"She's too strong," she grits.
"No," I growl, wiping blood from my chin. "She's scared."
Whiplash reels, stumbles, resets.
Another blow—this one psionic. Spectra’s voice cuts across open frequencies like a prophet drunk on power.
“The child will be our Messiah. Your bond is obsolete. Your flesh—expendable.”
My rage is instant. Visceral. I slam us forward without thinking.
"She knows," I say.
Aria doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. We both know what Spectra’s after. What she’s always been after. Garma.
This was never just about Trimantium. It was never about tech or war or control. It was abouthim. Our son. The living proof that a Meld could become something divine. Spectra wants him. Needs him. She’ll burn planets to take him.
Whiplash roars.
She tears through the Nexxus like a god on fire. Every move is faster, meaner, louder. Aria’s scream is caught somewhere between pain and fury.
“Your nose—” I start.
“I’m fine,” she snaps, wiping blood. “Just fight.”
The Meld begins to fray. Too much pain, too much emotion. The bridge between us flashes red across the HUD.
"I can’t hold it!" she shouts.
"You don’t have to!" I bark back. "Just stay with me!"
We spin through another attack, barely clearing the blast radius of Spectra’s cannon. The ground erupts behind us, a plume of ash and fractured steel. Mechs fly like shrapnel.
But then—something shifts.
The cannon swings again—but not at us.
It's aimed skyward.
Toward orbit.
Toward the station.
Towardhim.
I feel it before I see it. The way the universe seems to lurch sideways. Time slows. Aria gasps. The Meld stutters—and then fuses.
Whiplash moves on her own.
Not commanded. Not guided. Justchoosing.
She hurls herself into the cannon’s path, arms outstretched, chains wide, plating flared. The blast hits and everythingshatters?—
—but not us.
We hold.
Weascend.
