The air was thick with the acrid scent of discharged lasrifle power packs, mingling with the sharp tang of blood. The last echoes of gunfire had faded into the desert, leaving only the crackling of small fires and the laboured breathing of the wounded. I knelt by Rakoczy, his hand clutching weakly at my sleeve. His uniform was dark with blood, the wound in his side gaping, beyond any aid we could offer.

He coughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "Good fight," he muttered. "You kept your head." His fingers twitched against my sleeve, then went slack. The breath left him in a quiet exhale, his eyes staring past me, past everything.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. Around me, the others moved with purpose, securing the station, finishing the wounded. I felt Mona before I saw her, her presence like a warm draught against my frayed nerves.

She crouched beside me, her exotic scent cutting through the stench of battle. "He was a strong man," she murmured, placing a hand lightly on Rakoczy’s chest. "A necessary loss."

I wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t necessary at all, but the words died before I could voice them. Mona's fingers pressed lightly against my wrist, a comforting weight. "Jagiełło will need someone to step into his place."

I turned to her, mouth dry. "Not me."

Mona smiled, that knowing, patient smile of hers. "We shall see."

A shadow loomed over us. Jagiełło had arrived, his sharp eyes flickering between Rakoczy's lifeless form and me. He nodded once. "Unfortunate." His gaze settled on me, unreadable. "Mona says you have potential. Do you agree?"

I shook my head. "I'm a miner. Not a leader."

"And yet," Mona said, voice gentle, "you are still here."

Jagiełło studied me for a moment longer, then turned away. "We will speak later."

I stared down at Rakoczy’s still face, my stomach churning. I had survived. But at what cost?