped forward to help, but the creature moved with inhuman speed. It lunged again. Cross ducked as a claw slashed over his head. He reversed his grip on the short blade and dragged it across the creature's thigh then jumped back as it took another swing. Every move was calculated, like he’d fought this creature a hundred times and knew exactly what it would do.

With a spasm, the creature shot forward, claw first. This time, Cross stepped forward to meet it. He caught the creature’s arm under his own and brought his longsword down on its wrist. A fountain of black blood burst from the stump as the claw dropped to the snow, still twitching. Cross ducked again. The remaining claw cleaved the air where he'd been. He spun, rose and brought the short blade up, impaling the creature through the throat. He left the blade in and yanked his arm free as the Grinner snapped at the air with razor-sharp teeth.

Quill saw his opening. The creature was hunched over, desperately seeking Cross. He charged, blade held tight in both hands. With a squelch, the blade sunk deep into the Grinner's back. It gurgled blood and staggered. Quill didn't let his guard down this time but couldn't react fast enough as it spun and the back of its remaining claw connected with his shoulder. He was sent flying into the snow. He rose to one knee, clutching at his chest and gasping for air.

He watched the creature collapse into the snow, black blood seeping from its many wounds. Cross wasted no time. He stepped forward with longsword and drove the blade through the creatures chest. He yanked the blade free and brought it down on the Grinner’s neck, severing its head with one clean, practiced stroke. His expression remained unchanged. He bore no wounds, and his breath came only slightly heavier than before.

How many fights like this had he seen? Quill wondered.

The rest of the squad was still locked in combat. Wil and Yoran surrounded one creature, desperately working together to bring it down. Trevin stood behind them, loosing another arrow into a Grinner already writhing on the ground. Its body was mangled and filled with arrows, yet it still twitched violently. Deckard and Slim stood together finishing off a creature. Slim was hanging on its back, stabbing wildly with a shortsword into its head and neck. Deckard brought down his warhammer on the creature's knee, forcing it to stagger sideways. He caught a claw swipe with his shield, which knocked him back but bought enough time for Slim to drag his blade down the creature’s spine, splitting it open and spraying black ichor into the snow.

Vardok stood alone. His shattered shield lay at his feet, and blood dripped from a gash along his left arm. With a roar he swung his mace into the creatures arm, landing with a sickening crunch. But the creature drove its body forward, tackling Vardok and pinning the man beneath its massive bulk. An arrow whistled over Quill's head and slammed into the creatures back, stunning it for just a moment. Vardok took his opportunity and rolled the creature over. He turned and brought his mace down with his full weight on the Grinner's head, crushing it with a loud crack. He struck again. And again—shouting with each blow—until the creature was no more than a dark, bloody pulp. Only then did he relent, letting out a primal scream into its eyeless face.

Cross reached Quill and hauled him to his feet just as Yoran landed the finishing blow on the final creature. The Fjorlander brought down his greataxe onto the creature's skull and drove it well into the creature's chest with one massive swing. Wil thrust his sword into its torso for good measure. They were all covered in a fresh coat of black blood. Quill wasn't worried about a bath just yet. He spun and scanned the tree line, looking for more creatures. No one else would die because of him.

But no Hallowbound came. The fight was over. They had won. As the adrenaline faded, Quill's shoulder began to throb. The whole squad was breathing heavily, weapons still at the ready. Trevin and Slim began retrieving arrows from the dead Grinners while Deckard and Wil moved to check the corpses of the fallen scout squad.

Quill joined them as they examined each brutalized corpse. The few Quill investigated had no signs of life. They were covered in deep gashes and icy blood. Their faces lifeless and forever frozen in fear and pain. Their injuries seemed painful, but they would not have died instantly. The Grinners had let them die slow, agonizing deaths. All the while looming over them like specters of death. A chill ran down Quill's spine at the thought. 

Could've been me.

"Here!" Wil shouted. "He's still breathing!"

Deckard rushed to the man's side, dropping to his knees and examining the wounds. 

Wil looked desperately at the priest. "Can you save him."

Deckard grimaced. "Help me bandage him. There's still a chance... however slim."

They spent the next few minutes gently wrapping the dying scout in bandages and covering him with a blanket for warmth.

"Should we get him to Field Ops?" Quill asked.

"No," Cross said flatly. "We return to our position. If you want to save him, carry him. Bring him when we head in tonight. If he slows us down, leave him."

Yoran stepped forward. "I carry. Small man."

Wil and Deckard helped lift the man onto Yoran’s back.

The march resumed. Deckard left a yellow smoke signal behind as squad S-22 moved to quickly return to their place in the formation. 

As they marched, Wil drifted closer to Quill. “Thank you for taking my side back there.”

Quill forced a small smile. "Of course. We have to save who we can, right?"

Wil nodded.

“I don’t know if we actually convinced the Sergeant. Something tells me he’s not a man swayed by words alone.”

Quill looked at Cross's back, his bloodstained cloak billowing gently in the wind. Why did he let them fight without calling for reinforcements? Did he care about saving the man? Or was there some other reason he risked the squad?

“I don’t claim to know his mind,” Quill said. “And honestly, I’m not sure I want to.”