“We’re going to get out of here. And then?”
My eyes slip toward the console—toward the glowing blue heart that keeps Trebuchet alive.
“We burn this place down.”
CHAPTER 22
VOKAR
Darkness grips everything. Cold stone. Bitter air. My lungs scream for breath that tastes like rust and old war songs. My blood drips slow, uneven — a drum-beat under ribs that ache. I open my eyes. Nothing but blackness. I don’t move. I can’t. Every fiber of me burns: shattered bone-spurs, deep cuts across shoulders and forearms, ribs bruised and bleeding beneath panels of torn armor. The cold seeps into flesh, nails, marrow.
Still — I rise.
The first gasp of movement delivers agony like a whip across my spine. Pain blooms hot and red. I taste metal on my tongue. I taste broken promises. But stronger than both: fear. Pain isn’t what moves me. Not now.
Memory claws through the darkness: Freya’s scream. The world splintering. The grotesque light from Trebuchet’s blade. The way her body twisted. The cold floor where she collapsed.
I’m alive. That’s all I know with certainty. Alive — and missing.
I flex claw-hand, test the air. Stones — cold, sharp, soaked with distant cavern damp. I press weight to one forearm. A sharpcrack, my bones scream in language I remember but never love. I force a breath. The air catches in scarred lungs.
Darkness shifts. Ragged stone walls loom just a breath away. The crevasse — a butcher’s cradle, coated in bone-dust and betrayal — yawns around me. The floor beneath trembles once — a low moan of shifting earth — and I taste the shift of rubble loosening.
I rise, standing on knees bowed, spine hunched. I test one booted foot. Metal-plate belt, torn uniform — this is all that remains between me and nothingness. My broken spurs drag. They catch. The shock blunts some pain, but the sting of fracture hits across calves. I grit teeth. Bone-plate scrapes flesh. I ignore it.
I find a handhold. A jutting stone, rough, cold, slick with moisture. I wrap my fingers around it. My palm splits — blood wells between digits, drips hot. The sound echoes upward — a drip, echoing, repeating like a vow.
“Freya,” I whisper. Voice raw. Half-growl, half-prayer.
Dark echoes it back.
But I climb.
My hands grip. My legs push. The wall shivers under weight — stone dust trickles downward. Every move is fire and steel and pain. My bones crack, old injuries flare, new ones bloom. But I climb. Step by step. Blood by blood.
I think of her small frame in the cell — prisoner leash cutting reality. I think of her green eyes, bright and terrified, but alive. Holding. Believing.
I dig a claw deeper into a crevice. My mind flashes — a hundred moons I’ve toppled in battle, a hundred skulls cracked, a thousand screams I’ve heard — nothing cuts deeper than the idea of failingher.
I force myself up. My breath is ragged, slicing the dark air. The taste of copper is thick. My chest feels like it’s trying to collapse under the load — but I refuse. I will not collapse.
The wall arches outward — rough stone scraping the curve of my spine. My ribs scream. I clamp my teeth. I won't moan. I won’t lose.
Above me, I hear shifting. Loose rock loosened by old ruin. A hiss of falling gravel. The cavern above groans — warning, not mercy. I grip tighter.
“Mine,” I murmur. “Mine.”
The word tastes black. Heavy. Sacred. Not an ownership vow. A promise.
Three steps. Then a pause. I sweat — but sweat feels metallic, bitter, alive. I taste iron and cold.
I force upward — a boot digs into a crack too small. The ridge splits, gives, kicks loose. I slide down a foot. I curse with a roar that shakes stone. The pain slams into me, ricochets through torn ribs. My breath leaves me in a gasp. I choke on shock, on violence, on loss.
But I catch the wall — claw-hand scrapes, nails crack, fingers bleed anew. I hold. I won’t fall again.
I pull. My muscles burn. My armor groans. Bone-plates shift.
I rise. Inch by bloody inch.
