The medbay light above me pulses blue—too soft, too rhythmic, like it’s trying to trick my brain into calm. It doesn’t work. Pain rolls in hard the moment I twitch. Ribs. Shoulder. Something in my thigh feels wrong.
“Don’t sit up,” a voice says.
I do it anyway.
Garkin appears at the foot of the bed like a ghost, arms crossed, face grim. His coat’s stained with soot and something darker.
“You shouldn’t be awake,” he says.
I swing my legs off the cot, grimacing through the grinding protest of muscles and bone. “I’m not dead. That’s what matters.”
He doesn’t crack a joke. That’s when I know.
“What happened?” I ask.
He hesitates.
“Garkin.”
“The strike worked,” he says finally. “League stronghold’s gutted. They lost their command hub. Tilkan’s dead. Their channels are chaos.”
“But?” I say.
He looks away. That’s answer enough.
“What?” I repeat.
“They took her,” he says. “And the kid.”
My chest goes still.
“Say that again,” I whisper.
“Kairo’s compad pinged us an hour after you blacked out. She came looking for you. Found the safehouse empty. Then… she vanished. And her kid—Ben—he wasn’t in the apartment when we checked. Backpack on the floor. Door wide open.”
Something inside me breaks. Not cracks—shatters.Splinters into something sharp.
“The League?” I ask.
He nods. “Message came through right after. Said it plain—‘You chose wrong. Now he bleeds for it.’”
Silence drops between us.
It’s thick. Electric.
I stand slowly. Every joint screams. My vision swims. Doesn’t matter.
“Don’t do this,” Garkin says. “You’re not ready.”
I walk past him.
“Jav—”
“They touched my mate,” I say, voice quiet, flat. “Theystolemy son.”
His breath catches.
I push open the door.
