Chapter 3: Awakening Song
964 Words
“You're still thinking about the girl," said Captain Ward, sipping bitter coffee on the palace balcony.
Ashton didn't look up. “She's not a girl."
“Then who is she?"
“I don't know," Ashton muttered. “But I'll recognize her voice when I hear it again."
Ward exhaled. “We've scanned every nurse, every staff record. Dead ends. Maybe it was just... something you imagined during the coma."
“I don't imagine things. I analyze."
“Fine. So what's the plan now? Keep auditioning every servant in the Empire?"
Ashton's eyes narrowed toward the courtyard, where a choir of stable girls practiced hymns. “If I have to."
---
At the city border, Erin tied her hair beneath a medic's cap and signed off another shipment manifest.
“Another thirty kits for Southport," said the quartermaster. “That's your third request this week, Reena."
“Conditions there are unstable," she replied. “Post‑campaign infection clusters. We're avoiding another outbreak."
He leaned in. “You used to work at one of the research branches, didn't you? Your paperwork's… clean, but too perfect."
She smiled coldly. “You shouldn't ask questions in this line of work."
That shut him up.
Outside, she loaded boxes into the back of a relief truck. A volunteer girl tossed her a waterskin. “You hear? The general himself is coming down to inspect us."
Erin paused. “Ashton Drake?"
“Yeah. Mr. Perfect Spine. Thought he'd stay in the capital eating medals."
Erin said nothing, just tightened the straps on the crates.
---
In the palace rehearsal hall, another singer failed to impress.
“That's the third one this week," Ashton muttered, rubbing his temples. “None of them match."
Ward watched him. “You're chasing a ghost, General. People are starting to talk."
“Let them talk."
He stood, ignoring the wince in his still-healing shoulder.
“Where are you going?"
“South."
Ward stared. “Excuse me?"
“Border inspection. Send the orders. I want an embedded escort unit. Tell Parliament I'm checking logistics."
“Is this about the relief convoy—or her?"
Ashton met his eyes. “Yes."
---
Two days later, in a canvas tent along the Southern Road, Erin read over the decoded message in her lap:
> “Unregistered biotech equipment diverted. Destination: Site 11-Beta, coordinates match sector near Southport."
She murmured, “They're moving again."
Carlos, now posing as a field runner, peeked in. “Convoy's leaving in thirty."
“Any word on the inspection?"
“Yeah. The rumors were true. Ashton Drake's scheduled to visit the Southport field site by end of week."
Erin's pen froze above the chart. “Does he travel with full guard?"
“Minimal escort this time. And the press."
“Of course."
Carlos hesitated. “Should we reroute?"
She shook her head. “No. If he's coming, we keep moving."
“You sure?"
“I need to be there. If the Institute is consolidating assets, we're running out of time."
Carlos left. Erin closed the folder and whispered, “And if he recognizes me, we'll both run out of time."
---
Ashton adjusted his coat as the relief convoy swayed over muddy roads.
A lieutenant beside him muttered, “These border missions are a waste of your talents."
Ashton didn't reply.
Then—music.
A stable girl walking beside the truck hummed, soft and slow.
He leaned out. “You. What's that tune?"
She stopped mid-step. “Just something I picked up from the kitchens, sir."
“Where?"
“I don't remember. One of the medics sang it during injections to calm kids down."
His heartbeat slowed. “Who?"
“I... don't know her name. Small. Quiet. Dark hair."
His hand gripped the side rail. “Where is she now?"
“She rode ahead with the Southport team."
He closed his eyes, pulse thundering.
Found you.
---
Erin stood outside the manor, clipboard in hand, when thunder cracked in the distance. Rain was coming.
“Reena!" barked the steward. “Unload those crates before the road turns to soup!"
“Yes, sir."
She dragged the first box off the wagon when a medic's voice called behind her.
“We've got a problem! Roadblock ahead—truck flipped!"
Erin turned fast. “Anyone hurt?"
“Don't know yet! The wreck's two clicks back."
“I'm going."
She grabbed her satchel and sprinted toward the southern bend as raindrops began to fall.
---
The scene was chaos. One truck overturned, crates shattered, medkits scattered across mud.
A bloodied officer lay beneath the wreckage.
Erin dropped to her knees beside him.
Shrapnel. Possible rib fractures. Moderate bleeding. She reached for a clotting agent—
Then froze.
The insignia on his shoulder.
The face, half-masked in dirt and blood.
Ashton Drake.
Panic threatened to seize her lungs. But her hands didn't hesitate.
“Med-pack!" she shouted. “I need sedation and a splint!"
She pressed a stabilizer against his neck.
His eyes flickered.
She held his face. “Don't move."
He looked at her through rain-blurred lashes.
She didn't speak again.
---
The stretcher creaked as they loaded him into the emergency transport wagon.
“Nearest secure site?" the medic asked.
“Southport Manor," Erin said quickly. “He'll be safer there."
“Are you sure?"
She nodded. “I've worked there. I know the layout. We can control contamination risk."
He didn't question it. She climbed into the transport, rain soaking her collar.
Ashton moaned faintly.
She brushed hair from his forehead, a reflex she couldn't suppress.
“I'm sorry," she whispered. “You weren't supposed to be part of this."
She didn't notice the faint smudge her glove left on his breastplate.
Nor the way his fingers curled at the sound of her voice.
- Writer
