The sun went down, and the cold came up.
It wasn't the weather. The night air in the valley was mild, insulated by the hundreds of campfires burning within. The cold was inside me.
I had been lying motionless for two hours, waiting for the heavy, rhythmic snoring of the tent to signal that the coast was clear. But the stillness was costing me.
Without movement, my Alloy Flesh was beginning to rebel. The mana-infused muscles were cooling down, loosing their hydraulic-like fluidity. I could feel the fibers in my legs tightening, locking up like a cooling engine block. My fingers were curling into claws, and it took a conscious, grinding effort just to keep them flat against the mattress.
The pain wasn't sharp; it was a dull, crushing pressure, as if gravity were slowly turning up the dial on my bones.
Fuel, my cells screamed. Heat.
I gritted my teeth. If I didn't move soon, I wouldn't be able to move at all. I'd be a statue by morning, rusted shut in my own skin.
I shifted my weight. The cot frame groaned under my unnatural density-a sound like a gunshot in the quiet tent.
"Going somewhere?"
The whisper came from the darkness across the tent. Jace.
The veteran was lying on his side, his one ear pressed to the pillow, but his aura-that dense, eroded grey stone-was awake. He hadn't moved, but his attention was fixed on me.
"Nature calls." I lied, my voice rasping like a file on iron.
"Nature calls, or the stomach calls?" Jace asked quietly. "I hear that engine you call a stomach growling, kid. You run hot. Too hot for gruel."
I paused, halfway to the flap. "I need food, Jace. If I don't eat, I lock up."
Jace sighed, shifting on his mattress. "Listen to me. The Supply Depot isn't just guarded by sleepy recruits. The inner tents-the ones with the real food-have wards. Simple ones, but they ring a bell if you break them."
"I see them," I said. "They look like tripwires made of light."
Jace paused. He didn't ask how I saw them. He had heard from fellow Lifters what happened in the Training Ground and knew not to ask me questions he didn't want the answers to.
"You steal an apple, nobody cares," Jace warned. "You steal the General's beef? That's theft of military property. That's a flogging. You steal his wine? That's a hanging."
"I'm not looking for wine," I said, convincing myself. "Just meat. Just fuel."
"You're walking dead," Jace muttered, turning his back to me. "Don't scream when they catch you. I need my sleep."
I slipped out of the tent.
The camp at night was a different beast. The noise of the drill sergeants was gone, replaced by the low hum of countless sleeping men.
I moved through the Logistics sector. To me, the world was a map of hazards.
The sentries were the easy part. They were mostly Rank 1 conscripts, bored and tired. Their auras were dim, flickering cones of white light. I could see exactly where they were looking and, more importantly, where they weren't.
I slipped through the shadows, timing my movements to the rhythm of their patrols. My heavy boots made no sound in the mud-I used my control over my own density to soften the impact, stepping with a calculated lightness that contrasted my weight.
I reached the inner perimeter of the Supply Depot.
Jace was right. There were wards.
Stretched between the tent poles were thin, vibrating lines of Yellow Mana. Earth magic. If I touched them, they would snap, triggering an alarm spell.
Amateur work, I analyzed.
I didn't try to disarm them. I didn't have the mana to counter-spell. Instead, I looked for the flaw.
Everything has a flaw.
Except me.
The line near the ground was sagging. The mana density there was thin, frayed by the damp earth.
I dropped to my stomach. I didn't crawl; I dragged myself, flattening my chest against the mud, sliding under the wire with an inch to spare.
I was in.
The smell hit me instantly.
It was a physical assault. Smoked ham. Wheels of cheese. Salted beef.
I scrambled toward the nearest crate. I didn't bother with stealth anymore. My body took over.
I ripped the lid off with a sound of splintering wood.
Inside were rows of...cure sausages? The smell was the tell.
I grabbed one. I didn't chew; I devoured.
Grease and salt exploded in my mouth. The vitality stored in the meat hit my stomach like a flare. My digestion system, overclocked by my mutation, broke it down instantly.
A wave of warmth rushed through my veins. The lock in my knees shattered. The stiffness in my shoulders metled.
I ate another. Then a block of cheese. Then a loaf of stale bread.
I ate until my stomach hurt, until the 'Alloy' felt pliable and hydraulic again. I stood up, wiping grease of my chin. I felt strong. I felt my muscles fibers power thrumming under my skin.
I should go, I thought. I'm full. I'm safe.
I turned to leave.
And then I saw it.
It was sitting on a separate table, set apart from the food like a holy relic. A smaller, reinforced crate that I had unloaded earlier that day.
The lid was loose.
Through the darkness of the open lid, a soft, pulsating glow spilled out.
It wasn't the white light of vitality. It was Purple. Deep, rich, and vibrating with a complexity that made the mana in the air taste sweet.
The Vintage Wine.
I froze.
No, I told myself. Jace said it's a hanging.
I took a step toward the exit.
But just look at it, the other voice whispered. The voice that sounded like rain in an alley. It's beautiful. It's been aging for twenty years just for this moment.
I stopped. I looked back.
The Purple light seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat. It wasn't just alcohol. It was high-grade alchemical wine. It should be warm. It would be fuzzy. It would make the mud and the blood and the fear go away for a few hours.
I deserve a reward, I reasoned. I survived lightning. I survived Edgar. I hauled rocks all day for a boy who treats me like furniture.
I walked over to the crate. My hands were trembling, not from hunger, but from anticipation.
I lifted the bottle. It was heavy glass, cold to the touch.
I popped the cork.
The scent wafted up-berries, oak, and pure mana.
Just a sip, I promised the empty net. To settle the stomach.
I tipped the bottle back.
The liquid flowed down my throat like liquid velvet. It hit my core and expanded. The warmth wasn't just physical; it was emotional. The sharp edges of the world softened. The anxiety of being a grunt soldier in a war that had no relevance to me faded into a comfortable background hum.
"Oh," I whispered, lowering the bottle. "That is... that is art."
I looked at the bottle. It was half empty.
Well, I thought, a grin spreading across my face as the buzz set in. Can't put the cork back in now. It would spoil.
I finished the bottle in three large, sensual gulps.
Then I grabbed a second one.
And then, I heard music.
Laughter. The clinking of glasses. It was coming from the Officer's Mess, just across the depot yard.
It sounded warm. It sounded inviting.
I looked down at my muddy clothes. I looked at the second bottle in my hand.
I'm celebrating, I decided, the drunk logic taking the wheel with a confident grip. And parties are better with company.
I stumbled out of the supply tent, leaving the empty bottle rolling on the floor, and headed toward the lights.