《The Three Musketteers》 The Three Musketteers Chapter 1: The Three Musketteers They called us the Three Musketeers¡ªDanny, Larkson, and me. In Afghanistan, where every day felt like a gamble, our bond was the only thing keeping us sane. Danny was the loud one, always cracking jokes, making us laugh even when the world around us felt unbearable. Larkson, the quiet one, grounded us with his calm and steady presence. And me? I was James, the one trying to hold it all together. We had our routines. Danny would barter candy from care packages with locals in search of the ¡°perfect tea.¡± Larkson carried a small notebook everywhere, sketching anything that caught his eye¡ªthe jagged mountain ridges, kids playing in the dirt, or the rusted-out trucks abandoned on the roadside. ¡°This place isn¡¯t just a battlefield,¡± he said once. ¡°Someday, I¡¯ll make a book for my kids. Show them what this place was really like.¡± That morning started like any other. We were on patrol near a small village, the sun just beginning to rise over the mountains. The air was cool, and for a moment, the desert felt peaceful. Larkson walked ahead of us, sketching the peaks in his notebook, muttering about how the early light made them look like they were floating. Danny and I trailed behind, joking about the bets he always lost. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Then, out of nowhere, the sharp crack of a sniper rifle shattered the stillness. Larkson dropped instantly, his notebook slipping from his hands and landing in the dirt, pages fluttering open. Danny and I hit the ground, adrenaline surging as we scanned the ridges for the shooter. When I crawled over to Larkson, my heart stopped. A single, clean shot had hit him right in the eye. I yelled for the medics, even though deep down I knew it was too late. His body was still, his face pale, and his notebook lay open beside him, the last sketch unfinished. Danny crawled up beside me, his usual grin replaced by a look of disbelief. ¡°No,¡± he whispered, shaking his head. ¡°No, no, no.¡± The medics arrived, but there was nothing they could do. Larkson was gone. We carried him back to the convoy in silence, his notebook clutched in my hands. Later that night, I flipped through its pages, each sketch a reminder of the man who had seen beauty in a place most of us only saw as a battlefield. The last page was unfinished¡ªa pair of mountain peaks, their shadows stretching across the valley. I stared at it for hours, wondering what he would have drawn next. Losing Larkson felt like losing a part of ourselves. Danny tried to mask his grief with humor, but I could see the cracks forming. As for me, I kept Larkson¡¯s notebook close, a reminder of who he was and what he left behind. The Three Musketeers were down to two, and nothing would ever be the same. Chapter 2: Danny鈥檚 Letter The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Chapter 3: The Weight of Survival Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Chapter 4: The Fire on My Arm If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Chapter 5: The Leg Ripper, John Chapter 5: The Leg Ripper, John John wasn¡¯t one of us. Not really. He¡¯d only been with the unit for a few weeks, a transfer from another squad after his own had suffered heavy losses. People respected him, sure¡ªanyone who could come back to the front lines after losing a leg deserved respect. But respect didn¡¯t mean connection. He wasn¡¯t Danny. He wasn¡¯t Larkson. And in a war like this, it was hard to let new people in, knowing how easily they could be gone the next day. He didn¡¯t talk much about his past, only dropping hints here and there. The nickname "The Leg Ripper" came up once, during a patrol. Someone asked him about it, and he just shrugged, ¡°IED blew my leg off. Almost took the other one, too. Thought it¡¯d finish the job, but guess I was too stubborn to die.¡± That was it. No dramatic story, no emotion. Just the facts. The mission was brutal from the start¡ªan uphill climb in unforgiving terrain, tasked with rooting out insurgents who had made the cliffs their fortress. The ridges were narrow, the paths barely wide enough to walk, and every step felt like it could be your last. John was ahead of me, climbing with an efficiency that seemed almost inhuman, even with his prosthetic. Then the gunfire started. A sniper, perched somewhere above, let loose, the crack of the rifle echoing through the valley. ¡°Move! Move!¡± the squad leader shouted, and we all scrambled for what little cover the cliffside offered. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. John was exposed, climbing ahead of the rest of us. A round zipped by, sparking off the rocks near him. He paused for half a second¡ªhalf a second too long. Another shot rang out, and I saw his prosthetic falter on the loose rock. He slipped, arms flailing as he lost his balance. I reached out, instinct kicking in, but he was too far. I watched as he tumbled down the ridge, his body hitting the rocks again and again before disappearing into the depths below. The sound of the impact echoed through the valley, but no one said a word. We didn¡¯t stop¡ªnot because we didn¡¯t care, but because we couldn¡¯t. The mission came first. It always did. When the firefight was over, we went back, dragging ourselves down the ridge to where John¡¯s body had come to rest. He was gone, his prosthetic shattered beside him. No one cried. There weren¡¯t any speeches or heartfelt goodbyes. He hadn¡¯t been with us long enough for that. Someone muttered, ¡°Poor guy,¡± and another nodded. Then we carried him back, as we always did, and moved on. I didn¡¯t think much about John after that, at least not right away. He was just another name, another face in a war full of them. But later, when I was alone, I found myself replaying the moment he fell. His determination, his drive to prove himself¡ªeven when no one really knew him. It stuck with me in a way I didn¡¯t expect. He may not have been one of us in life, but in death, he was another weight we carried. And whether we cared or not, he became a part of our story, whether we wanted him to or not. Chapter 6: Richard Newoll Garrison, The Kingpin This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.