I held her. Let myself have this moment. This quiet. This peace.
Because I knew it wouldn’t last.
A sharp hiss of static shattered the silence, vibrating right against Carys's collarbone.
"Brevan. We have a problem."
The synthesized voice was flat, loud, and came directly from the silver chain around her neck.
I flinched, my combat instincts overriding my exhaustion. I snatched up my blaster and aimed at the tunnel entrance before my brain finally registered the source.
Carys bolted upright, gasping as she scrambled away from the noise at her throat. Her hand clawed at the necklace, eyes wide and unfocused. "What?—?"
"It's the cat," I realized, lowering the weapon but keeping my finger on the trigger guard. My heart was hammering against my ribs. "He hacked the audio feed."
"Flinx?" She gripped the pendant, staring at it.
"What is it?" I demanded, shifting into a crouch.
Flinx’s voice crackled again, tinny but distinct.
“How?” I looked at Carys. “The collar is gone.”
She was already moving, her eyes wide. She pointed to the bundle of torn silver fabric on the floor. “The dress. Tarsus gave it to me. He must have woven a tracker into the fabric.”
Flinx jumped onto the ruined dress, his optics scanning it.
Flinx warned.
I found my clothes. I pulled on my pants, then grabbed my shirt.
“Here.” I threw the shirt to Carys.
She pulled it on. It was huge on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, but it was cover.
“The dress,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “Bring the dress. The tracker is our only advantage.”
She scooped up the bundle of torn fabric. I put on my jacket, the Regalia heavy in its inner pocket.
Flinx scrambled onto my shoulder.
We moved. Away from the entrance. Deeper into the ruins. Following passages that led into darkness.
Behind us, I heard boots. Weapons. Orders being shouted.
They were coming.
We ran through the ancient chambers. Stone blocks. Carved archways. Evidence of whoever had lived here before.
The passage narrowed. Twisted. Led down a steep incline.
“Where are we going?” Carys asked, her voice tight as she ran, clutching the bundled dress.
Flinx sent.
Might. Not ideal. But better than definitely dying.
