It’s choosing him.
And I might be the only one who can bring him back.
CHAPTER 27
NAULL
The desert burns brighter than any battlefield I’ve known. Wind uproots dunes like tiny armies marching, dust swirling in riotous revolts against gravity. I stand on the ridge overlooking the site—my boots sinking into ash-sand, smell of ozone already searing in my nose. The thunder of Nexxus mechs echoes behind me, their armor glinting under the sun, silent sentinels waiting.
Before me, the machine warps into focus. It doesn’t ride on tracks. It doesn’t roar with engines. Itglows.
Divine.
Cathedral wings of light and metal stretch upward. Razor-shaped spires pierce the sky. The structure hums—not mechanical groan, but something alive. Something sentient. A promise of dominion. A herald of new order.
This is Spectra’s machine.
Whiplash boots beside me; her sensors flare gold. Aria is strapped in next to me—face lit by hazard-light and determination. The Meld link is live, knotting our minds. Sweat beads on my forehead, taste metallic. My heart is louder than the wind. The mech’s panel air tastes of scorched circuitry and betrayal.
"Do you feel that?" I growl through the comm.
Aria’s reply is matter-of-fact, but her voice shakes. "She’s scared."
I glance at her, visor reflection splitting her face into two. "She’s us. Of course she is."
Spectra’s voice crackles across comm-channels—not voice exactly but rhythm. Rhyme. Chanting.
"The child will be our Messiah.
The broken bond becomes the bridge.
The one who unites the fissures—he shall lead the new age."
My blood turns to fire. The words coil around me like chains. Garma.Our son.This was never about Trimantium. It was about him.
Aria touches my shoulder. The thought of her in my mind:Not his father yet. Not mine fully. Fragment. Weapon. Anchor.
I take her hand in the cockpit. Our fingers lace through Gauntlet and suit controls.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready," she says.
We launch.
The desert breaks beneath us—wind claws at the armor, sand floods the intake vents, the mech joints scream. Whiplash keels into motion. I feel her muscles in the frame. The Meld surges. But something stutters. The link jitters. Data flickers. I taste static.
Spectra’s machine roars in response, luminous energy flaring from its wings, the ground cracking beneath its weight. The Nexxus flank mechs advance like an army born of shadows.
"Target lock," Aria announces.
"Firing sequence ready," I say.
The cockpit shudders. Trimantium cables lash out.
But the Meld fractures again. Her mental voice echoes through mine:No. Not yet.
The world pauses.
