The cell was dark, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. Maya Frey stirred, her body protesting every movement as consciousness returned in jagged fragments. The cold bite of manacles around her wrists sent a fresh wave of pain through her already bruised arms. She tested their strength—reinforced steel, etched with Aether-dampening runes. A precaution, not a hindrance. Not for someone like her.
Across the dimly lit room, a figure leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Garlack's silhouette was unmistakable, his spear resting against the stone beside him.
"Awake already?" His voice was a low rumble, devoid of mockery now. Just exhaustion. "You always were stubborn."
Maya coughed, tasting iron. "Where's Winston?"
Garlack didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pushed off the wall and dragged a stool across the floor, the screech of metal on stone making Maya wince. He sat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"You're in no position to demand anything," he said quietly. "But I'll ask once—why did you come back?"
Maya's fingers twitched. The vial—where was it? Her satchel was gone, stripped from her during the arrest. Panic clawed at her throat, but she forced it down.
"I have information," she said hoarsely. "About the Hands of the Divine."
Garlack's eyes narrowed. "And you expect Winston to believe you? After what you did?"
Maya's laugh was brittle. "I don't expect anything. But he'll listen. Because if he doesn't, Arachis burns next."
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere beyond the cell, water dripped, the sound echoing like a ticking clock.
"Then what is this, Frey?" Garlack asked as he raised the vial containing the sickly green fluid.
For a moment, Maya froze and Garlack noticed it.
"It's...it's for Connor. It's a drug to help him recover," she replied as sincerely as possible.
"I see," he muttered with his gaze still fixed on her.
Garlack exhaled sharply and stood. "I'll put in a word for you. And Frey?" He exhaled sharply and stood.
The door clanged shut behind him, leaving Maya alone with the weight of her choices—and the ghost of the child she'd left behind.
---
The afternoon light bled through the cell's high window, painting stripes of gold across Maya's bruised arms. She stirred, wincing as the movement pulled at half-healed wounds. The manacles around her wrists had left angry red rings—reinforced steel, etched with Aether-dampening runes. A precaution. As if she'd ever needed Aether to be dangerous.
The door groaned open.
"Eat." The guard set down a tray with military precision—foldable lap table, steel cutlery, a bowl of something that smelled vaguely like stew. His fingers lingered near his shock-rod as he unlocked her restraints. "Try anything, and Captain Garlack revokes your council hearing."
Maya flexed her freed hands, watching the guard's pupils dilate. Good. He was afraid of her.
The food was better than she expected—real meat, fresh bread. Arachis still treated its prisoners like nobility. She ate methodically, counting the seconds between each chew. Somewhere beneath these stones, her child floated in that damned glass tube. Somewhere above them, Connor lay broken in the infirmary. And here she sat, trapped between them both.
The guard reappeared with two Sentinels. Their obsidian armor drank in the light as they hauled her upright.
"Walk," one ordered.
The corridors blurred—stone arches she'd walked a thousand times as an instructor, now foreign as a nightmare. Sunlight struck like a physical blow when they emerged into the quadrangle. Maya squinted against the glare—
—and saw him.
Drake.
The commoner stood frozen by the fountain, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. For one fractured second, she saw something in his gaze—not pity, but recognition. As if he somehow knew about the vial, the child, the deal she'd made with monsters. Then the Sentinels jerked her forward, breaking the connection. But not before she noticed how unsettled he was.
"Faster," a guard growled, shoving her toward the administration building. Her boots scraped against sun-warmed cobblestones. The bruise on her cheekbone pulsed in time with her racing heart.
The council chamber doors loomed ahead—blackwood carved with ancient runes that hummed against her skin. Garlack waited there, his spear casting a long shadow across the threshold.
"Last chance to turn back," he murmured.
Maya bared her teeth. "Open the damn door."
The hinges groaned like a dying beast.
Inside, the air smelled of whiskey and old parchment. A semicircle of faces she knew too well—Vanessa Blaze's smoldering glare, a few club captains, instructors and at the center...
Winston.
Her former mentor raised his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. "Maya Frey," he said, his voice rougher than she remembered. "How the mighty have fallen."
The doors slammed shut behind her, swallowing the sunlight whole.
Maya stepped forward into the lion's den.