The guards don’t speak. Professional silence that’s somehow worse than threats would be.
My thoughts drift despite my efforts to stay present. Memories flood back. Luke’s hand catching mine during the crash. His voice steady in the darkness—I’ve got you. The way he looked at me in that cave when I thought we’d die together.
All gone now.
They’ll dissect me. Study what makes a hybrid burn with dragonfire and witch flame. Parade my execution as proof that their ideology is right.
And he won’t even know it happened.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I just feel empty.
Because he’s dead.
I bite back a tiny sob, still determined not to show the bastards any sign of weakness.
Screw them.
I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken.
Not that they’d care.
Fucking minions.
The truck keeps moving, branches scraping along the sides occasionally. The road must be narrow.
Maybe twenty minutes into the drive, something shifts.
The guards grow restless. One mutters into his comm; low voice, words I can’t quite catch through the fabric and rumble of the engine. His voice sharpens.
“Driver, confirm route.”
Static.
“Driver, respond.” Strident now.
More static. Then a voice, distorted through the partition: “Road construction. Taking alternate route.”
Guard One: “That wasn’t in the brief.”
I feel Guard Two shift beside me. The distinct click of a safety disengaging.
The vehicle slows.
My pulse kicks despite the resignation. Despite knowing there’s nowhere to run, even if something’s wrong.
We pull off the road; I feel the transition. Gravel to rough ground. The suspension protests as we navigate what must be an unpaved track.
Then the engine cuts.
Silence crashes in. So sudden it rings in my ears.
Guard One: “What the hell is—?”
The partition window scrapes open.
Gunshots. Two quick cracks that punch through the confined space.
I flinch. Pull against restraints that don’t budge. Terror floods through me.
