My breath catches.
I know this pose. It’s part of the Prophecy of the Returning Maw—the tale whispered to children before they learn to kill. A Reaper lost to the stars, who returns when his fate is sealed not in war, but in love.
Bullshit, of course.
Except the walls are humming.
And her scent is everywhere.
I step closer. “Let’s see what secrets you spit.”
When I touch the outstretched hand, everything stops.
The air crystallizes. My claws freeze mid-grip.
Then I see her.
Not a memory. Not a playback.
Now.
She’s crouched in a corridor I’ve never seen—laughing and crying at once. She’s got dirt on her cheeks and blood on her knees. Her voice cuts through static: “I built this. And now it’s a grave.”
I see her lips move. I see her eyes shine. I feel her pulse through my chest.
The bond flares.
Jalshagar.
The Maze did this. Twisted tech and fate together and gave us a window.
Then it rips it away.
The room slams back into motion. The floor tilts. The statue cracks in half.
I roar.
Sound shreds through the chamber like a sonic boom. I drive my claws into the wall, tear out a panel, punch through circuits, smash through layers of alloy and carbon foam until I’m climbing raw into the next vent shaft.
I don’t care if it’s a trap.
I don’t care if the Maze collapses around me.
I will reach her.
The shaft opens into another corridor—blood-slick and buzzing with rot.
Two civilians stand there—ragged, stunned.
One of them sees me and screams.
The other pulls a weapon.
I don’t hesitate.
He’s dead before the barrel clears his hip.
The second runs.
