The “hospital” is a line of canvas shelters lashed to broken cargo crates, sunk in mud that smells like ash and burnt wiring. Medicae-Sergeant Elowen Markham counts what’s left—too few bandages, too little foam, one day of pain suppressors—and keeps her hands steady while the sky flashes an unnatural green.

Then a runner summons her to Marshal Halder with an order she’s never heard in the same sentence: bring your tags… and your oath papers.

Inside the rigid command shelter, Halder doesn’t ask about her medical work. He asks about her worship. About the words she won’t speak over the dead. About the God she won’t rename to match Dominion forms. And to make the question bite, he drags in a bound trooper—Lannis—sentenced to die at dusk, and tells Elowen to keep him alive long enough to stand for his execution.

Before the hearing can end, the casualty lane erupts: hand-sized metal things skitter through the mud, slicing cots, chewing through gear, learning what the regiment protects. Kyras Vane turns panic into a stomp-line. Jexa Quill calls it what it is—a probe.

When Elowen returns to Halder, the last question lands like a blade: If God commands one thing and the Dominion another—who wins?

Dusk is coming. So is the next wave. And Elowen has already been marked.

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