CHAPTER 26
GYON
The air smells wrong—car oil, hot metal, and the distant taint of ozone. Dawn hasn’t even cracked yet, and I’m crouched in the treeline, the whispergrass brushing my armor, bending under my weight. I didn’t aim to hide. I aim to wait. The shell of my scavenged Reaper plate creaks quietly with each breath. I taste cold sweat in my mouth, the after-burn of old battles. The two suns are just pale ghosts on the horizon.
They land hard. A cargo freighter, wings scraping against the scrub, dust exploding. The mercenaries spill out like predators unleashed—muscles, weapons, swagger. They laugh. They push crates around. They call to the Solari villagers: “Where’s the treasure? Where’s the tech?” One of them kicks over a stack of farming tools like they're toys.
I watch the elders stand off with them—unarmed, calm, voices soft. A woman pleads: “We have nothing. Leave.”
One merc laughs. “Looks like dessert anyway.” His gun barrel sweeps the crates.
My muscles coil. My claws, sheathed under gauntlets built from scavenged alloy, flex. My jaw clenches. I smell the ozone of my armor’s energy cells, the hum of the wind towers distant.Silence of the peaceful fields is broken by their boots, cracking stalks.
I step forward. The ground holds me. I’m ready.
“Ey! What was that?” one merc shouts, turning. He sees me. My visor’s cracked, but the recoil-shock filters build a red glow. He laughs. “More meat? Hey buddy?—”
He never finishes. I move like storm. My boots crush the broken grass as I sprint. I raise the gauntlet. The world slows. The weapon fires, but I don’t dodge. I take it. The impact jars my shoulder, but I shrug through it.
I bring my fist down. His jaw fractures. I hear the snap. Blood sprays. He hits the ground. The metal sweet scent of blood and oil during the night rises.
The others freeze.
Then chaos.
I slash. Feel the gauntlet hiss. The smell of hot metal as claws breach plating. The veld smells raw—earth torn, anger released.
“Reaper!” another screams.
I don’t answer. I move. Each motion sharp as lightning. I don’t think. I am.
A merc swings a chain. I block with my forearm, gauntlet sparks. I rip the chain away and wrap it around his throat. His eyes bug out. I crush. The chain cuts. He gasps, life leaking. I toss him into the dirt.
“Fall back!” one merc shouts.
They turn to run. But the cargo ship’s hull is the only exit—and I’ve blocked it.
I sprint. My armor pounds with every step. Sweat beads, salt stings my eyes. My vision robs colors down to red and gray.
They crash into each other. I get to the loader ramp. I swing the blade inside the ship’s hold. Metal echoes. Their guns fire half-heartedly. I ignore. The blade finds their limbs, torchestheir armor. The smell of burning synthetic fills the hold. Their screams are distant, muffled by metal and fear.
I want no survivors.
I don’t flinch at the red-streaked floor. I don’t hesitate when the last one collapses in the wrong place. I lift my head. Taut. Ready. My chest still hammers.
The hold is silent. Just echoes of defeat and burning plastics.
I pick up a data-pad from one merc’s hip. I thumb through manifest. Weapons lists. Escort points. Rescue drops. I stuff it into my pouch.
Outside, the morning suns are brighter. They mocked the fields just an hour ago. Now they shine. On victory.
I walk toward the Solari, blade sheathed. I expect fear. Anger. Praise. But the elders stand head bowed, silent.
One small girl peeks around a vine-post, eyes wide.
I stand before Tayani. Her eyes closed. She lifts her face to me. “You found your storm,” she says softly.
I nod. “I found hers.”
