Nahiri screamed, a raw, primal sound torn from her lungs, and lunged. Not for the shrinking gap to the Core, but sideways, a desperate pivot towards the reinforced cell. The bracers blazed, crystallized sunstone discharging across her skin. She slammed both fists against the thick adamantine bars, not bothering to aim for the locking mechanism. A concussive burst shattered the metal. Shards of shrapnel ricocheted, embedding themselves in the far wall with percussive *thunks*. Lord Barlas and his daughter scrambled back, mouths gaping in sudden greed. The cell was open.
“Go! Get out!” Nahiri yelled, pivoting back toward the Core, ribs vibrating against the strain. The blast door was now a mere sliver, a dark, hungry mouth about to seal completely. She wouldn't make it. Not now.
As she turned, steel drove deep into the meat above her collarbone. A choked gasp tore from her. Her stepsister had driven a jeweled pin straight into muscle, tearing through silk. Blood bloomed like a dark rose on the pristine silk. The girl's other hand, slick with scarlet, snatched at the sunstone casing.
“You fool!” the stepsister hissed, yanking hard. “You had it! All of it! This power should be *mine*!”
Nahiri staggered, the world tilting. The pain was secondary to the profound, gut-wrenching shock of betrayal. Not a monster, not a guard, but her own stepsister. The gilded collar pulsed, not in defense, but in a surge of incandescent fury that wasn’t entirely her own. A cold, regal authority, ancient and vast, ignited within her. It wasn't Nahiri’s kindness, but Queen Istaru’s wrath.
A guttural growl tore from Nahiri’s chest, shaking dust from the ceiling rivets. Her eyes, usually a soft hazel, flared with an inner golden light that burned with terrifying intensity. The air crackled with a suffocating pressure. Her stepsister, still clawing at the metal, froze. Her face, contorted in greed a moment before, crumpled into something small and terrified. Her grip slackened.
“*You dare*,” Nahiri’s voice was no longer hers. It was deeper, layered with the resonance of a thousand years, each syllable a hammer blow. “You dare touch my chosen instruments. You dare raise a hand against what is *mine*.”
The sheer force dropped her stepsister to her knees. A whimper escaped her lips as she fell to the grimy floor, prostrating herself without conscious thought. Lord Barlas, who had been scrambling to his feet, found himself slammed back down, flat on his face, a choking sound torn from him. They weren't kneeling out of respect or fear, but because an irresistible, invisible force pinned them there, their spines screaming in agony. Humiliation, stark and absolute, painted their faces.
Nahiri – no, *Istaru* – glared down at them, a single tear of blood welling from the hairpin wound, making her look both divine and monstrous. The bracers pulsed in lockstep with her pulse, locking onto her forearms like native bone. The blast door to the Core had sealed shut, a final, metallic *thud* echoing the death of her escape plan.
The golden light in her eyes flickered, receding slightly. Nahiri resurfaced, a gasp tearing through her. The puncture near her clavicle throbbed with hot pulses. She looked at her family, cowering and whimpering on the floor, their faces pale with terror. They no longer looked at her with greed, but with a primal, animalistic fear. The Core was sealed. Her escape was thwarted. But the thousands still depended on her.
She jerked the hairpin free, letting the gold skitter across the flags, and abandoned them. Her rage, a cold, focused fire, pushed her onward. The blast door was sealed, but this was a warren. There had to be another way. She sprinted down a narrow maintenance corridor, her vambraces humming, searching for access hatches or exhaust shafts. Her goal had narrowed: reach the Core, no matter the cost.
She rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, like burnt blood. A figure leaned heavily against a shattered bulkhead, a trail of dark fluid seeping from his side. His usually immaculate tunic hung in bloody ribbons. Oulen. His hand raised a sleek, high-caliber slugthrower. It was aimed directly at her chest.
“Oulen?” Nahiri’s voice was a ragged whisper. “What happened? Vashkar’s guards?”
He offered a grim, humorless smile, his eyes strangely vacant. “No. I cleared my own path, Nahiri. A few loose ends needed trimming. It seems our Khagan isn’t the only one with plans for the Sand-Drowned Empire.”
The implications slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. “Your brother… you said you wanted to free him!”
Oulen’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. “Free him? And lose my claim to the throne? My chance to finally command the true power of this realm? No, Nahiri. Vashkar merely opened the gate for me. His ‘Beast’s Gilded Cage’ was a perfect trap, but not for *you*. For *him*. He was always a means to an end.” His gaze flickered to the sunstone casings, then back to her face. “And you, my dear Queen, are the means to *my* ascension. Your soul, once refined, will power a weapon unlike any Zir has ever seen. The empire will bow.”
He thumbed the safety off, the click loud in the sudden silence. His finger tightened on the trigger. Before Oulen could fire, the wall behind him exploded inward with a deafening roar. Debris rained down, and a cloud of acrid smoke billowed into the corridor. Through the swirling haze, a colossal, armored form filled the ruined frame. Vashkar. His battle-scarred helmet was off, revealing a face contorted with a primal, murderous rage. His eyes, usually a deep, warm amber, now glowed with the cold, unforgiving light of a desert predator. He saw Oulen, pistol raised. He saw Nahiri, blood soaking her collar. The snarl tearing from his throat rattled the deckplates.