I turn — and run.
My legs scream under weight and pain, but adrenaline burns sharper. My back aches. My ribs threaten collapse. My head spins — but I run anyway, following the path I’d memorized in darkness, under fear, in silence. The hallways opening, the metal doors sliding — all follow the codes that card unlocks.
Security Responders flood corridors — ten men, armor plated, rifles swinging. I see their forms flicker in hallway lights red with alarm. I don’t stop. I barrel through a side-door, stomach slamming against a guard’s gauntleted chest, sending him flying backwards. He curses, smashes into a wall. I don’t look back.
The alarms echo — metal screams through vents, bulkheads seal behind me, red lights bathing steel corridors in madness. I hit the hatch that leads to the outer doorway. The card bleeps, the latch clicks.
I shove the panel open. The door hisses. Outside — cold air slams into me like a gun-shot: pine smell, wind through spires,distant scent of forest and rain, alive and angry. I suck in air hard. My ribs burn; I gasp.
I step out — boots scraping gravel — and the horizon greets me with smoke.
Not soft smoke. Not cooking. Not warmth.
Black towers of ash and flame climbing into the sky. The scent hits me first — acrid, sulfur, burning wood and machinery. The wind carries distant shouts, the crack of distant energy weapons, maybe, or collapsing metal. The edges of the compound glow with orange flicker. A warning. A war.
I don’t pause. I don’t catch breath. Pain bleeds from every wound, but fury drives me.
I clutch the broken shard in my fist. I taste metal again — sweat, blood, resolve. I taste survival. I taste vengeance.
“Y-You think I’m weak?” I spit into the night wind. I speak to walls, to smoke, to ghosts and stars. “You think you stripped me clean? Broke me? You didn’t count on bone.”
Beyond the gates, black smoke curls up behind silhouette figures — raiders, traitors, Reaper castoffs. They don’t know yet I’m loose. But I smell fear in their armor–metal and ozone. I smell hesitation. I taste opportunity.
I lift my head. The wind tears at my hair, rustles my clothes, carries ash against my skin.
“Freya,” I whisper. “I’m coming.”
I don’t run forward blindly — not yet. I sip the night wind, hear distant whistles of alarms and rocket-thrusters firing, smell the burning compound mix: wood, metal, flesh, panic. I rotate my shoulders — bone-plate cracks under pressure but it’s steady, bare pain.
Smoke on the wind. Firelight on the horizon. People running. Screams swallowed by chaos.
And I stand.
Claw-hand tight around broken steel. Heart pounding like drums of war. Rage humming through every nerve.
I rise up straight. Spine cracked. Breaths ragged.
I am not just a survivor.
I am not just a broken princess in a prison cell.
I am Vokar’s mate. I am a survivor. I am vengeance.
I step forward into the night, each footfall echoing — a vow.
A promise.
And the horizon burns for it.
The forest air hits me like a blade — sharp, cold, alive. I taste pine sap, damp earth, and something else: old smoke, metal tang, fear turned to flame. I draw it deep, filling lungs that ache with every inhalation, and I run.
I don’t know where exactly I’m going — only that I need to move. Away from the compound, away from broken circuits and captive walls. Away from the stink of betrayal and the clang of rogue armor. My bare boots skid half-steps across cracked ground, but I don’t care: every footfall carries weight. Purpose. Pain. A promise.
The sky above is smeared with ash and dying embers. The gas-giant’s light filters through the haze, casting strange ghost-rays over jagged tree-lines. Branches crack overhead as I sprint through woodland fringe — moss, cold needles, wet bark slapping against forearms that ache from bruises. My skin tastes of dirt and sweat, but beneath it all sits trembling hope.
I sense before I see the glimmer of torch-lanterns ahead — faint gold lights dancing across curved temple-columns built of warm wood, old stone, iron-banded doors. This is the heart of the Solari enclave on this moon. The people I barely know — but trust more than the muttered loyalty of traitors. I want safety. I want sanctuary. I want shelter.
I burst through the outer gate like a wraith, coughing, eyes wide. The guards swivel — tall lithe figures of mixed Alzhon and Vakutan features, rifles up before hands drop in the dim surprise of recognition.
