Silence presses in. The alarms stutter, then die. The glowpanels flicker — red to amber — and finally, black. The compound’s heart catches fire.
I barely hear him roar — Vokar’s roar — a sound like war unleashed, grief and rage and claimed blood drawn tight across bone. It lifts through the halls, trembling, powerful.
I see Trebuchet where he falls — a broken shape, twisted metal, dead optics, humming coils molten silent. I don’t watch the body collapse. I don’t give that monster my sight.
I touch Vokar’s arm. His armor is scorched; his chest heaves under torn plating. Blood and sweat drip from his face. His eyes — red, feral — meet mine. For a second, only shadows and smoke and finality.
I lean close. Voice raw and cracked: “It’s done.”
He doesn’t answer. His head drops, then lifts. Motion slow. Carefully. He holds me close. No words — need none.
Around us, the compound groans as systems die. The hum of engines fades. The hiss of venting gas subsides. Fires gutter in distant halls — small flares blazing quiet under rubble.
I taste metal in my mouth. Taste ash. Taste survival.
I wrap fingers tight around the handle of my knife — the one I used to cut the conduit. It is cold leather and blood-stained steel now. I pull it free. Let the blade glint pale under broken overhead light. A symbol. A promise.
Vokar shifts, voice ragged: “They call us monsters.”
I smile — small, bitter, cleansing.
“Then let’s give them a night they’ll never forget.”
He nods. Claws flex. Bone-plate creaks.
And we walk out. Side by side.
Into the fire.
The world is bathed in scarlet sky and burning metal. The edges of the compound collapse. The smell of gunfire, oil, and heat smothers everything. I taste it all.
I hold on to Vokar. His warmth under torn armor. The grip of his hand — solid steel and promise.
Behind us — traitors scramble, broken and afraid. Behind us — the hiss of burning conduits, the groan of collapsing walls, the distant roar of failing shield generators.
But I don’t run. I don’t follow. I lead.
Because now — I carry vengeance.
And for a long moment, the only sound is my breath, the clang of boots on broken metal, and the deep pulse of survival in my veins.
CHAPTER 26
FREYA
The door to our quarters—what’s left of them—doesn’t so much open as fall inward. The panel hangs crooked on its track, hinges warped from the blast that rocked this wing earlier. When Vokar and I stumble through, the smell of smoke and scorched polymer follows us like a second skin. The air inside is hazy, gritty with floating dust motes that shimmer in the weak emergency lights.
I can barely stand. My legs tremble in that way adrenaline shakes you after it’s burnt itself out. My ribs feel like they’ve been used as percussion instruments. There’s dried blood along my arms, some of it mine, some of it absolutely not. Even my hair feels stiff, like it’s been shellacked with sweat and ash.
Vokar’s hand stays rooted at my lower back, guiding me, steadying me even as he sways on his feet. He’s a silhouette of ruin—shirt gone, bone-spurs cracked, skin torn open in a dozen places. But he’s warm. Alive. Breathing. His presence throws off a heat that seeps into me, chasing off the cold that’s been slowly spreading under my skin since the moment he was hauled away during the coup.
He shuts the broken door with his foot. It slams shut, rattling in its frame. Dust drifts from the ceiling.
For a long, breathless moment, we just stand there.
His chest rises and falls in harsh, uneven bursts. Mine matches it, my breaths coming too fast, almost panicked. But when I look up into his face—into those burning red eyes gone dark and soft around the edges—I feel something unspool inside me. Something tight and knotted.
“You came back,” I whisper.
