Chapter 1

I wake up lying next to a large rock, my body luckily in the shade. The air is thin and crisp, filled with the faint scent of wild thyme and dust. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the muted bray of a goat, the sound echoing through the jagged foothills that surround me. My memory of how I got here is a complete blank. Sharp stones dig into my back through my uniform, and I can feel the uneven ground beneath me, littered with pebbles and tufts of scraggly grass. Above, the pale blue sky is streaked with the last wisps of morning fog, the sun just beginning to crest over the rocky peaks. The last thing I remember was loading up for a convoy to Kandahar. Now, the silence is broken only by the distant wind, carrying with it the chill of the mountains and the faint clang of metal from somewhere unseen. I no longer have my weapon with me. I still have my body armor and assault pack with me. Soot and blood cover my uniform, their acrid smell mixing with the dry mountain air. My tongue is caked in dry dust, making it very hard to swallow, and every breath feels gritty. I look in my pack to find one of my bottles of water, my hands shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline. I am glad I loaded up on them before we left. I take a big swig of water to clear the dust from my mouth, feeling the cold liquid bring a brief moment of clarity to my dazed senses.

Before I can do anything else, I need to check myself for any injuries. My hands tremble as I slowly run them over my body, wincing at every tender spot. I start at my scalp, feeling matted hair stuck together with blood and grit. My fingers come away slick and red, confirming what I already feared. Blood is streaked across my face, some of it dried, some still fresh. I take a bit of water and pour it over the wound on my head, feeling the sting as it washes away dust and reveals a jagged gash just above my brow. My uniform is torn at the elbows and knees, the skin beneath scraped raw and sticky with dried blood. I gently press my ribs, bracing myself for sharp pain, but only a deep, dull ache radiates through my side—maybe bruised, but nothing feels broken. My left ankle throbs, and when I move it, a sharp twinge runs up my leg, but I can still wiggle my toes. Fingers probing further, I check for swelling or bone splinters, but there’s only swelling and the heat of inflammation. Reaching into my first-aid kit in my body armor, I pull out some gauze pads and a bandage. Placing the gauze onto my head wound makes me wince as they make contact. I then wrap my head to hold the gauze in place, my movements sluggish and clumsy from blood loss and shock. My head is still pounding in pain, and I feel a little dizzy. I wonder if I have a concussion, but at least I’m not losing consciousness again.

Next, I take inventory of what I have on me, forcing myself to focus through the lingering fog in my head. I carefully pat down my body armor, feeling the familiar shapes and weight distribution. Two fragmentation grenades are still secure in their pouches, and I count six thirty-round magazines of 5.56—each one clipped in place, the cold metal reassuring beneath my fingers. My kbar is strapped to my vest, its handle worn but reliable. I run my hands over the pouches and check my pockets, making sure nothing else is missing—no compass, no map, but I do have my small multi-tool and a half-used roll of electrical tape tucked into a side pocket. In my assault pack, I find nothing missing. It contains my change of socks, underwear, and undershirt, all sealed in plastic bags to keep them dry. There are two MREs, my camelback is still mostly full of water, and I have three more bottles in the pack. A couple of energy bars and a packet of instant coffee are wedged into a side compartment. My first aid kit is lighter now, but still has a few bandages, a tourniquet, and a small tube of antibiotic ointment. I take a deep breath, feeling a shaky sense of relief that, despite everything, I am not completely without resources.

"Finding good cover needs to be my next priority," I mumble, half out loud, half to remind myself that I’m still here and thinking clearly. My voice sounds strange in the emptiness, but it settles my nerves a little. "Alright, Rodgers, think. Weapon’s gone, but you’ve got grenades and a knife. Supplies are limited. If anyone’s looking for you, you’re a sitting duck out here. Shelter, water, and a way to signal—those are the priorities."

I scan my surroundings and keep talking, just to fill the silence. "Keep moving if you can, but don’t push too hard. Head wounds aren’t going to get better if you pass out. Ration the water. Don’t eat unless you have to. Conserve energy. Think like a survivor, not a soldier on patrol."

I catch myself pacing, the rhythm of my own voice helping me focus. "If I can get to higher ground, I might spot friendlies, or at least see signs of life. Avoid open spaces. Rest before it gets too dark. Don’t do anything stupid." The words hang in the air, a fragile lifeline against the fear and uncertainty pressing in from every side.

Looking around, I take a slow, cautious survey of the valley. The shadows are growing longer, and every dip and boulder could hide danger or salvation. I press myself low, moving quietly so I don’t draw attention, scanning for anything that could be used as shelter. The sheer rock face looms to one side, its surface pocked with small ledges and crevices, but none wide enough for me to squeeze into. On the opposite side, the rocky slope looks brutal, but also promising. I spot a cluster of juniper bushes and a few scattered trees—possible concealment if I need to hide. Each step is measured, my boots crunching against gravel as I begin to climb, pausing often to listen for any sound that doesn’t belong. My heart pounds in my ears, every sense straining for movement or voices. As I work my way up the mountainside, sweat mixes with the grime on my face, and my wounded ankle protests each uneven step. I keep my eyes peeled for anything out of place—a discarded ration wrapper, an unnatural pile of stones, any sign that someone has been here before me. About halfway up, I catch sight of a narrow shadow nestled between two jutting rocks. Creeping closer, I see it’s a small cave, just large enough for me to crawl into. Relief floods through me—I’ll have cover before night falls. Glancing at the sun dipping behind the mountain across from me, I know I’m running out of daylight. Moving through this terrain in the dark would be a death sentence, so I slip inside the cave, grateful for the protection of stone and shadow, and settle in to rest for the night.

The cave is about twenty feet deep, with just enough height that I don’t have to bend down too much as I move inside. The entrance is narrow, partially hidden by a cluster of rocks and scrub, making it nearly invisible from the valley below. Inside, the floor is uneven but mostly dry, with a scattering of loose gravel and dust that crunches quietly under my boots. The air is cool and carries a faint, earthy smell mixed with the lingering scent of old smoke—maybe from a shepherd or traveler long ago. My flashlight reveals a low ceiling at the back, where the shadows cluster thickest. I check for animal tracks or droppings, but find nothing except a few spider webs stretching across the corners. The silence in here is almost total, broken only by my own breathing and the occasional drip of water from a crack in the stone. I should be safe for tonight. I place my pack down in the farthest corner, grateful for the sense of protection the rock provides, then step back outside to gather as much dry brush as I can find. It gets cold here in the mountains at night, and I’ll need every scrap of warmth I can muster.

I grabbed the MREs from my pack, my stomach already dreading what was inside. "Oh, great choice, vegetarian burger, and breakfast omelet. Why didn't I pay better attention when I picked them up at the DFAC?" I remember grabbing them in a hurry, not expecting to need them—just tossed whatever was closest into my pack, assuming we'd be back before anyone got hungry.

Now, sitting in the cave with hunger gnawing at me, I realize how miserable these choices are. The vegetarian burger is notorious for its cardboard texture and bland taste, and the breakfast omelet is even worse—rubbery, with a chemical aftertaste that sticks to your mouth. I curse myself for not taking an extra minute to snag a beef stew or chicken fajita, something at least halfway edible. But in the frantic rush of gearing up, eating a meal out here seemed like the last thing I'd need to worry about.

"Burger, it is—at least it's something," I mutter, resigning myself to the grim reality of my hasty decisions.

Usually, I would not bother to warm up the meal—out in the field, eating cold rations is just part of the routine. But tonight, with the mountain air already biting at my skin and darkness settling in, I know I have to do everything I can to keep warm. After choking down the bland MRE, I use the matches from the pack’s accessory kit to spark a small fire in a shallow pit near the back of the cave. I carefully arrange the dry brush and bits of dead grass I gathered outside, and coax the flames to life with patient, cupped breaths. The smoke is heavy at first and clings to the low ceiling, stinging my eyes and making me cough, so I shift some loose rocks to create a rough chimney near the entrance. It draws just enough of the smoke away to keep the air breathable.

I sit as close to the fire as I safely can, rotating my boots and letting the warmth seep into my aching feet. I drape my extra socks and undershirt near the flames, hoping the heat will dry out any lingering dampness and add another layer of insulation for the night. I wrap myself tightly in my uniform and use my pack as a windbreak, huddling low to the floor where the air feels just a little less frigid. Every so often, I feed another stick or handful of brush into the fire, careful to ration my fuel so it’ll last until sunrise. The cave is still cold, but the flickering light and gentle heat are enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay.

Getting comfortable in a cave like this is nearly impossible, but exhaustion forces me to try. I ease off my body armor with slow, aching movements, wincing as bruises and cuts protest. The stone floor is cold and unyielding, so I spread my spare undershirt beneath me, trying to cover as many sharp rocks as possible. I bunch up my pack and wedge it under my neck for a makeshift pillow—lumpy and awkward, but it’s better than nothing. My extra socks, still warm from the fire, go on my feet, and I wrap my arms around my knees to conserve every bit of heat. I angle myself close to the dying fire, careful not to roll into it, letting the flickering warmth brush my face. The shadows on the walls seem to shift and dance, and I close my eyes, focusing on the rhythmic sound of my own breathing to drown out the distant wind.

Despite my efforts, I can feel every bump and chill, but eventually fatigue overpowers discomfort. I drift into a restless sleep, strange dreams of conflict lurking at the edge of my mind. I can barely see two flying figures battling in the air, throwing magic at each other. Then a massive explosion behind one of them knocks them both from the sky, and a huge wave of water rushes in, dragging me under. I struggle to reach the surface, but the water keeps pushing me down, the pressure building until everything fades to black.

A sudden, sharp crunch of gravel jerked me out of my restless sleep, heart hammering as I was ripped from the haze of dreams. For a split second, I thought the noise was just part of my nightmare, but then it came again—deliberate, slow, growing closer. All the survival instincts I’d honed over the years snapped into place. My hand shot to my kbar, fingers fumbling in the dark as adrenaline flooded my system. I forced myself up, body stiff and sore, trying to steady my breathing as I pressed my back against the cold stone wall. Every muscle tensed as I strained to see through the gloom of the cave, senses screaming for any clue about who—or what—was approaching.

Suddenly, a blinding beam of light exploded in my face, obliterating the fragile shadows. My eyes slammed shut, pain stabbing through my skull as the high-powered flashlight bore down on me. I threw my arm up to shield my face, blinking furiously, tears stinging my eyes. Behind the light, a silhouette loomed—impossible to read, all identity swallowed by the glare. I tried to focus, forcing my body into a defensive crouch, kbar gripped so tight my knuckles ached. The throbbing in my head intensified, each pulse echoing the crunch of footsteps drawing inexorably closer.

"Finally, I found you," a feminine voice says to me.

She turns off her light, plunging the cave into sudden darkness as my eyes struggle to adjust to the meager glow of my dying fire. Her silhouette is sharply outlined against the cave mouth, her body covered in a black tactical uniform with no markings—professional, intimidating, and utterly unfamiliar. I catch the glint of a handgun leveled squarely at my chest, every muscle in my body tensing in response. My mind races, fighting to process this new threat as my heart pounds in my throat.

She advances a step, the gun steady, her movements smooth and controlled. Every instinct screams at me to move, to fight, to do something, but her commanding presence keeps me rooted to the spot. There’s something in the way she holds herself—a confidence, an unspoken authority—that makes it clear she’s not bluffing. I realize, uncomfortably, that she has all the power in this moment.

"Don't move," she says, her voice calm as steel. "I will not hurt you. I have been looking for you for a very long time. You have something I very much desire." The words hang in the air, heavy and cryptic. The way she says it—as she knows me, like this encounter was fated—throws me off balance. I can’t see her face in the gloom, but I sense she’s studying me, weighing my every twitch and breath. Confusion swirls inside me. What could I possibly have that someone like her would want? I rack my brain, but nothing makes sense. I can barely remember how I got here, let alone what she expects to find.

I force myself to speak, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “What do you think I have that you want? I have nothing but my army gear,” I ask, my eyes darting between her shadowy outline and the cold glint of the gun. My confusion deepens, but I refuse to show fear, even as I realize how little control I have over what happens next.

I am shocked when she holsters her gun and kneels on the other side of what remains of my fire. She mutters something that I cannot comprehend, it’s in a very strange language. Despite the brief reprieve, I know better than to make a move; her calm confidence makes it clear that she’s done this before and won’t hesitate to take me down if I resist.

My mind races for any opening—any way I could gain the upper hand—but the odds are stacked against me. I’m injured, half-starved, and she’s already disarmed me psychologically as well as physically. The glint in her eyes, the silent calculation, convinces me that fighting back would only get me hurt, if not killed. Survival means keeping my head down and playing along, at least for now.

“Put your arms out in front of you with your hands up,” she says, her voice brooking no argument. My pride flares for a split second, but reality crashes right over it—I don’t have a choice. With slow, deliberate movements, I do as I’m told, keeping my motions visible and non-threatening. She steps over, swiftly and efficiently removing my kbar from my grip. The blade feels like the last piece of control slipping away. She moves with practiced skill, looping zip-ties around my wrists, cinching them tight before moving to my ankles. I clench my jaw against the humiliation, but I know struggling is pointless.

I try to scan her face for any sign of hesitation or weakness, but she’s all business—focused, in charge, and not taking any chances. I run through every escape scenario I know, but nothing fits. For now, I’m stuck, and she knows it. She returns to the other side of the fire and studies me, her eyes never leaving mine, and I realize just how little power I have in this moment.

Her eyes are deep and inviting, but there is an intensity in their gaze that puts me on edge. The dark hair framing her face stands in stark contrast to her pale skin, making her look almost otherworldly in the flickering firelight. Even under her tactical gear, she moves with an athletic confidence, every motion controlled and precise. She fixes me with a penetrating stare, her posture relaxed but her presence radiating command—the kind of demeanor that brooks no evasion.

She begins her questioning without preamble, her tone flat and clinical. "You are Sergeant Rodgers, from Illinois, correct?" The words are more of a confirmation than a question, and the way she says my name sends a chill through me. I can see the fire reflecting in her eyes, but I sense no warmth there. I nod, my throat tight, not trusting myself to say anything else. Every fiber of my being tells me to stay alert, to give nothing away.

She nods back, satisfied, and the interrogation deepens. "Good," she says, her voice suddenly sharper, tinged with excitement. "You may not know this, but you have something very important with you." She leans back against the cave wall, her expression unreadable, eyes never leaving mine. She fires off questions—"When did you first notice anything strange? Have you had any unusual dreams? Have you experienced any unexplained pain or visions?"—each one delivered with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re looking for. I answer hesitantly, confusion mounting with every question. Her rapid-fire inquiries leave me little time to process, and her slightest frown or raised eyebrow makes my heart pound in my chest.

I stare at her in growing confusion and frustration. "Who are you? What do you want from me?" I finally manage, my voice raw with anxiety. It’s clear now—this isn’t just a conversation; it’s an interrogation, and I’m the subject of a mystery I don’t even understand.

The woman looks at me with a hint of sadness in her eyes, her confidence now edged with vulnerability. She hesitates, then speaks in a softer, almost reverent tone. "I want nothing from you—not in the way you’re thinking. You are a vessel, a carrier for something I have been searching for a very long time." She draws a small, ornate pendant from beneath her uniform, letting it catch the firelight so I can see the intricate runes carved into the metal. "This pendant is the key. There is a soul bound to yours—an ancient magic, one you could never have known. I am going to use this to release the soul that’s been trapped within you."

She pauses, her gaze flickering with hope and desperation. "If I can free her, she will return. That’s all I want." Her voice wavers for a moment, betraying the depth of her longing. "You have no idea how important this is—not just to me, but to many others. You were never meant to be involved. But fate chose you as the vessel, and now I must finish what was started long ago."

Shock slams into me, raw and visceral, as her words sink in. For a moment, my mind simply blanks, unable to process the enormity of what she’s saying. Every logical instinct I have rebels against it: souls, ancient magic, some stranger claiming I was nothing but a vessel. My heart thunders in my chest; I feel cold sweat bead on my brow. How would she know anything about my soul? None of it makes sense—it's so far outside the realm of reality that I almost laugh, except my mouth is too dry to do anything but gape. My thoughts race, grasping for any rational explanation. Am I suffering from a concussion, or is this the delirium of blood loss and exhaustion? “I must have hit my head harder than I thought,” I stammer, my voice hoarse and shaking. “Did you say that I have a soul bound to mine? How could you possibly know this? Who will return?” My words tumble out, desperate for logic, but deep down, fear and confusion gnaw at me.

With a small, almost amused chuckle, she offers only riddles in response. “That is because I have the anchor stone for that soul here. When you neared death this last time, I felt it draw me to you. These things do not follow the rules, you know. Magic is a language you cannot speak, let alone understand.” Her words swirl around me, offering no clarity—just more confusion. “You are a door that was never meant to open, but sometimes doors are forced.”

I press for more, desperate for a straight answer. “But whose soul? Why me? What does any of this have to do with Afghanistan, with my life?”

She shrugs, her expression unreadable. “Some things are chosen. Some things are accidents. The lines are blurry, even for us. As for who will return, you may see her, or you may only feel her absence. My mother is... complicated.”

Every answer raises more questions. She seems to delight in evasion, giving me just enough to fuel my anxiety but never enough to make sense of any of it. My mind spins, desperately searching for a thread of logic, but all I find is a mounting sense of dread. I am hopelessly out of my depth—this is a nightmare I can't wake from, a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit. My thoughts loop in frantic circles: Is this real? Am I dying? Am I already dead? My confusion grows so intense that it borders on panic, my breath coming quicker as I try to steady myself.

Then I see her rise, her silhouette suddenly looming larger as she steps out of the firelight and moves toward me. My fear spikes, cold and sharp, overriding every other thought. I instinctively shrink back, raising my bound arms to shield my face, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. The cave seems to close in, the shadows deepening as she draws nearer. For a split second, I think she might hurt me, and terror roots me to the spot.

"Don't worry, you will not feel a thing," she whispers, her breath ghosting against my ear. The gentleness of her words only makes my fear worse, because I don't believe her. In the dim light, I catch a clearer glimpse of the pendant in her hand—its runes glowing faintly, casting eerie reflections on the cave walls. Instinct screams at me that whatever she’s holding is dangerous, not just an object but an instrument of something far beyond my understanding.

She grabs my wrists, her grip unyielding, and forces my hands down to my lap with an ease that leaves me feeling utterly powerless. I have never felt so helpless in my life. With her other hand, she presses the pendant against my forehead, its metal shockingly cold. In a low, commanding voice, she utters a word I can't understand: "Expedire."

A searing heat explodes from the pendant into my forehead, spreading instantly through my skull and down my spine. The sensation is foreign—like liquid fire and a thousand electric shocks all at once. My muscles seize, every nerve ending alive with agony as the heat pulses outward, flooding my chest and limbs. Pain blooms in my stomach, sharp and overwhelming, as if something inside me is being ripped free. The energy surges faster, making it feel like my veins are filled with molten metal. I try to scream, but my jaw locks, and all I can manage is a strangled gasp.

My vision goes stark white, a blinding flash that drowns out the cave, the woman, even the sound of my own heartbeat. I convulse uncontrollably, my body arching against invisible restraints. Then come the memories—disjointed, impossible images and emotions crashing over me like a tidal wave. Faces I don’t recognize, places I’ve never been, languages I’ve never heard, all swirl together in a chaotic storm. I can’t hold onto any thought; everything is pain, heat, and confusion.

Just when I think I can’t take any more, the woman tears the pendant away. Darkness swallows me whole. Consciousness slips from my grasp, and I fall into an endless void.