The wind carried the char of burnt metal and mana, each breath a taste of war, bitter and sharp like crushed bone. The crater still smoked, the ash curling upward like incense from a godless altar.
Number Seven opened her eyes, her body jerking upright, a thin sheet clinging to her naked form, barely shielding her from the cold bite of the imperial camp. Her muscles screamed, each breath was a punishment. Her lungs drew air like it were poison. Her ribs felt cracked. Her vision stuttered.
Atlas's punches. His kicks. The sound of his bones meeting hers. His golden eyes. They clawed at her memories, raw and relentless. His voice echoed too: "I don't need to beat you, Seven. I just need to make sure you remember this."
Her brother, Number Nine, his broken body in the crater, flashed behind her eyes, a wound that wouldn't heal. She had called for him. He hadn't answered.
"…What the… what the fuck just happened?" she rasped, her voice a cracked blade.
