Chapter 39 Over three hundred deaths now. Francis woke to the familiar sound of the morning bell and the even more familiar sensation of phantom pain where an Ursaloth's claws had torn through his ribs. He stared at the ceiling of the barracks, letting the memory of that death settle into the growing collection he carried with him. "You're doing it again," Michael muttered from the next bed over. "That thing where you wake up and just stare at nothing." "Just thinking," Francis replied, sitting up and beginning the routine of getting dressed. The words were automatic now, a deflection he'd perfected over hundreds of loops.