Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 80: Wedge Formation

We head toward one of the outpost stations distributing supplies. Oliver is limping beside me, favoring his right leg with every step. The left one moves, but it moves wrong—stiff, mechanical, like his body is still negotiating with the new tissue.

"You good?" I ask. Not sentimental. I ask because a liability in a warzone gets people killed.

"Fine," Oliver grunts, flexing his calf experimentally. "Tingling. It’s like someone swapped my leg for a new one while I was screaming. Everything works. Just feels... borrowed."

Good enough.

"Provisions," I say. "What’s our inventory?"

Oliver runs the numbers without hesitating. "Enough rations for a couple days. Some Scales. Nothing that wins a siege."

"Then we’re getting in line." I nod toward the supply outpost. "Any help is welcome, especially when we don’t know the local threats."

The queue is long but moves fast. Practiced. Everyone in it already knows the routine—step up, receive, move on. No haggling, no conversation.

The soldiers behind the table hand out supplies in silence, one group after another, faces blank with the specific exhaustion of people doing the same job again and again.

After a few minutes, our turn arrives.

The soldier behind the table looks at us. He lets out a long, tired sigh—the kind reserved for explaining something he’s already explained to a thousand newcomers and will explain to a thousand more.

His eyes find mine. I don’t look away. I hold the stare, jaw set, letting the weight of my posture do the talking.

He gets it.

Whatever dismissive speech he had loaded behind his teeth dissolves. He clears his throat and straightens in his chair.

He’s a veteran. Veterans recognize the frequency.

"You’ll receive one sack of nutritional rations per head," he says, his tone shifting from bored to professional. "Don’t ask what’s in it. Just fill your stomach so you don’t waste OXI."

I nod.

"Any archery classes in your composition?"

"No."

The soldier exchanges a look with the two men sorting stock behind him. The kind of look that carries an entire conversation in a single glance.

"You don’t have a marksman or archer?" He leans forward, his voice dropping with genuine concern. "Do you people have any idea what’s coming over that horizon? You need fire support."

I let a dry, sarcastic smile cross my face. The sheer absurdity of this man—who has never seen Lola open her case—lecturing me about fire support.

"You just need to give me the supplies on the list, right?" I say, keeping my voice flat. "I’ve been watching the line. It’s rations and ammunition. Since we don’t have a bowman or firearms, how about you swap the ammo allocation for Scales?"

"Scales?" The soldier lets out another sigh. He reaches under the table and pulls open a drawer that groans with the specific protest of metal that hasn’t moved in a long time. He drops a small leather pouch on the table.

"Here. If you need more, collect them in the field. We don’t have surplus. Now get out of my face. Next!"

Five sacks of military ration, one pound each. And the pouch.

[Pouch: 300 Scales]

I suppress the urge to plant my fist in his jaw and walk away from the table.

I distribute the rations to the squad. Then I crouch down beside Lola, holding the pouch of Scales in front of her.

"You know what to do with these, right?"

Lola’s face splits into a mischievous grin. She gives me a slow, deliberate thumbs up.

I stand and address the group. "I need to study the terrain. Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes."

Everyone nods. As I turn to leave, fingers close around the edge of my sleeve.

I look back. Rhayne is holding the fabric, her storm-cloud eyes fixed on mine.

"Be careful," she says.

I pull my arm free without answering. I don’t have time for careful. I have time for fast.

I take a nearby staircase two steps at a time, climbing toward the top of the Great Wall.

The ramparts open up beneath the Star-studded sky of Lost Ark. From up here, the full geometry of the city’s defense becomes clear. The wall curves in a wide crescent facing the open desert, anchored at both ends by the natural cliff face that forms the city’s back. One side completely protected by geology. Smart. Nature did half the engineering as I predicted.

I scan the wall’s structure. Heavy repeating ballistae at regular intervals. Ammunition crates stacked in alcoves. Soldiers taking positions with the unhurried confidence of a routine they’ve drilled into muscle memory.

I’m not looking at their positions. I’m looking for Lola’s.

Her aim is terrible. That’s a fixed variable I can’t change. What I can change is the geometry. If I find the right position—elevated, narrow firing lane, limited lateral spread—I can minimize her collateral damage and maximize the area of effect.

I walk the rampart, counting paces, measuring angles, running ballistic calculations against the slope of the terrain outside the wall.

There.

A small stone tower sits above the main wall line—a decorative protrusion, probably structural reinforcement that someone decided to put a roof on. It has a single narrow window, barely two feet wide.

Too small for an adult.

Perfect for a fourteen-year-old girl with a weapon case bigger than she is.

The firing angle covers a thirty-degree sweep of the approach from the main gate. The stone walls on either side act as natural blast shields, containing the lateral shockwave of Lullaby’s discharge. And the elevated position means if her projectile travels on a downward trajectory, it reduces the chance of friendly fire on the wall defenders below.

I make a mental note and keep moving.

As I pass the ballistae crews and their positioned guards, I reach the edge of the rampart directly above the main gate. I look down.

My heart accelerates. Not from fear.

From recognition.

"I missed the trenches," I murmur to myself.

Below me, an enormous battalion—two thousand soldiers, maybe more—stands in perfect formation outside the main gate. Rows of infantry flanked by mounted Ferredon cavalry, all facing the open desert in disciplined silence.

Boris is riding his Ferredon along the front line, moving with the restless energy of a man who was born for exactly this moment. His voice carries all the way up to the ramparts, deep and commanding, cutting through the desert air like a war drum.

"WEDGE FORMATION!"

In unison—instantly, without hesitation—the entire battalion shifts.

Two thousand bodies move as one, reorganizing into a massive V-shape pointed directly at the incoming threat. The front edge of the wedge is a wall of shields and heavy weapons. The flanks angle backward, creating a funnel designed to absorb a charge and redirect its momentum into a kill zone.

"LOST! ARK!" they roar in unison, the sound echoing off the cliffs.

Ahhh... Best job I ever had!

It’s textbook. It’s beautiful.

The next sound reaches me before the sight confirms it.

A low, continuous vibration that isn’t coming from the soldiers. It’s coming from the desert. From the ground itself. A deep, rumbling frequency that climbs through the stone of the wall and settles into my molars.

Marching. Heavy. Not human.

I look toward the horizon. I don’t need the telescope this time.

The dust cloud is visible with the naked eye now—a massive, churning wall of brown and red stretching across the entire width of the desert floor. Beneath it, shapes. Thousands of shapes. Moving fast, pouring over the dunes like a tide of dark water flooding a basin.

The Great Red Tide.

It’s close.

Very close.

I take one last look at the formation below. At Boris riding the line. At the soldiers gripping their weapons. At the city behind me, full of people who have survived this before and will try to survive it again.

Then I turn and head back down the stairs.

I take one last look at the formation below. At Boris riding the line. At the soldiers gripping their weapons. At the city behind me, full of people who have survived this before and will try to survive it again.

My OXI is full. My blade is hungry.

Time to introduce myself.