No sound. No warning.
Just a flash of blue light—and she’sgone.Vaporized. Her body becomes dust in the space of a blink.
Screaming erupts from the rest of them.
The civilian howls, hands covered in her ash. The others back away, eyes wide with horror. One of them starts shaking uncontrollably.
Liora—that’s her name—doesn’t scream.
Sheroars.
She swings the pipe at the nearest camera drone so hard the drone sparks and spirals to the floor, fizzling.
“Oh no, players!” Dirk Husker’s voice chirps, delighted. “Looks like the healer’s out of lives! That’s gonna cost your team synergy!”
Liora screams up at the ceiling, “COME DOWN HERE AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE, YOU SICK FREAK!”
I almost laugh.
Gods, she’sperfect.
But she’s cracking. I can see it in the way her shoulders slump afterward, just for a second. The way her eyes flick to the civilians and then away, like she can’t bear what they see in her. The blood isn’t just on her hands—it’s in hercode.
This maze, twisted and defiled—is eating her alive.
And it’s not just the traps. It’s theresponsibility.
This isn’t war. It’s grief turned into architecture.
I understand it more than I want to.
I lean my forehead against the cold metal of the wall. Close my eyes.
Focus.
I need to move. Watch. Learn. Let her see me when itmatters.Not just as a monster in the dark, but as her equal. Her protector.
Her mate.
The maze rumbles beneath my feet like it agrees—or maybe resents me. Doesn’t matter. Let it try. Let it snarl and bait and twist. I’ll gut it room by room if I have to.
I turn away from the viewport, silently retracing my steps through the corridor. The blood trail from earlier has dried, but the scent remains. Civilians who won’t make it. Meat with expiration dates.
Their loss.
Only one of them matters now.
The jalshagar.
And I will not let her die.
CHAPTER 5
LIORA
Borzen’s pacing again. Metal claws clack against the floor with the kind of rhythm that makes my teeth itch. Dravven sits against the wall, pretending not to care, but his leg’s bouncing hard enough to rattle the tiles. Allov’s gone—nothing left but a scorch mark and a bad memory. The air still smells faintly like cooked ozone and despair.
The civilians huddle together, whispering prayers to gods who clearly stopped picking up their calls. One of them—someone I think was a journalist—rocks back and forth, murmuring, “We’re next, we’re next, we’re next.” I can’t even tell if he’s crying or laughing anymore.
