The shard resting in Milo’s chest began to hum. At first faint, almost a whisper, but enough to make the gathered followers step back. One by one, they slipped from the lab, leaving Milo’s body sprawled in a pool of blood.

  The sound grew louder. The shard vibrated against bone, a faint red glow bleeding from its surface. Then, like a thirst awoken, it drew in the blood around it. The crimson puddle slid across the floor and into the shard, deepening its glow until it blazed like molten glass.

  The hum swelled into a suffocating bass note. It spread through the base, pressing into lungs, rattling teeth. It drowned out the alarms. You felt it more than heard it. Glasses started to crack, lights stuttered, even the walls started trembling.

  Soldiers staggered in the halls, clutching their ears—useless against the crushing frequency. Some froze, wide-eyed. Others vomited, blood vessels bursting in eyes, jaws aching from the vibration, skin prickling like it might split, their bodies rebelling against the pressure. Dread carved itself into their faces.

  The followers stood untouched, moving with cruel purpose. They carved through the disoriented soldiers, turning the sound into a weapon.

  “What the hell is that sound?!” Mordane shouted, palms clamped over his ears. His voice cracked with panic.

  Blythe’s eyes flicked to the vomiting soldiers, horror etched across his face. Realizing his hands did nothing, he dropped them and waved the others back. His signal was clear: move, now. They obeyed, staggering down the hall.

  Back in the lab, Milo’s body unraveled. Flesh tore away in strips, dragged into the shard like a black hole swallowing matter. Muscles, veins, nerves, eyes, bones—piece by piece, he vanished, until only the shard remained.

  It floated in the center of the room, pulsing, humming, bleeding crimson light.

  Then came the whips—black and red tendrils that lashed out and seized the scattered Angel parts. They dragged them in, feeding the shard until sparks burst across its surface.

  It began to change. From a shard of glass no longer than a hand, it swelled into a molten mass, metal and light fused together. The hum cut off.

  It grew. A torso. Arms. Legs. A head. Finally, wings—six wings of crimson light fanning open like blades.

  Shrikecoil stood reborn.

  The figure resembled Milo, but more refined, more complete. Its entire body glowed red, sculpted and sharp. It flexed its hands, stared into the broken mirror. A low voice rumbled from its chest.

  “Hmm. This isn’t my original form.”

  It stepped forward, wings phasing through the walls as though reality itself bent away.

  “This is the human’s form,” it muttered. “Must be the effect of consuming him.” A sigh. “Really should think before I do anything next time.”

  The doors hissed open. His followers were waiting.

  The bone-rattling hum cut off as suddenly as it began.

  One of the soldiers exhaled sharply. “It stopped. Finally.”

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  Mordane shook his head, voice hard. “That sound may have stopped, but nothing about this is normal. We need to get to Dr. Grant. Make sure he’s safe.”

  They pushed forward through the halls, weapons raised. Followers lunged from the shadows, and each clash left the floor slicker with blood.

  “General,” one soldier called out between bursts of fire, hesitant. “This might be out of line, but… why do we need to prioritize Dr. Grant?”

  Mordane didn’t look back. “Because he’s a brilliant man. Losing him would cost us far more than you realize. And if we survive this, but he dies?” His voice dropped lower. “Angelo will make sure this base goes straight to hell.”

  The soldier’s face went pale. He said nothing more.

  They reached Grant’s quarters at last. The door hissed open, rifles trained—and relief soured to dread.

  Dr. Grant lay sprawled on his bed, his wounds torn open again, blood soaking the sheets. The nurse assigned to him was slumped unconscious on the floor.

  “Wake her up. Get him stable, now,” Mordane barked.

  The soldiers shook the nurse until she stirred, dazed from the sound’s assault. With trembling hands, she began patching Grant’s wounds, soldiers stepping in to help where they could. The doctor didn’t wake, but the bleeding slowed.

  Mordane leaned close. “How is his condition? Will he make it?”

  “He’s lost blood,” the nurse admitted, “but we have backups ready. He’ll pull through.”

  Mordane gave a curt nod. “Good. Give him a transplant and keep working from here. It doesn’t look like the attackers have pushed this far yet.”

  Captain Blythe wiped sweat and blood from his face. “General, what’s our next move?”

  “Keep Grant alive,” Mordane replied. “And restore communications.”

  Blythe thought for a moment, then said, “For that, we’ll need Lieutenant Thom Calder and Corporal Lys Veera. If anyone can bring the comms back online, it’s those two.”

  “You’re right,” Mordane agreed. “We need to locate them.”

  He turned to the room, his voice carrying steel. “Listen up. We have to find Thom Calder and Lys Veera. That means going back out there—back into the chaos. We’ll form a small team of four, including myself. The rest of you hold here.”

  The soldiers looked at one another, fear written plain across their faces.

  Mordane’s gaze swept over them. “I’m not ordering anyone to follow me. Out there, you’ll be forced to shoot men you’ve fought beside for years. Friends. Brothers. Maybe you’ll die at the hands of someone you trusted with your life. I won’t choose who carries that weight. But I will tell you this—” his voice hardened, “—I’m the one in charge of this base, and I’ll do everything I can to save as many of my people as I can. If you want to follow this madman, then step up.”

  Silence hung heavy. Then three soldiers stepped forward. Blythe joined them.

  Mordane looked at him. “Not you, Captain. You stay here. See that nothing happens to Dr. Grant.”

  Blythe didn’t argue. He gave a single nod.

  Mordane turned to the three who had volunteered. A faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “You three are the dumbest bastards alive. Throwing your lives away just because I gave a pretty speech.”

  The three grinned back.

  “I don’t know about them,” one said, “but I’m going for the glory, General.”

  Another shrugged. “I’m going because I’m in love with Corporal Lys Veera.”

  The room burst into laughter. Even in the blood and smoke, the sound carried like a spark of light.

  The last soldier scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Honestly, I have no idea why I’m going.”

  The laughter doubled, sharp and genuine. Even Mordane chuckled, Blythe shaking his head with a rare smile.

  “I stand corrected,” Mordane said dryly. “You really are the dumbest men in the world.”

  The three readied their weapons. Mordane slung his rifle into place, expression sobering again.

  And beyond the room, Shrikecoil moved deeper through the Ironwatch Hold, crimson wings phasing through the walls, his followers marching in lockstep behind him.

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