The steel door sighed shut behind them, cutting off the noise of Vyrnheim's streets as cleanly as if the city had never existed. The air inside the tunnel was different—colder, but not in a way Selene recognized. It wasn't the natural frost of Borealis, alive with the scent of snow and sea. This was manufactured cold: filtered, dried, stripped of texture, as if someone had tried to distill winter into a commodity.
The corridor stretched ahead in a straight line, lit by narrow strips of pale light embedded in the ceiling. No frost grew on the walls. No cracks marred the floor. It was new construction, hidden under one of the oldest cities on the continent.
Selene (murmuring): "The city didn't build this."
Valeria ran her metal hand along the wall, fingertips clicking faintly against the smooth surface. The servos in her wrist purred, analyzing density, alloy traces, and structural stress.
Valeria: "Composite steel. Advanced. Imported."
Selene: "Smuggled."
The word slipped out like smoke. It hung in the air for a moment before being carried away by the ventilation system.
They walked, footsteps muffled by the strange silence of the place. Selene kept her eyes half-closed, letting the air speak. Even filtered, it carried whispers—faint traces of bodies moving, machines humming, and breath condensing in the wrong places.
Selene: "We're not alone."
Valeria's ears twitched, her tail tightening against her leg. She shifted her metal arm, the steel plates sliding back, forming into the lean geometry of a carbine. The barrel hummed softly as it locked into place.
Valeria: "Good. I was starting to get bored."
They pressed deeper. The corridor widened into a chamber—low-ceilinged, humming with quiet machinery. Crates lined the walls, stamped with Borealis trade insignias. But when Valeria brushed the frost from one lid, she found something else underneath: a burned circle mark with three jagged lines tearing through it.
Selene crouched beside her, touching the mark with two fingers. Frost leapt from her skin, spreading over the crate, thin and sharp as knives. She lifted her hand, and the ice fractured, splintering the lid open.
Inside: canisters. Each is the size of a forearm, wrapped in a matte black casing, with vents along the side. No labels. No instructions.
Valeria: "Suppressors."
Her voice was flat, but her tail lashed once.
Selene: "You're certain?"
Valeria: "I've seen prototypes in Felidra. Smugglers used them against patrols. When activated, they choke seelische energy like a vice. Turn fighters into corpses."
Selene tilted her head, studying the canisters.
Selene (calmly): "Charming. And someone wanted them here. Hidden, but ready."
She rose, brushing frost from her fingers. For a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then she smiled—faint, sharp.
Selene: "Null didn't tell us everything."
Valeria snapped her gaze to her, eyes hard.
Valeria: "This isn't about Null. It's about the mission."
Selene (mockingly): "Ah, yes. Results. How could I forget?"
Before Valeria could reply, a soft scuff of boots echoed through the chamber. Both women stilled.
Figures slipped from the shadows—four, then six, then more. Their faces were hidden behind smooth visors, their movements too precise for common thugs. They carried short blades, compact rifles, and shock batons. No insignia. No names. Only silence.
Valeria: "Ambush."
Selene: "Finally."
The air cracked cold around her as she lifted one hand. Frost bled outward in a perfect circle, covering the floor, coating crates, and hardening the air until it hummed with tension. The first attacker lunged—and slipped before he reached her. His skull met the ice and crushed with a sound that silenced the others for a fraction too long.
Valeria dropped into a crouch, rifle barking once, twice, precisely. One man's rifle spun from his hands after being hit with a headshot; another's visor shattered, leaving him clutching his bleeding face before being shot another time.
The rest surged forward.
Selene smiled.
Selene (pleasantly): "Lesson two: resistance is ornamental."
She moved like a storm rolling downhill, unstoppable, inevitable. Her hands carved lines in the air, and the frost obeyed—walls rising to stop the bullets, floors tilting, air hardening into invisible knives flying into the enemy's ambush. The attackers dulled in her presence, their rifles iced over, their voices strangled in throats too cold to shout.
One tried to flank her, swinging a baton. She didn't block. She let the weapon come close—close enough that its heat brushed her cheek. Then she exhaled. The baton froze mid-swing, ice crawling down the wielder's arm, locking elbow, shoulder, and chest until he toppled like a statue.
She then created a long spear of ice, smashed it into him, and shattered him into many ice pieces.
More came, but Valeria covered her without hesitation. She pivoted, tail flicking, scope flashing gold as she fired three quick bursts. Each shot found a joint, a hand, or a head. She fought with a soldier's efficiency, every round designed to cripple, not to waste.
Still, there were many.
The chamber rang with the clash of steel on ice, the hiss of frost, and the crack of rifles. Selene's eyes gleamed pale in the aurora light filtering down through vents. Her expression never changed—calm, almost serene, as if she were dancing through a pattern only she could see.
The last man dropped to his knees, visor cracked, breath misting in shallow gasps. Selene crouched before him, one hand resting lightly on his cheek. Frost spread from her palm, crawling across his visor, over his lips, threatening to silence even his breath.
Selene (softly): "Who sent you?"
The man didn't answer. His teeth chattered too hard to form words.
Selene tilted her head. For a moment, her smile widened, cruel and sweet.
Selene (mockingly): "Don't be shy."
Valeria stepped forward, voice sharp.
Valeria: "Enough. We need him alive."
Selene's fingers lingered another second, then withdrew. The frost retreated, leaving the man gasping, collapsing against the floor.
Selene: "Alive, yes. Useful? Doubtful."
Valeria ignored the jab, kneeling to strip the man of weapons, checking his armor seams for insignias and identifiers. Nothing. Only the jagged circle mark scratched into the inside of his wrist guard.
Valeria: "Same symbol."
Selene rose, her shadow long against the pale walls.
Selene: "It follows us. Or perhaps we follow it."
She looked down the corridor leading deeper into the undercity. The hum of machinery was louder here—steady, pulsing, like a heartbeat under the ice.
Selene (quietly): "They're building something."
Valeria's ears flicked.
Valeria: "And we're walking into it."
For once, Selene didn't smile. She stared into the dark, frost curling from her fingertips, eyes cold as glacier stone.
Selene: "Good. I hate unfinished stories."
They dragged the unconscious man to the side and moved on, boots crunching against frost that melted as soon as they passed. The air grew tighter, denser, as if the walls themselves leaned closer, listening.
Behind them, the frost they left behind began to spread on its own, crawling over crates and canisters, burying the jagged circle mark in a thin sheet of ice—erasing evidence, or hiding it deeper.
Neither woman looked back.