Halfway there.
I’m bleeding from one palm, knees scraped raw, sweat soaking the inside of the suit. My vision blurs at the edges, but I don’t stop.
Tex comes out of nowhere—pure power, a wall of muscle and fury. He doesn’t say anything. Just raises one arm and blocks the narrow path ahead of me.
I change direction, vaulting over a mossy boulder and barreling into thicker brush. I hear his footsteps behind me—closer, heavier—but slower than Luca’s was.
Still, it is enough. Enough to push my body past its edge.
I stumble up a gravel incline, shoes slipping. My breath turns to ragged gasps. Then—finally—I see it.
The red outbuilding.
It sits like a relic of a forgotten war, rust creeping up the corners, a single window covered in grime. It is only twenty feet ahead. Then I feel it.
The shadow at my back. The static charge in the air. I turn just in time for Jace to slam into me.
He doesn’t knock me to the ground. Just pins me—fast, efficient, clinical. One arm braces across my chest, the other grabbing the strap of the satchel and yanking it hard enough to choke.
My body locks.
“You don’t belong here,” he murmurs, breath cold against my ear. “You’re just a name with blood behind it.”
I elbow back, catching him in the ribs. He grunts, and I drop low, twisting out from under his arm and shoving him off.
“I survived worse than this,” I snap, chest heaving. “I’m not some pampered, pretty little princess. I earned every damn scar.”
His eyes flash—not with mockery this time, but something darker.
Then he smirks. “We’ll see.”
I don’t wait. I sprint those last twenty feet, adrenaline fueling my every step, and shove the satchel into the objective locker. It clicks shut.
A loud buzzer blares through the zone.
Objective complete.
I drop to my knees in the dirt, gasping, limbs trembling. My whole body burns. I hear the others approaching, their footsteps slower now, less urgent.
I look up to see Jace standing at the edge of the clearing, watching me with a look that isn’t quite anger… but isn’t admiration either.
Something inside me hates how unimpressed he looks. His jaw is tight, his clothes immaculate, not a speck of dirt on him. I hate that he still looks composed. I hate that I’m shaking.
“You’re bleeding,” Noah calls as he approaches. “Just a heads up.”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I noticed.”
The instructor, Briar, stands by the objective box with a clipboard and a steel gaze. “Let’s break it down.”
“Ashthorne,” she says, voice loud enough to cut through the tension. “You completed the mission. Bag intact. Not bad for a first timer.”
‘Not bad’. I’ll take it.
“But,” she continues, stepping closer, “you were almost intercepted three times. Your evasion is fast but sloppy. You relied on instinct, not technique.”
I nod, too winded to argue. I’m not sure my legs will even work right now.
“You’re bleeding,” she adds, pointing to my scraped palm and the torn edge of my sleeve. “In the field, that’s a weakness. Next time, wrap it. Don’t let your enemy smell blood.”
