I found a spot near the edge of the square, leaning against a fence post to wait. From here, I could see the road that wound eastward toward the Bastion. Somewhere along that road, Officials were making their way toward us with their lists and their quotas and their promises of honor and glory.

I wondered how many of those Officials had ever actually fought a zombie.

I wondered if any of them had watched someone turn.

"Emeric Ashford?"

I turned to find a girl about my age approaching—Bryn, the blacksmith's daughter. Auburn hair, crooked nose, the kind of build that suggested she'd been swinging a hammer since she could walk. I'd seen her around the village but never spoken to her much. We ran in different circles—she had friends, I had... well. I had a chicken I argued with.

"That's me," I said cautiously.

Bryn grinned, and there was something sharp in it. Something that reminded me uncomfortably of myself. "Heard you volunteered. Thought you'd be taller."

"I'm average height."

"Sure you are."

I scowled. "Did you want something?"

"Just introducing myself. Since we're going to the same place." She jerked her chin toward the road. "Figured we might as well not be strangers. Thornwick kids should stick together, yeah?"

"You volunteered too?"

"My father's idea of quality bonding time involves teaching me to swing a hammer at undead skulls. Figured I might as well get proper training." She shrugged. "Plus, this village is boring as shit."

I blinked. That was... not the answer I'd expected.

"Most people are crying," I pointed out.

"Most people don't have my winning personality." Bryn leaned against the fence beside me, arms crossed. "You're the one whose sister died, right? Few years back?"

My jaw tightened. "Yes."

"That why you volunteered?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. Just curious." She glanced at me sideways. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm going to kill every zombie in existence through sheer force of anger' look. Seen it before. Usually doesn't end well."

"Thanks for the optimism."

"I'm just saying." She pushed off the fence as the sound of hooves became audible in the distance. "Anger's good fuel, but it burns out fast. You need something else to keep you going."

Before I could respond, she was walking toward the center of the square, leaving me to stare after her with a mixture of annoyance and reluctant respect.

Anger burns out fast.

What did she know about my anger? What did anyone know?

The hoofbeats grew louder, and I turned to watch the Officials arrive—three of them on horseback, dressed in the dark uniforms of the Bastion, followed by a covered wagon that would carry us away from everything we'd ever known.

This was it.

The last morning was ending, and whatever came next... I would face it with or without fuel. I would face it with nothing but rage and a knife and the memory of my sister's final scream.

And I would make every single one of those monsters pay.

The Officials dismounted with the practiced efficiency of men who had done this a hundred times before. The lead one—a tall, weathered man with a scar across his chin—pulled out a scroll and began reading names.

I only half-listened. The names washed over me, each one accompanied by a sob or a stifled cry from the crowd. Parents clutching children. Siblings saying goodbye. The whole wretched pageantry of conscription.

"Emeric Ashford."

I stepped forward without hesitation. No tears. No dramatic farewell. Just one foot in front of the other until I stood before the Official, who marked something on his scroll without looking at me.

"Volunteer?" he asked.

"Yes."

A grunt. Neither approving nor disapproving. "Line up by the wagon."

I turned to go—and caught sight of my mother at the edge of the crowd, Margot pressed against her side. Even from here, I could see the tears streaming down my mother's face. The way Margot was trying so hard not to cry.

Something twisted in my chest.

I gave them a single nod. A promise. I'll come back. I'll come back.

Margot's hand lifted in a small wave.

Then I turned away, walked to the wagon, and didn't look back.

The wagon filled slowly—eight of us from Thornwick, more than last year. Bryn dropped onto the bench across from me with a loud sigh.

"Well, this is cozy."

"It's a wagon."

"It's a cramped wagon." She stretched her legs out, nearly kicking me in the process. "Hope you don't snore. It's a long ride to the Bastion, and I'll shove you out the back if you keep me awake."

"I don't snore."

"That's what people who snore always say."

The wagon lurched forward, and I braced myself against the wooden slats. Through the gap in the canvas, I watched Thornwick grow smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a smudge on the horizon.

Goodbye, I thought. Wait for me.

The road wound on, and with every mile, the knot in my chest grew tighter. This was what I wanted. This was what I'd chosen. The Bastion, the training, the chance to fight back against the rot that had taken my sister from me.

So why did I feel like I was leaving something vital behind?

Bryn had closed her eyes, arms crossed, apparently deciding to nap through the journey. The other Thornwick volunteers were quiet, lost in their own thoughts.

I stared out the back of the wagon at the road behind us, dust kicking up from the wheels.

Somewhere ahead, the Bastion waited.

Somewhere ahead, my new life was about to begin.

I had no idea, sitting in that cramped wagon with my meager pack and my sharp scowl, that I was riding toward the best and worst thing that would ever happen to me. That somewhere in the regiment I'd be assigned to, there was a boy with dark hair and an insufferable smile who would drive me absolutely insane.

That he would also, eventually, become the only thing I wanted to live for.

But that was all still to come. Then the Wagon held to a stop, probably a pit stop for the next wagon to pick us up to the final destination.

I’m guessing we’re still in Thornwick but for now, there was just the road, the dust, and the anger burning bright and hot in my chest.