I snarled, slamming my fist into the console hard enough to crack the panel. Sparks hissed. The ship shuddered in protest.
“Damn you, Nythor,” I growled into the dark.
He had takenmyElla and thought he could use her to steal what was meant for me, for us, for all Arkhevari. I had to get to Earth. That was where this ended. That was what Nythor wanted.
But where in the seven supernovas was Earth?
I clenched the edge of the console until it bent beneath my hand, metal shrieking in protest. I didn’t even know which galaxy it was in, which star it circled, or which quadrant of space held her home. Neither did Ella. She wouldn’t lead him there—she couldn’t.
And yet he had taken her.
I slammed my fist down again. The crack of pain traveled up my arm, but it was nothing—nothing—compared to the hollow tearing at my chest.
Where would he go?
I forced myself to breathe, to think past the roar of my fury. Nythor’s mind was a labyrinth, twisted with shadows and riddles, but even he needed information. If he wanted Earth, he needed someone who knew where to find it.
I stopped and forced my rage down. Watched as the black retreated into a golden glow. I needed to stay calm if I wanted to figure out where Nythor took her. I was no use to her like this. Slowly, I forced a few more breaths.Called her image up—her soothing presence—gradually, all the black faded, and I was able to form a coherent thought.
Only two factions in this cursed galaxy had that knowledge.
The Pandraxians. And the Cryons.
I narrowed my eyes. He wouldn’t go to the Pandraxians—not when he knew that was exactly where I had been headed. Not when he knew I would tear the empire down to find her.
Which left only one choice.
The Cryons.
Before the Black Void could take over my mind again, I forced it back. Another thought occurred to me. Nythor. I placed my fingers to my temple and pushed a thread of will into the void:Nythor—where are you?
The reply came like a shattered mirror, snatches of images, riddled syllables, a warbling that made my teeth ache. Nythor’s mind was a ruined temple of riddles at the best of times; now it was fractured, panicked, a child trying on masks.
…stars like spilled ink… / the mouth of the machine sings / taste the gray honey / the brood gathers / take the light / take the light?—
Jumbled, dissonant, each fragment snapping my nerves raw. Then a cut; a flaring scene slammed into me. Cold metal. A yawning hangar. Cryons—tall and gray and too-quiet—clustered like weeds. Their black eyes were empty, reflecting nothing but hunger. And with them, grotesque and immovable, were some Moggadesh: hulkingsilhouettes of cracked obsidian and ember-heat, cavernous mouths and shoulders like ramparts. They moved with the blunt certainty of siege engines.
Between the two packs moved smaller figures—spindly, green-eyed Ohrurs—whose long, thin limbs carried devices and sensors. One of them leveled a hand toward a ramp. Below that hand, shackles clinked against something human.
Ella,the image cut sharp and clean into my skull: her arm seized, her face upturned, the flash of panic, the pale light of the cylinder reflected in her eyes as they dragged her forward. An Ohrur leaned in close and sniffed like a butcher appraising a carcass.Excellent breeding stock,his thoughts hissed, clinical and slick.
I stopped. I forced the rage back under the surface—let the black recede so the gold could rise. If the black took hold now, I would lose her entirely: fury without direction was a maw that only fed itself. I breathed. I forced the soothing filament of her image into my mind—the small laugh that had come when she'd hit me with the rock, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she smelled like rain and old books. Little by little, the jag of panic dulled and clarity returned.
Nythor’s next fragment was a stuttered riddle, words plucked like rotten fruit.We ride the trade-ways / where bones gather coin / the hive remembers the old purchase / the bridge of bryx sings into cold.None of it made any sense. I was about to drop our connection when his scattered laughter stopped me; it was nothing buta dry sound in my head.You will not be quick enough, wind-blood,he crooned, and for a moment, hatred flickered under the madness.But follow. You do not yet know how to hold the old maps.His thought spun into a riddle about:seek the forge that bleeds light into shadow.
Where red suns feed on the hollow and the hollow dreams back.
There the hunger waits—whispering of gods who forgot their names.
I didn’t need riddles now. I needed coordinates.
I needed an Ohrur.
I stalked into a merchant stall with fury churning in my gut. It hadn't taken me long to find this place and to get here. Thankfully, the Ohrurs were spread throughout the universe, so some werealways close by. Still, every heartbeat Ella spent in danger without me was a heartbeat too long.
The place smelled of metal polish and fried food, a dozen small-screen holos flickered across counters, and traders squabbled over credits. I should have been anonymous, taking care not to make a spectacle of myself, but I was beyond caring. The air changed when I moved through it. Conversations died. Holovids stuttered.
An Ohrur clerk looked up from his ledger, all long limbs and practiced composure. His face went pale the moment his eyes met mine. I didn't bother with posturing. I brought the blaster down in one clean motion and put the muzzle to his forehead.
