Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Each internal chime pounded against her temples. “No, no, no!” Bopo shrieked, scrambling back from the chieftain’s smashed detonator. “Not sixty seconds! That’s barely enough time to trip and fall!” Jalrek, still favoring his wounded leg from the Raxus duel, stared at the rune on Khyr’s neck, then his own, then Khyr’s again. His hand reached out, hovering near her collar as if he could smother the flare. “Cylax! Over the dune! We can still make it!” The raiding chief bellowed, “Ride them down! Turn their hides to ash!” His surviving mercenaries, a mix of scarred sand-riders and hulking brass-limbed brutes, spurred their skiffs, copper drives screaming as they pivoted for pursuit. “Right,” Khyrani grumbled, pushing off the ground. Her muscles already ached, not from exertion, but from the sheer thought of it. “A brisk walk, then. Maybe a light jog. Certainly not a sprint.” Her gaze scanned the heat haze toward the faint, blocky silhouette of the walled haven, jutting above the ridge. Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. The internal count was relentless, a cruel metronome to her growing dread. Jalrek was already limping, his good leg pushing him forward, but his damaged one dragged. He was fast, even wounded, but not fast enough. Not for sixty seconds. His teeth ground together under the strain. He wouldn’t make it. And if he didn’t, neither would she. She wasn’t leaving him. “Oh, for the love of the Twin Suns,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “Fine. But you owe me, like, a year of uninterrupted napping.” Before Jalrek could protest, or even comprehend, Khyrani moved. It wasn’t a graceful, flowing martial arts movement. It was a blunt, efficient hoist. She ducked, grabbed his waist, ignored his surprised grunt, and with a surge of power she hadn’t thought she possessed (or rather, hadn’t wanted to admit she possessed), she hauled his much larger, heavier frame onto her shoulders. He was a dead weight, but a familiar one. His arms instinctively wrapped around her neck, his cheek pressed against her hair. She could feel the hard flex of his abs even through her tunic, the warmth of his body radiating against her back. The sheer physical intimacy, even in this dire moment, was not lost on her, but it was overridden by the terror of the countdown and the agony of effort. “What are you—? Khyr!” Jalrek choked out, his voice hoarse with confusion. “Put me down! I can run!” “You’ll hobble! And then we’ll both explode,” Khyrani snapped, her voice strained. “Just… try not to bounce too much. And don’t talk! You’re heavy enough already!” Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. She felt the vibrations of the raiders’ skiffs gaining on them, the high whine of their turbine screws slicing through the wind. Bopo, screaming something about “death by sparkly boom!” had already vanished, a dust trail in the distance, presumably sprinting for his own life. Good. Less weight for her conscience. Khyrani pushed. Her legs, honed by years of disciplined movement she’d always tried to hide, burned with an unfamiliar fire. Every stride was an act of pure, unadulterated willpower against her inherent desire for absolute stillness. The sand shifted under her worn boots, trying to drag her down, but she ignored it, focusing on the silhouette of the city, now growing clearer, taller. Thirty. Twenty-nine. The air grew thick with dust and the metallic tang of the Warlord’s skiffs. Bursts of searing arc-plasma, fired from their mounted battery cannons, began to pepper the sand around them. One exploded close enough to shower them with grit, stinging her eyes. Khyrani winced, but didn’t break stride. Jalrek shifted on her shoulders, his grip tightening. She could feel his focus, his absolute trust. It was an unwelcome burden, almost as heavy as his actual body. “Almost there, Khyr!” Jalrek yelled, his voice ragged. “Keep your footing!” Twenty. Nineteen. Her lungs were screaming, her vision blurring at the edges. The haven gates, massive brass-plated monoliths, stood directly ahead. She could see the intricate etchings on their surface, the distant figures of guards on the ramparts. Safety. Blankets. Unbroken, blissful sleep. The chieftain’s voice boomed over a crackling horn: “You cannot escape me, desert cur! Your throat bursts first!” Ten. Nine. Eight. Khyrani didn’t even bother replying. Her entire being was focused on the next step, and the next. The runic brands on their necks throbbed with an unbearable intensity now, vibrating against her skin, hot as freshly drawn molten metal. She imagined the ticking sound had grown deafening, an internal pulse that shook her ribs. Seven. Six. A final surge. She poured every last ounce of her latent power, every scrap of strength she’d ever hoarded, into her stride. The ground blurred beneath her. She felt like she was flying, a brief, impossible moment of grace fueled by desperation and a profound, lazy yearning for a quiet nap. Five. Four. The lead skiff surged right behind them, spitting exhaust. She heard the sharp mechanical snap of a charging capacitor coil. Three. Two. Khyrani launched herself forward, a desperate, clumsy dive. She tucked her head, bracing for impact, the heavy weight of Jalrek shifting on her shoulders. Her body slammed into something solid and unyielding—the massive, brass-bound threshold of the gate. One. The runic brands on her neck, on Jalrek’s, on every member of the Brass-Blood Cohort still standing, flared one last time, a blinding crimson. And then, with a soft, barely audible *fizzle*, they collapsed into harmless, grey ash, dusting their skin like fine soot. Khyrani’s vision cleared. They were inside. Behind them, the pursuers crossed the dune line, their weapons raised. Then the sand beneath the lead skiff dropped. A ribbed, multi-tendrilled maw burst upward in a shower of grit, the ancient Sand-Kraken surfacing for the vibrations. With a deafening crunch of shearing iron and screaming drivers, the beast crushed the hull, dragging vehicle and commander down into the dunes before sinking beneath the waves. The remaining skiffs veered away in panic. Khyrani lay sprawled on the stones, Jalrek still draped over her back, unmoving. The absolute, soul-deep relief was so profound it felt like a physical force. The burning in her lungs subsided, the tension in her muscles evaporated. She felt a profound, overwhelming lethargy. Her mission was accomplished. The ticking was over. She was safe. She was done. Jalrek rolled off her back, his boots scuffing the tiles. He dropped to his knees, gripping her shoulders to haul her upright, staring at her dirt-streaked face. “You… you dragged me through, Khyr. You insane bastard.” A bewildered, half-panicked flush climbed his neck as he let his hand linger on her collar. He cleared his throat violently, pulling his hands back. “You survived.” “Good,” she mumbled, letting her cheek hit the floor. The world could collapse under another kraken, but she had reached the threshold, and she was done. Her breathing slowed into an immediate, heavy rhythm. Jalrek remained beside her on the stone, staring at the slender recruit who had just carried him into safety, his chest heaving as he rubbed his temple in absolute, flustered confusion.

The Sixty-Second Sprint