Steel Song of the Vale

The fluorescent lights of the corner grocery store buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles of canned goods and packaged snacks. James Carter pushed his rickety cart through the narrow lanes, his broad shoulders barely squeezing past a display of discounted cereal boxes. At fifty, he carried the weight of a life well-lived—scarred hands from combat, a slight limp from an old shrapnel wound, and eyes that had seen too much of the world's chaos. His sandy blond hair, now streaked with gray, was tied back in a messy top knot, a habit from his military days that he'd never shaken. The store was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerators and the occasional crinkle of a bag as he tossed items into his cart: canned soup, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter—simple fare for a man who lived alone. Orphaned at birth, James had never had the knack for forming attachments. His subpar looks—crooked nose from too many boxing matches, a jaw that jutted awkwardly—hadn't helped, nor had his relentless focus on learning. Engineering, metallurgy, history, politics—he'd buried himself in books when he wasn't training soldiers or sparring in the ring. Tonight, though, all he wanted was a quiet meal and a few hours with a dog-eared history tome. As he rounded the corner toward the checkout, a sharp cry cut through the stillness. His head snapped up, instincts honed in the deserts of Iraq kicking in. Near the front of the store, a young woman in a cashier's apron cowered behind the counter, her hands trembling as she stuffed cash into a bag. A man loomed over her—hooded, wiry, with a pistol in his grip, its barrel twitching nervously as he barked orders. James didn't hesitate. Dropping his cart, he moved with the silent precision of a predator, his boots barely whispering against the linoleum. He'd faced worse than this—insurgents with AKs, roadside bombs—but the adrenaline still surged, sharp and familiar. The robber was distracted, his focus on the cash, giving James an opening. He closed the distance in three strides, years of wrestling and martial arts guiding his hands as he reached for the gun. "Drop it," James growled, his voice low and commanding as he grabbed the robber's wrist, twisting it in a practiced disarm maneuver. The pistol clattered to the floor, and the robber yelped, stumbling back as James shoved him against the counter. The cashier gasped, ducking lower, but James kept his eyes on the threat, pinning the man with a knee to his back. "Stay down," he ordered, his grip unrelenting. The robber squirmed, cursing, but James had him under control—or so he thought. The screech of tires outside jolted him, followed by flashing red and blue lights spilling through the store's grimy windows. Police. Relief briefly flickered in his chest, but it was short-lived. The door burst open, and two officers stormed in, weapons drawn, shouting over each other. "Hands up! On the ground! Now! "James froze, his mind racing. He was still holding the robber, the pistol lying a few feet away, but the scene must've looked chaotic from their angle. "I'm not—" he started, raising one hand slowly, the other still pinning the struggling crook. "Down! Down!" the younger officer barked, panic edging his voice. His gun trembled slightly, finger too close to the trigger. "Listen, I'm disarming him—" James tried again, but the words were drowned out by the crack of a gunshot. Pain erupted in his chest, a searing, white-hot jolt that stole his breath. He staggered, releasing the robber as his strength drained away. The second officer yelled something incoherent, but it was distant, muffled by the roar in his ears. He hit the floor hard, the cold linoleum pressing against his cheek. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and slick, seeping through his shirt. His vision blurred, the flashing lights fading into a haze. He'd survived war zones, outsmarted death a dozen times, only to die here, in a grocery store, mistaken for the enemy. The irony wasn't lost on him, even as his thoughts scattered. As the world dimmed, a strange sensation tugged at him—not the expected tunnel of light, but a pull, like gravity shifting beneath him. His last breath rattled out, and then—nothing. Until it wasn't nothing. A sharp, piercing wail jolted him awake. Not the wail of sirens, but a woman's cry, raw and anguished. His chest ached, but it wasn't the gunshot wound—it was tight, constrained, as if his lungs were too small. He tried to move, to sit up, but his limbs felt tiny, weak, uncoordinated. Light assaulted his eyes, too bright, too soft, and he squinted against it. Hands—gentle but trembling—lifted him, cradling him against a warm body. "My boy," a voice sobbed, thick with emotion. "My sweet boy."James blinked, his vision clearing just enough to see a woman with auburn hair and tear-streaked blue eyes gazing down at him.