He adjusts my stance. My grip. My weight. He’s gentle, despite the bulk, the claws. Precise. He doesn’t touch more than needed, but every movement of his feels… reverent.
He steps back. “Now show me.”
I try. Swing. Awkward. Unbalanced.
He grunts. “Again.”
I do.
Again.
Again.
Until sweat beads under my collar and my arms ache and the blade doesn’t feel foreign anymore. It feels earned.
When I finally stop, he takes it from me, slides it back into its sheath with a softshick.
“You’re not helpless,” he says.
“I know.”
He steps closer. Not looming—anchoring.
“We lose,” he says again, “we go down swinging.”
I look up at him. “Together.”
He nods.
And the word settles between us like a vow.
CHAPTER 21
ROJA
The bastard’s face is everywhere.
Vasso, the Coalition cleric—smug bastard with palms dirtier than a drill pit—plastered across every nodefeed, every overhead broadcast, every projection wall from the Old Dock sector to the Garden Fringe. Caught mid-sentence in a pixelated clip while shackled at the wrists, dragged down Coalition steps in front of a hundred screaming protestors.
They’re calling it an “unprecedented internal investigation.” That’s spin. That’s a lie.
They didn’t lift a finger until we forced their hand.
Kelsea sits behind me, quiet, blade across her lap like it belongs there. She hasn’t said much. Doesn’t need to. I can feel her breathing. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
I tilt my head, watching the clip again. Vasso’s eyes flick around like a cornered rat, nostrils flaring, the kind of face that folds under pressure. Coalition brass in full regalia stand stone-faced behind him—angling for optics, not justice. The reporters bark questions. One protestor throws a vial of ink; it splatters across Vasso’s coat like blood.
“About time,” I mutter.
Kelsea doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of the blade edge against the floor as she sharpens it slow, methodical. Preparing.
I like that about her. No panic. No pretense.
I look out the safehouse window. The streets below are chaos—protestors chanting for resignations, executions, both. Smoke curls from trash bins lit on fire. The air’s thick with burnt ozone and sweat and righteous fury.
But none of this means we’ve won.
“Roja.”
