The pain is like fire behind my ribs, every breath a chainsaw through my lungs. I taste copper. My vision fades in and out.
But I hear her.
“Ayla,” I croak.
She’s already there, on her knees beside me. Her hands cradle my face like I’m made of crystal.
“Kallus! No, no—stay with me, baby, please?—!”
“We’re not… done yet,” I rasp, trying to smirk.
She sobs—laughter and tears in the same breath.
Chelsea crawls into my lap.
“Daddy?” she whispers.
Her voice is soft, confused, scared. Her hands are warm, streaked with blood that isn’t hers.
I wrap one shaking arm around her tiny body and pull her close.
And I smile.
Pain, fire, smoke, blood—none of it matters.
I have them.
I have my family.
CHAPTER 26
AYLA
Frederick’s scream is barely human. It’s a bubbling, gargled cry, raw and ugly as it escapes from the burned ruin of his throat. The flames have eaten through his uniform, melted part of his face into an unrecognizable patchwork of scorched flesh and exposed bone. He twitches in the corner of the launch corridor, writhing against the grated metal floor, his handless arm flopping like a broken branch. The stench of burning meat clings to the air like a second skin, and it makes my stomach churn.
He looks at me. With one eye—still intact, still blue like before—all wide and begging.
“Help… me,” he croaks, each syllable cracked like dry paper.
I stare. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From the fire in my blood that he put there. From years of lies, of cages made from golden words and false smiles. From the bruises he never gave me directly but authorized anyway. From the daughter he stole.
“No.”
It’s not a scream. Not a shout. It’s just a word. Cold. Flat. Final.
He groans and tries to crawl toward me, dragging himself with one good arm, fingers scraping against the deck with a squeal like nails on glass.
“I… I didn’t… know,” he gasps, “what they… did…”
“You signed the orders,” I hiss, voice low and venomous. “Don’t you dare pretend innocence now.”
He coughs wetly. “Mercy… Ayla… quick. Please…”
I kneel beside him—not out of pity. I want him to see my eyes, to know the depth of what he’s earned.
“I want you to remember this pain,” I whisper. “This is the legacy of your purity crusade. Burn in your flames of righteousness, you bastard.”
I stand and turn away, letting him writhe in his self-made hell.
