The chair groaned as Kaia pried at its bolts, rusted joints screeching like the dying. The metal was old, etched with scars—scorch marks, dried blood, and inscriptions that pulsed faintly, as if they had once bound more than just flesh.
Rei did not speak. His breath came slow. Hollow. A vessel emptied far too many times. One eye flickered open, lid twitching, pupils dilated. The other remained swollen shut.
Kaia's hands moved fast. Rope-burned. Bloodied from her earlier escape. Her breath steamed in the cold of the lab chamber, curls of heat against the voidlike dark. One last shackle gave, and his right wrist slumped to his side, deadweight.
"Stay with me," she whispered. "You're not done."
The sirens wailed suddenly—shrill, sharp, unnatural. Not bells. No, it was something else. Not meant for warning. Meant to terrify. The walls responded, stones trembling faintly. Light strips above flared red. Footsteps—boots, multiple pairs—thundered from the descending corridor, fast and certain.
Rei blinked, then tried to lift his head. "Where…?"
The door burst open.
Three guards. Blackcloaked, armored, faceless behind masks of steel.
Their voices boomed, distorted by the enchantments of their helms. "Step away from the Subject."
Kaia rose to her feet slowly, placing herself between them and Rei. Bone knives slid into her hands with the sound of teeth grinding. Her shoulders rolled, one slow breath drawn in.
"I said—step. away."
Kaia didn't flinch. Her eyes burned.
"I'm freeing something I believe in."
The guards hesitated. "We are under order from Overseer Malrec. Subject Eighty-Eight is to be moved. You are not cleared for this chamber, slave."
She tilted her head. The silence of her reply spoke more clearly than defiance.
"You will not take him," she said. "Not anymore. Not while I still draw breath."
"Then bleed," one muttered—and they moved.
She was faster.
Kaia leapt, knives flashing like twin moons in the dark. She danced low—blade scraping armor, finding weak points beneath the armpit, the back of the knee. The first fell with a groan, his leg useless beneath him. The second raised his shield—but her knife curved around, slit the throat clean.
Blood painted the walls.
The third reached for a runeblade, but her foot snapped up, crushed his hand against the wall. She caught his blade as it fell. Drove it through his gut.
Then it was quiet again—except the wailing sirens.
She stood among the dead, breath shallow, head bowed. Behind her, Rei struggled to speak.
"…why…?"
Kaia turned. Her eyes were fierce, wild still from the kill. But her voice trembled.
"I don't know," she said. "But I feel it in my bones. In the brand on my back. I need to get you out of here. Alive."
She dropped beside him, braced his weight against her shoulder. His body was heavy. Weak. He was tall, lean—but drained to the marrow. She pulled his arm over her and lifted, inch by inch.
Together, they staggered forward. Kaia half-carried him through the corridors—narrow, pulsing with alarm lights, blood-slicked from her earlier escape. The floors sloped upward, ragged stone replaced by warped steel. Old, rotting steps, built into the bowels of Blackstone Keep when the fortress still remembered war.
Her knees buckled once—but she did not fall.
Above them, the hall opened into a larger landing—broken pillars, shattered glass. And there, waiting, was a figure in dark robes. Parchments tucked under his arm. His back to the window, eyes like ice pressed into sockets of ash.
Overseer Malrec.
Kaia dropped Rei gently to the floor.
"Rest," she whispered to him. "Here, Riftborn. I just have to… pay something back."
Rei's fingers twitched. He opened his mouth, but only a rasp came.
Kaia stood.
The overseer did not turn immediately. His voice was casual, as if addressing a stray pet.
"You've made quite a mess, Eighty-Nine."
He turned.
His face was older now. But Kaia remembered it perfectly.
And he did not remember her.
Not yet.
Not until she stepped past the light. Not until her pale hair caught the crimson flicker of sirens. Not until her fangs, now bared, glinted.
Recognition dawned.
"…Beastkin."
She said nothing.
He smiled faintly. "You're one of the grove-whelps, aren't you? Ah… I remember now. The one we spared."
Kaia moved without a word, slipping past a rusted doorway. Into the chamber beyond. Tables. Tools. Vials. Strange roots pinned to walls. Papers everywhere—records of pain. Ledgers of ruin. And there, in the corner, he followed, collecting a satchel of scrolls. Calm. Composed.
"You're too late," he said. "Whatever you think you've stopped—it's already begun. The Rift is opening again. The seed pulses. The Eighty-Eighth will be—"
Kaia moved.
No flourish. No warning. Just silence.
Her feet barely touched the ground. She was the wind through the trees. The predator in the brush.
A breath. A heartbeat. A blink.
And then—
—Flashback—
The grove was golden that day.
Leaves fell like slow snow, drifting from high-arched boughs. In the clearing, a girl no older than ten winters stood barefoot, twin blades carved from boarbone in hand. Across from her, a tall man with storm-colored hair blocked every strike. Not harsh. Not cruel. Teaching. Guiding.
Behind him, her mother watched. Nal'Thara. Voice of the Glen. Eyes like the morning dew.
"When eighteen winters come," her father said, "you'll wear the crest of the Hunt. You'll lead us. And when that day comes, remember—the blade is not for pride. It is for promise."
"Promise?" she panted.
He nodded. "To protect what the world forgets."
But then, thunder beyond the trees. Shapes moving in robes. Faces hidden. The Order of Sanctum.
They came with kind smiles, words of peace. But their eyes held hunger.
"We require a leaf," the high priest said. "The seals must hold. A sacrifice is needed."
Her father stepped forward. "Take me."
Her mother gripped his arm. "No."
"You are the root," the Order intoned. "We require the leaf."
Kaia stood silent, watching. Not understanding.
"You'll regret this," the robed one said, turning away. "The Rift remembers."
That night, the forest screamed.
Fire rained from the canopy. Beasts wailed in cages. She saw them—soldiers in masks, brands burning, torches swinging wide. Her father's roar. Her mother's cry.
Overseer Malrec. Younger. Laughing as they burned the sacred trees. Stealing bark. Testing oils. Holding down the elders while they screamed.
Kaia had hidden beneath the altar stone.
One of them found her. A mage.
He grinned. "You'll grow strong," he said, placing the iron brand on her back. Four stars, pulsing.
But it never glowed.
She had fangs that night.
They cut.
They fled.
She lived.
Alone.
—Back to the Present—
Kaia stood in the lab now, knives drawn. Her voice low. Wrathful.
"For the Grove."
She stepped forward.
"For my Clan."
Malrec raised his hand to cast—too late.
Her knife slit his throat in one clean line.
The second pierced his heart.
Blood sprayed—hot, bright, arterial—coating her face, her chest. His eyes widened, mouth agape, sputtering one final time before he slumped, twitching, to the stone.
She knelt beside him.
"The Rift remembers," she whispered into his ear, cold and still.
Silence fell.
Only the sirens remained. But now they sounded… distant.
Dead.
Kaia stood slowly, eyes closed, the scent of blood in her nostrils, tears not yet falling—but waiting.
She walked out.
Rei lay still where she had left him, breathing faintly. She returned to his side. Lifted him again. Gently. Carefully. Like something sacred.
And together, they rose.
One step. Then another.
Up the long and broken spine of Blackstone Keep.
Toward whatever light remained.