The blast doors sealed behind them and cut the courtyard noise down to a dull vibration.
Elias walked near the back with the medical bag biting into his shoulder. His right arm bled through the torn sleeve where the crate shrapnel had caught him. Every step made his ribs grind, but he kept his head low and his pace obedient.
He was inside the keep.
No team. No comms. No energy worth trusting. Roachaline's inner circle moved around him like he belonged at the edge of their shadow, useful enough to keep and weak enough to ignore.
The corridor was built from reinforced concrete and steel ribs. Emergency red strips ran along the floor, not the ceiling, so faces looked hollow from underneath. The walls carried the low thrum of the depot reactor. Somewhere behind them, men were still dying in the yard.
