The noise of the bar wrapped around me like a blanket—laughter, the brassy scrape of stools, the metallic ring when glasses met. It had been a long time since anything felt ordinary. The unit had been a home once; tonight, for the first time in years, this table had that same crooked, dangerous warmth.
Kenneth Copeland stood up, glass lifted. He was all rough edges and easy command, the kind of man you followed because he made it feel like the only sensible thing to do. “To Kael,” he said, smirking. “You fought like hell today. That’s exactly what we need. So—welcome him properly. And you bastards better take care of him.”
Glasses rose, a chorus of good-natured hoots. I let the drink sit warm in my hand, feeling the solidarity in the room more than the alcohol. Around me were men I’d onl
