The barracks cell, a cramped fissure in the subterranean rock, smelled of stale sweat, damp earth, and the metallic tang of fear. Velis, still acutely aware of Garrach’s earlier scrutiny, felt the chill seep into her bones, even through the worn-out uniform. The air hung heavy, thick with cold damp and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the beast-wardens’ drills. “Velid,” Garrach’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the quiet. “Your cot is here.” He gestured to the narrow slab of polished rock, barely wider than a man’s ribcage. A single, dull-glowing heat-stone, about the size of a child’s head, rested at its center, throwing off a meager draft of heat against the subterranean freeze. Velis’s throat tightened. Her brother, Velid, had been shorter, slighter. Her own frame, though she’d tried to bind it tight, was still broader than his. This cot… it was meant for one, maybe two *thin* men. With Garrach’s bulk, the intimacy would be unavoidable. She swallowed, setting her jaw to force a rough, soldier-like composure onto her face. “Right. Thanks, Commander.” She stepped toward the slab, keeping her gait loose and heavy. Garrach was already peeling off his grimy tunic, revealing a torso honed by years of brutal trench warfare. Scars, thick and ropy, crisscrossed his upper back, carving ridges through pale flesh. One mark beneath his left scapula caught her eye: an old beast-tear, purple-rimmed and leaking thin fluid. Infected. Chronic pain, she knew, would be a constant companion. She quickly averted her gaze, busying herself with her own meager bedroll. Focus. One foot in front of the other. Survive. Find the killer. Don't slip. Garrach slid onto the cot, his weight causing the heat-stone to grind against rock, shedding a faint heat against the cellar chill. He lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the unseen ceiling. Velis hesitated for a moment, then took a deep, fortifying breath and lay down beside him. The cot pinched inward, the heat-stone radiating against her hip. Garrach’s heavy bicep pressed against her upper arm, and his thigh grazed hers through coarse wool. Her chest bindings suddenly felt impossibly tight, crushing against her ribs, making each breath a shallow, painful effort. She tried to angle away, to create even a millimeter of space, but there was nowhere to go. The stone wall was cold against her back. The scent of him—earthy, metallic, a hint of something musky and uniquely Garrach—filled her nostrils. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe slowly, evenly. She was Velid. A soldier. This was normal. This was survival. Hours crawled by. Velis feigned sleep, acutely aware of every shift in Garrach’s breathing, every slight movement. The festering tear across his back nagged at her thoughts. It was a simple infection, easily treated, but left unchecked, it could fester, turn septic, claim an arm, or even a life. The commander, for all his terrifying aura, was still a man, and suffering. Her ingrained kindness, her flaw, gnawed at her. She could not ignore it. As the night deepened, Garrach’s breathing grew heavier, more ragged. He shifted, a low groan escaping his lips. He was in pain. This was her chance. Slowly, carefully, Velis opened her eyes. The oil lamp had dwindled to a ember, casting the cell in near darkness. She waited, listening to the guttural snores that now emanated from the cot beside her. He was deeply asleep. She eased herself off the cot, moving with the practiced stealth of someone who had often crept through her family’s silent apothecary at night. From her pack, she retrieved her small, worn leather pouch—a relic of her former life. Inside, amongst dried herbs and tiny glass vials, she pulled wisp-nettle, ground rock-lichen, and concentrated bog-balm. Working by feel with practiced hands, she mixed the powders with a few drops of canteen water, mashing them into a pungent paste. The air in the cell, already close, thickened with the scent of bitter herbs. She approached Garrach. The wound looked worse up close, an angry purple fissure. She hesitated, her hand hovering. This was a direct risk. If he woke, if he saw her… But the pain she knew he must be enduring, the quiet desperation of a soldier refusing to show weakness, compelled her. She spread the cool paste across the raw fissure, palms skimming his fevered skin. The skin beneath was taut, inflamed. She worked fast, tying a clean strip of linen from her pack across his chest to hold the dressing fast. She returned to the cot, her heart thrumming against her ribs. She was Velid. She was Velid. She had to believe it. Hours later, as the first grey light of Morvenian dawn began to filter through the grates, Garrach stirred. His groan was softer this time, a sigh of relief rather than pain. He reached back, calloused knuckles brushing the bandage. He peeled back a corner of the linen, sniffing the herbal concoction. His eyes, sharp and assessing, fixed on Velis. “What is this?” His voice was rough with sleep, but carried an edge of suspicion. Velis feigned grogginess. “What’s what, Commander?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “Just… felt a draft.” Garrach’s gaze was unwavering. “The mash. On my back.” “Oh, that,” Velis said with an indifferent shrug. “Saw the split skin last night. Looked angry. My ma used to brew wisp-nettle for rot. Didn’t want blood running into the blankets.” It was a clumsy lie, but the only one she could conjure. She kept her voice low, gruff. Garrach studied her, silent, searching for an angle. The pain, the chronic ache that had been a dull companion for weeks, was gone. Replaced by a cool, soothing thrum. The memory of Velid’s hands on his skin sat raw and entirely out of place in these trenches. It was a sensation he had not felt in years, a comfort he had no right to desire, especially not from a bunkmate, a *man*. Heat flushed his collar, souring immediately into a knot of cold revulsion at himself. He pulled away abruptly, almost tumbling off the cot, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his brow. The feeling was dangerous. Unacceptable. “Stay out of my affairs, Velid,” he snarled, his voice harsher than intended. He threw on his tunic, avoiding her gaze, his movements stiff and unnaturally fast. He had to put space between them, reassert command, and stamp out every speck of rot before it took root. “Don’t forget where you are.” Before Velis could answer, fingernails scraped the wood of the cell door. “Velid! Velid, are you awake?” It was Jom’s voice, high-pitched and desperate. “Please, I need your help! It’s urgent!” Garrach shot a glare at the door, then at Velis. “Deal with your protégé.” He stormed out of the cell, leaving behind a lingering scent of the strange herbal balm and a heavy, suffocating silence. Velis went to the door, opening it just enough for Jom to squeeze in. The recruit’s eyes were wide, darting around the cell as if expecting a beast to materialize from the shadows. His face was caked in dried mire, and both hands trembled around a crumpled, blood-stained scrap of parchment. “Velid, you gotta help me,” Jom whispered, thrusting the map into her hands. “I found this on a dead man, one of the scouts from the last push. He swore by it. Said it was a ‘bone-ward’, would keep the flesh-rippers away. But I can’t make sense of it, not with all the blood.” Velis unfolded the parchment carefully. The map was crudely drawn, depicting jagged lines and symbols that seemed to mark out a subterranean route. She traced a finger over the bloodstains, her gaze falling upon the precise, almost elegant script labeling a junction point: *'The Serpent’s Coil – Path to the Undercroft’*. A chill, colder than Morvenia’s perpetual twilight, settled in her bones. The handwriting… it was unmistakable. She knew it intimately. It was her brother’s. The sheet was no ward against flesh-rippers. It mapped a passage tunneling beneath No Man’s Land toward a sector named the Undercroft. Velid had drafted every line. What business had he running subterranean paths, and why had his blood dried on a scout’s corpse when high command reported him butchered in the open line?

The Heat-Stone Cot