The pulverized rock rained down, a gritty blanket. Kadir’s breath, ragged and warm, ghosted over her ear. The phantom agony across her collarbone burned, a mirror of the wound he’d taken to shield Timur, now exacerbated by the archway’s fall. His words, “I know what you saw in your dream, and I am trying to stop it,” silenced the thrum of pain, replacing it with a cold, hollow dread. He *knew*. How? And if he knew, why had he said nothing until now? A cynical voice in her mind, sharp as a shard of glass, suggested it was a manipulation, another calculated move from the Bastion’s most lethal blade. He was the Ash-Reaper, after all. He was danger, wrapped in a soldier’s cloak. Her dream had shown her that much. She twisted, trying to shove him away, but he held her fast against the crumbling wall, his body a solid, unyielding barrier. The dust settled around them, thick and choking.
“Bahar! Kadir!” Ruken’s voice, hoarse with fear, cut through the silence. He stumbled forward, coughing, his face streaked with grime. Timur was a pale shadow behind him, huddled against a collapsed cart.
Kadir finally released her, his gaze sweeping over the courtyard, assessing the damage. The Krag-Scuttler lay twitching, its carapace cracked, a foul green ichor staining the stones. The breached perimeter wall wept rubble.
Before Bahar could demand answers, a figure emerged from the Bastion’s main gate, striding through the dust as if it were merely a morning mist. Overseer Malakor. His obsidian-black uniform, unblemished, absorbed the dim light. Malakor's flint-colored gaze fixed on the still-twitching creature, shifted to the breach in the masonry, and settled on them.
“A perimeter breach,” Malakor said, his voice flat, “under your watch, Demir. Korba.”
He didn’t need to shout to command absolute silence. The few other conscripts who had dared to peer out from their barracks quickly vanished.
“The creature was already wounded, Overseer,” Kadir stated, his voice calm, even, despite the blood still seeping from his shoulder. “It broke through before we could intercept.”
“Excuses will not rebuild this wall,” Malakor snapped. He circled the Krag-Scuttler, his boot nudging its grotesque limb. “This ‘wounded’ beast nearly turned a sector of our inner courtyard into a charnel pit. The Rune-Core is displeased.”
[RUNE-CORE EDICT: PROXIMITY VIOLATION DETECTED. CONSTRUCT DISRUPTION. PUNISHMENT PROTOCOL INITIATED. SQUAD 7-GAMMA RATION ALLOTMENT REDUCED BY 70%. ACCELERATED ASCENSION ASSESSMENT.]
The searing brand on Bahar’s forearm pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache. Her stomach clenched at the thought of the reduced rations. They were already barely enough to sustain them. Timur whimpered from behind Ruken.
“This is unacceptable,” Malakor continued, his gaze pinning Bahar. “Your reckless pursuit of… *domesticity* has clearly dulled your combat readiness, Korba. And Demir, your reputation as the Ash-Reaper means nothing if you cannot secure our defenses.” He sneered, a thin, cruel line. “Consider this a warning. Another incident, another lapse, and your squad will be fast-tracked for the Vanguard Ascension. Prematurely.”
The words hung in the air, a death sentence. Heat flared along Bahar's neck, an abrupt, sharp temper rising against the threat. Her dream, Kadir’s words, the Rune-Core’s trap… all of it converged into a single, terrifying truth. She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust anyone. Especially not Kadir, who had just admitted to knowing her deepest fear, yet had done nothing to prevent this tethering, this slow march towards the slaughter he would enact. If she wanted to sever this connection, if she wanted to save her squad, she would have to do it herself.
That night, while the barracks slept, a restless hush settling over the rows of cots, Bahar slipped out. The air was cool, smelling faintly of the Blight-Ash that clung to the outer walls. Her stomach growled, a hollow ache, but the threat of the harvesting trial fueled her more than any ration ever could. Kadir had said he was trying to stop it. A lie. He was the instrument of her squad’s destruction. She had to find a way, any way, to break free.
She moved through the shadowed corridors of the Obsidian Bastion with the silent grace of a seasoned ash-scavenger, a skill honed in the desolate wastes outside Qal’at. Her destination: the restricted vaults, a place few recruits ever dared approach. It was rumored to hold not just ancient battle plans, but also the true, unvarnished records of the Rune-Core’s arithmetic.
Past the sleeping sentries, she slid into a service tunnel, its air thick with the scent of damp stone and stale parchment. The inner vaults were heavily warded, keyed to stop intruders. She remembered an old tale from a grizzled veteran, a ghost story about an apprentice archivist who’d tried to steal a forbidden tome. The walls themselves had come alive, twisting his limbs, until he was found a broken, gibbering mess.
Her torch, a stub of resin-soaked cloth, cast flickering shadows that danced with her rising fear. Ahead, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer pulsed across the archway leading into the main archive chamber. A light-ward, designed to blind and disorient. Bahar pressed her back against the cold stone, remembering the veteran’s advice: *Don’t look at it directly. Feel its rhythm.* She closed her eyes, focusing on the subtle prickle against her skin. It pulsed, a slow, deliberate beat, then a rapid stutter, then stillness. *Now.* She dashed through, her eyes still closed, feeling the static crackle against her eyelashes. She was through.
Another ward lay ahead: a sonic trap, rumored to shatter eardrums. She pulled a small, oiled leather pouch from her belt, filled with crushed ash-moth wings. She sprinkled the powder carefully along the floor. The dust absorbed the micro-vibrations, forming a temporary dampening field. She stepped lightly over it, her ears straining for the tell-tale hum that would indicate a failed attempt. Silence.
The main library chamber was vast, filled with towering shelves of scrolls and leather-bound tomes. The air smelled of mold and pulverized slate. She moved quickly, tracing the carved section markers: *Rune-Core Operations. Bond Synergy Indexes. Vanguard Ascension Rites.*
Then she froze. A faint light flickered from a side room—Overseer Malakor’s private office. And someone was leaving it.
She pressed herself against a shadowed bookshelf, barely breathing, as the figure emerged. Ruken. Her fiercely loyal best friend, his face pale in the dim light. He clutched something in his hand, something heavy that glinted faintly. A coin purse, undeniably full. He glanced around, jaw slack, before quickly disappearing down a side passage.
The coin purse. Malakor’s office. Suspicion soured in Bahar’s mouth, knotting her stomach with the sting of betrayal. Ruken. No. It couldn’t be.
She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. There was no time for this. She found the section for the Rite, her fingers tracing the worn spines. Most were ceremonial texts, elaborate descriptions of ancient blessings and purification rituals. But then, tucked away behind a larger, more innocuous volume, she found it. A small, unassuming ledger, its cover stained a deep, rusted brown. Blood.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled it out, the pages brittle, flaking at her touch. It wasn’t a ceremonial text. It was a record. A logbook. The script was ancient, painstakingly precise, detailing the names of paired soldiers, their synergy scores, their final assignment. The harvest tally. She turned the pages, one entry after another, seeking a survivor.
There were none. No paired soldiers had ever survived the ritual.