No one argued. No one looked for a badge on his arm. They just followed.
He didn’t need a stripe anymore. He didn’t need Thorne’s approval, or a real army’s rank, or a promotion to a meaningless title.
He lifted his head. The gas was curling back in. The tunnel was gone—replaced by a crater of fresh, wet earth.
It erupted with a hollow thump , rising on its piston of death. Eli threw himself flat, face into the dirt, as the steel rain sang overhead. He felt a tug at his shoulder—a shard cutting through his tunic, missing flesh by a finger’s width. His left ear rang with a high, silver note.
One by one, shadows moved. Sourer, sobbing. The twins, holding each other. Pod, checking Mite for wounds. Finch, staring at Eli with something new in his eyes. Not fear. Respect.