RAYLA

  THE ROOM STANK OF BETRAYAL. Despite Ellie’s claims of lack of power, the cold strips of light pulsed along the walls, humming like distant machinery grinding down a dying world. Rayla’s breath steamed in the air as she stepped in, muscles coiled, fingers white around the hilt of her blade.

  She always lied.

  Ellie turned first, eyes wide, lips parting to speak, but it was Nemeth who moved. Calm. Composed. Like a man who expected this moment all along.

  And then he wasn’t alone.

  Yanick was there. He burst from the shadows like a damn ghost, planting himself between her and the monster.

  His boots skidded on the floor as he braced himself. One arm tightly wrapped in clean bandages, the other held out. The good one. Reaching for her.

  “You knew,” Rayla said. Her voice a low tremble, thick with something old and sharp and rotting. She didn’t lower her blade. “You knew. He didn't leave like she said.”

  “Rayla…” Yanick’s voice was raw, like gravel stirred in the throat. “Listen.”

  She took a step forward, the blade glinting in the artificial light.

  “Don’t.”

  She drew steel. Clean. Swift. A hiss in the silence. The reflection of her fury danced on the sword’s edge.

  “You betrayed me.”

  Yanick didn’t flinch. He held his ground like a statue carved out of guilt.

  “Get out of my way,” she said. Louder now. Her voice echoing off the walls.

  “No.”

  “Get. Out.” Her snarl cracked through the air. Spit on her lips. Rage in her teeth.

  “I won’t let you kill him.”

  “You think you can stop me?”

  “I already am.”

  The blade hovered now. Inches from his chest. His face. That familiar face. More mature, bruised, weary, and somehow still the same.

  “There is more to this than revenge,” Yanick said.

  “There is nothing more.” Her voice was broken glass. “She took my childhood.” Her blade trembled toward Ellie. “He took my children.” It swung toward Nemeth. “And you—”

  She jabbed forward, close enough to make him flinch. But she didn’t cut.

  “You helped them.”

  Yanick’s jaw locked, stone hard.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You chose them.”

  And now his eyes changed. Darkened. Not defensive. Not wounded. Different.

  The tension shattered with boot falls and breath. Voices in the hall. The others.

  The door swung open, metal hissing as the crew spilled in, sharp-eyed and alert.

  Koleth stepped in first, blade half unsheathed. Eloen close behind him, wide-eyed. Varn and Thirra, always together now. One soul in two bodies. Then Brask, dragging a limp leg but still towering like a storm front behind them.

  They came. They didn’t betray.

  They froze when they saw Rayla’s blade, saw Yanick, saw Nemeth.

  “What’s going on?” Koleth asked, not taking his hand off his hilt.

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  Rayla didn’t turn her head. Didn’t break eye contact with Yanick.

  “Ask your friend.”

  Brask stepped forward.

  “Yanick. This is him, isn’t it?” He stared past him, at Nemeth. “We’ve found him. This is what we came for. He didn't leave like she said.”

  Rayla’s voice was low, bitter.

  “He doesn’t want us to kill him.”

  She glanced over the group now. One by one.

  “This is why we left. Remember? This is why we left home. For justice. For the ones we lost.”

  Her voice splintered, caught in her throat.

  “And now he’s here. The man who started it. Who profited off it. Who burned villages and dug up graves and smiled while doing it. The man who ordered the annihilation of millions.”

  She stepped toward Nemeth again. Yanick didn’t move, but his breath hitched.

  The lights flickered. Just once. As if the compound itself flinched under the weight of the moment.

  “Move, Yanick,” she said. “Or I swear, I’ll go through you.”

  The silence that followed was colder than steel. A silence filled with old scars and unsaid names.

  Yanick didn’t lower his hand. Didn’t step aside.

  And Rayla’s grip tightened.

  She turned and walked into the dark, away from the firelight, away from the crew. She new the crew was behind. They had her back.

  Before she struck, she knew it was a mistake, but it was too late, for in this moment Rayla realised what was different about Yanick. She saw it and the crew saw it. And they all pay the price when it happens.

  Rayla lunges.

  Her boots scrape on the smooth floor as she launches herself toward Nemeth, blade raised high — the light catching on the edge, a streak of fire, of fury. No words. Just the sharp breath before the strike. The shriek of metal through air.

  Yanick steps between them.

  He moves like a damn phantom, intercepts her mid-charge. One arm grabs her wrist, the other slams into her chest.

  She flies.

  Her body crashes against the wall with a sickening crack. The air punches out of her lungs. Something warm and wet trails down the side of her face. Blood. She tries to stand, but her limbs don’t listen. Vision blurs. The world tilts.

  Her sword skitters across the floor, metal on metal. Yanick picks it up. Her sword. He kicks the table so it guards them from the crew.

  “No,” she whispers, pushing herself up. But it’s too late.

  Ellie pulls Nemeth toward the back of the room — a door sliding open in silence. Emergency escape route. Reinforced. Hidden.

  Rayla drags herself forward.

  “Don’t,” Ellie croaks.

  Nemeth turns. Calm. Like a man sealing a letter before the fire consumes the house.

  He crouches low and drives a blade into her side.

  Rayla screams. White hot pain arcs through her gut, all the way to her spine. She collapses. Cold floor. Wet with blood now. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.

  She watches through half-lidded eyes as Yanick turns back toward the crew.

  And then it begins.

  Koleth charges first, roaring, axe raised. Brave, loyal Koleth. Young and stupid.

  Yanick doesn’t hesitate, he moves like a demon. He kicks the table and sends it skidding across the floor on its side. It slams into the far wall, blocking off the only clear path through the narrow room. He ducks behind it, turns the chaos into geometry. Corners. Angles. Cover.

  The crew scatters, trying to flank. But the room is too small. Too full of bodies, heat, panic. No space to move. Nowhere to breathe.

  Koleth climbs the table like a battlement. Yanick spins from behind it like a shadow given bones. Rayla’s blade flashes in his hand, silver and red. He drives it up into Koleth’s ribs. Deep.

  “No…” Rayla whispers. Her fingers claw at the floor, trying to pull herself up. Her strength is gone. Her vision flickers.

  It’s your fault.

  And then Varn and Thirra. One soul, two bodies.

  Not them, please.

  They don’t scream. They don’t charge blindly. They move together. Like lovers do.

  Varn darts right, daggers flashing, agile as flame. Thirra sweeps left, sabre raised, crouching low behind the table for cover. A flanking manoeuvre. Practised and executed hundred times before. A dance made for killing. They almost pull it off.

  Almost.

  Yanick sees it.

  He lunges toward Varn first. A blur. A pivot. Steel meets flesh. Rayla’s sword cuts through Varn’s ribs. A fatal line drawn across his chest.

  Varn doesn’t cry out. He chokes, gurgles, and falls.

  “Varn!”

  Thirra’s voice breaks. Her charge becomes a scream, all the practising forgotten, pure rage.

  Yanick doesn’t hesitate. He steps into her fury and buries the sword in her gut. Her breath catches. Her body jerks once. Then stills.

  They collapse side by side, fingers nearly touching.

  Rayla’s chest caves inward.

  ‘Til death do us part...

  Yanick broke it. Broke them. Broke the only perfect thing in this cursed world.

  Your sword. Your blade.

  Brask tries to shield Eloen. His long braid swing left to right when he’s waiting to jump from behind the old men and attack.

  And when he finally does, Yanick cuts him across the neck. Eloen stumbles. Screams. Tries to crawl away. He doesn’t let him.

  It’s me. I’m killing them. It’s my weight in his hands.

  The room pulses with blood and heat and grief. Lights flicker like a dying heartbeat overhead. The walls close in, suffocating her with the memory of all they were — all they’re losing.

  Yanick stands at the centre. Surrounded by their bodies. Covered in their blood.

  Brask stands in front of him. The last one.

  Blood pools around his boots. The table is tipped, the crew is dead, and yet Brask doesn’t move. His face is even older now. The lines in his brow etched even deeper. Shoulder hanging even lower than they used to.

  The years had taken their toll. But this? This took something deeper.

  His eyes meet Yanick’s across the silence. Not with rage. Not even fear. Just grief. Disbelief.

  “What have you become?” Brask asks. His voice cracks at the end, the way stone does under too much pressure.Yanick doesn’t answer with words. He delivers the answer with a quick and precise move of the blade.

  Your blade.