Plasma streaks across the void, splashing uselessly against the cruiser’s shields. Return fire erupts instantly—precision bursts that rake my shields, hammering them down with terrifying efficiency.
Warnings scream in my ears.
Doesn’t matter.
I dodge, roll, fire again. I fly on instinct, on fury, on the bond screaming her name with every heartbeat. I imagine her there—bound, terrified, calling for me—and it fuels me like nothing ever has.
Another hit.
My shields collapse completely.
“Captain,” Brom’s voice crackles over a private channel, thick with static. “You need to pull back!”
“Not without her,” I growl.
The cruiser’s bays open.
For a split second, hope flares—I think they’re launching fighters.
Instead, the torpedoes come.
Grav-class.
My eyes widen.
“No—”
The first one detonates just off my port side. Spacebends. My fighter lurches violently, alarms screaming as gravity spikes rip through the hull. I fight the controls, muscles screaming as G-forces slam me back into the seat.
The second torpedo hits dead-on.
The universe turns inside out.
My ship spins, end over end, stars smearing into impossible streaks of color. I taste blood and bile. Something in my shoulder gives with a wet crunch.
I scream her name again as the fighter tumbles helplessly, dragged by invisible forces toward the massive, roiling bulk of a nearby gas giant.
The cruiser doesn’t even slow.
It turns away, clean and precise, and jumps to superluminal in a flash of cold light.
Gone.
“Ayla,” I whisper, voice barely sound anymore.
The gas giant fills my view—churning clouds of ammonia and fire, gravity wells strong enough to crush steel like paper.
My fighter’s systems flicker, then fail one by one.
I wrench the controls, forcing the nose up, fighting the pull with everything I have left.
“I’m coming,” I snarl through clenched teeth, blood running down my chin. “I swear it. I’m coming.”
Nothing works.
Every warning light is screaming. Systems bleed red across the console. A soft, persistent klaxon pulses through the cockpit, more like a heartbeat than an alarm. Fitting. My own pulse is thready and uneven beneath the pain.
The atmosphere regulator sputters. My lungs fight for air that isn't there.
