Lieutenant Rowan Vale didn’t remember falling.
She remembered the heat.
She remembered the taste of dirt in her mouth.
She remembered someone shouting for a tourniquet in a voice that didn’t sound entirely human anymore.
When she tried to stand, her left side burned as if a hot wire had been threaded through muscle. Shrapnel, she registered clinically. Lower flank. Possibly abdominal penetration. Manageable — for now.
Ahead of her, an infantryman was pinned under the collapsed side door of a transport vehicle, half-conscious and trying to push himself up with one arm that clearly didn’t work anymore. She didn’t think about it. She moved.
Training didn’t feel like glory in moments like that. It felt like muscle memory refusing to negotiate with fear.
Rowan braced, lifted the crushed door just enough, dragged the soldier free, and hauled him over her shoulder. He was heavier than he looked. Or maybe she was weaker than she thought. Either way, she adjusted and walked.
